thinking about baelor being forced to marry once more to a younger maiden from a wealthy house, and being made to have a bedding ceremony. he'd never had to have one before, but now, the lords seem worried that he will refuse to consummate his marriage with her.
thinking of baelor instructing her through their first time together, his words low for only her to hear, guiding her through each movement as she looks up at him, frightened every time a noise comes from behind the sheer curtains, reminding her of the eyes watching them.
"settle yourself like this" "lower your hips for me" "relax into it" "let me in just a little more, darling"
thinking of how even if it's not a night born from love, he's kind to her, helping his new wife through what is an unpleasant experience for them both, but especially for her.
and mostly, i'm thinking of baelor returning to his chambers the next night and finding his new wife waiting for him on his bed, all dolled up in a silky nightgown, and her timidly asking him,
"how would you like me, husband?"
gods, he should send her back to her room; he knows that, but he finds himself inching towards her, tugging at the laces of his doublet.
"on your back... so i might see your face," he commands.
thinking of baelor who hasn't felt a woman's touch in years, and now his pretty young wife is trembling in his arms, her nails scratching at his sides as he slides himself inside of her once more, filling her up so much that he can see her brows pinching at the stretch he gives her, her mouth parting in a strained gasp.
"you can take it, darling. breathe into it... let me in"
he's all about the praise too, telling her she's a good girl for him, and that she's doing well, and baelor quickly learns that his praise helps her loosen up, but it also makes her wetter, her wetness coating his cock more with every kiss and word of praise.
and at the end of it all, once he's spilt inside of her and lies panting beside her?
"you've done very well, darling. you've pleased me greatly on this night"
she's flushing under his attention, and quietly she asks,
"would you like me to return tomorrow night as well, husband?"
he's pausing for a moment, and then nodding. he needed to carry out his duties, did he not?
cw: mdni(18+), yearning, oral(f!receiving), dry humping, premature ejaculation, spitting, hair pulling, praise, sub!dunk if you squint, gentle manhandling, blood(dunk has a bloody mouth!), cumming in armor, pussy pronouns, squirting, (2.5kw)
synopsis: You reward your sweet knight for yet another victory.
a/n: this was roughly edited, so i'm sorry for any mistakes! a little something for my lovely @captainfern !!! happy late birthday love!💚 i cackled like a maniac when i saw u post wanting more dunk knowing i had this in my drafts. muehehe!!
"Kneel, ser."
Dunk's breath hitched. Audibly. Louder than it had any right to be in the silence of your chambers.
You couldn't help but smile, fluttering your lashes as your thighs slowly parted, coaxing dunk into obeying your command. Waiting had no place here and now, not after the lastingness of the joust had already delayed your wishes. Such a dull affair, if not for having the pleasure of watching your sweet knight compete, all dirty and bloody.
He was in the same state now as he walked closer, his blue eyes wide, captivated by the way your skirts hitched just so as you moved, pupils dilated, the adrenaline from the fight still thrumming through his veins, woven in with the simmering yearning for you, for this moment.
"My princess," he breathed, chest heaving under his breastplate, grimy hands twitching, as if wanting to touch but not allowing himself to just yet. "Have I pleased you?"
And oh, those words made your cunt flutter. So, so earnest, your sweet knight. So ready to seek your favor, even after having proven himself so valiantly on the field, bringing honor and renown to your house and your name, to you.
"Yes, ser," you affirmed, smile softening as you watched Dunk kneel between your parted thighs, broad shoulders keeping them spread. "You have pleased me greatly. I enjoyed watching you joust."
"Yeah?" Dunk's voice dipped, barely above a whisper, baby blues never leaving your face, memorizing every twitch and movement, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in the face of the woman who acclaimed him so readily.
"Yeah," you parroted, one of your hands lifting to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the dirt caked onto his skin, but you gave it no mind. You couldn't care less, not when Dunk's lashes fluttered, and a sound akin to a wounded animal punched out of his chest, breath brushing your wrist.
He leaned into your touch like a man starved, pressing his gauntlet-clad palm onto yours to keep you there. Watching him rub his cheek against your skin, nuzzling you with almost childlike eagerness, made warmth spread in your chest and throughout your body like simmering fire.
It was easy to bring Dunk's face closer and press a soft kiss to his mouth, making another one of those delicious, aborted sounds fall from his bloody lips. You wanted the proof of his strength, the proof of his endurance onto you. Seeing the red smeared across your skin, he shook his head, his other hand reaching out to brush the crimson away, but you stopped him gently, shaking your head.
"No, ser," you said. "Let me have proof of your valiance, for you have suffered and bled for me today," a pause, as you guided his hand onto your skirts, right where the hem brushed your stocking-covered ankle. "And I wish to reward you."
A ragged breath left him as soon as his fingers brushed against your clothed skin, trembling, not from inhibition, but desperation. Pure, unadulterated need to hike up your skirts and dive tongue first into your pussy like an animal without an owner. And Gods, he wanted to.
Has been thinking about it since he set foot onto the jousting field. Even when he knew he had to focus on not being unhorsed, or tilting his spear right, or holding his shield up to block sword and mace alike. All he could think about was how good your cunt would smell, would taste once he was allowed to be between your legs again, once he deserved to feast at the altar of your sweetness, if the gods granted him victory. and they did, and yet—
"Are you sure, my—"
"Lift my skirts, Ser Duncan," you interrupted, thumb brushing his cheek anew, ceasing his delay. You knew what he wanted and understood why he was hesitating, even though you two had been in this same predicament plenty of times before.
After every prevailed joust, you offered Duncan what he craved: a place between your thighs and unrestricted passage to your pussy. When he first asked for it, still green in his sexual desires, face almost as red as a freshly plucked strawberry, you were more than delighted to offer yourself over to him. After all, you had been waiting to get the knight into your bed since your father had assigned him to guard your every move. All those nights where you ordered him to stay vigilant as a sentinel at your door while you pleasured yourself loud enough for him to hear truly worked wonders. A siren song to an unassuming sailor.
"Claim your prize, ser," you persisted, letting the pad of your thumb skim his bloody bottom lip, tugging it lightly, enough to bare his teeth to you, the sight of his crimson canines making the ache between your thighs mount. "You've kept me waiting long enough," you chided, eyes sharpening enough to watch the way his own widened, as if the mere thought of displeasing you brought a sense of urgency, weaving into the marrow of his bones and kicking his senses into obeying every single one of your whims.
He moved.
Not fast enough to startle, but with the conviction of a man who stopped reigning in his heart's desire and started taking.
His broad, armored palms brushed against your ankles, bunching up your skirts and lifting the flurry of flowy fabric, letting the cold steel chill your clothed skin. He hoisted it up, up, until he gathered it at your waist, allowing him to have a good look at—
"Princess—," he gasped, fingers tightening into your skirts, moments from tearing the material to shreds as feelings overwhelmed him, feeling more beast than man in the face of such a pretty picture.
You were bare.
No small clothes to cover your dignity, your pussy spread open and dripping, your hole throbbing around nothing, clenching shamelessly, as if urging him closer. Calling to his cock or his fingers or his mouth to heel. And Gods, Dunk wanted nothing more than to answer.
The view was obscene. His broad shoulders and the hulk of his body kept you splayed open. Thighs on each side of him allowed him to see every inch of the sweet reward he was given.
"Pretty?"
Your voice snapped him out of his reverie, barely able to drag his gaze away from the gorgeous spread of your cunt, blinking as his eyes met yours, feeling a ruddy flush creep up his neck as he saw the pleased curl of your lips as you watched him. He swallowed, nodding, so, so earnest, his armor shifting and clanking with the movement, making you let out a small laugh.
"A—always, my princess," Dunk whispered, not being able to keep steady any longer, steel-clad fingers curling into the lace band of your stockings and pulling, dragging the material down your thighs, using the grip to bring you closer to the edge of the bed along with it. "So bloody pretty," he praised, dipping his face until it was level with your mound and breathing you in, lashes fluttering at the tangy musk of your cunt.
His tongue darted out to taste without preamble, not being able to hold back, the scent of you intoxicating beyond measure, calling to him like a siren song. Steel fingers dimpled the fat of your thighs as he brought you even closer, pressing your cunt against his face, muffling a deep, guttural groan into the heated, slick flesh, moving his head from side to side, unashamed, nuzzling into your pussy, face mushed into you, spreading your juices onto his nose, cheeks, and chin.
It made you moan, hands seeking the top of his head, fingers tangling into his dirty hair, tugging him even deeper against your heat, hips twitching, already meaning to grind against his face. "Oh, my sweet knight," you lilted, breathy and airy as you felt the tip of his nose nudge your throbbing clit, the movement of his head granting you delicious friction. "Always so eager, so good for me."
The words had the desired effect, feeling as another groan muted against your heat, Dunk's tongue laving broad, firm strokes along your wet folds, spreading you open, lapping at every inch of your cunt like a dog would water. It felt divine. It always did.
Dunk might not be versed in many things, but wielding a sword and eating pussy were two that he could boast about until the end of his days and would never fail to ring true.
"Taste s' good, my princess, my lady," he moaned against you, head swiveling incessantly between your thighs, clumsy and eager and so, so good, creating a flurry of depraved, loud wet noises that made you flush.
Your fingers tightened into his hair and pulled, tugging, eliciting more debauched sounds from him, before appeasing the slight sting you knew you caused, petting at his dirty strands as you cooed. "Yeah? Does it taste better than your victory, ser?"
Perhaps it was a wicked, ungrateful question. But the way Dunk nodded not even a moment after, baby blues half lidded as he looked up at you, tongue still licking between your folds, already pussy drunk and lax with pleasure, was more worth it than every gold coin in the seven kingdoms.
"Won jus' to taste you, princess," he babbled, mouth drenched with a mixture of blood and your slick, the view making you moan as your eyes drifted down, seeing streaks of crimson along your cunt and inner thighs, from where Dunk's blood marked you. Gods, you couldn't help but throb and clench around nothing at the sight. Having your sweet knight's spilled blood onto your skin, smeared onto your pussy, pleasure mixed with honor. The honor he fought so hard for today in the joust. "Jus' to have her again."
You couldn't help the grind of your hips at his words, feeling the telltale sign of your peak beginning to build at the base of your spine, moans spilling freely from your lips, the sloppier Dunk got, slobbering all over your cunt, tongue flicking against your clit before wrapping his lips around it and sucking gently, cheeks hollowing.
"Ser—," you gasped, broken and wanton, fingers tugging harder at his hair as your hips humped forward, greedy and twitching against the suction. "My good ser," the praise fell from your lips like a benediction, washing over Dunk in waves, body warming up from the inside like a flame kindling.
He did not even realize his own hips ground forward, armor clinking louder as the fervor mounted, his clothed cock brushing against the bed frame as his mouth feasted on your cunt, hard as steel and leaking in his breeches and armor. But he did not care, not when you felt this heavenly, when the taste of you cloyed the back of his throat and invaded every sense. He pulled back just enough to see how the blood smeared all over your pussy and inner thighs, his eyes glazed over with heat. Dunk loved the sight. Loved that it was his blood. His pain. His proof of victory.
His tongue rolled around his mouth for a moment before he spat onto your pussy, letting saliva and blood drip down your folds obscenely, making his breath hitch noisily into his throat. It made you moan. His cock twitched in his breeches, hips grounding even harder against the bed, the depravity of it all making all the blood rush to his face, blush bleeding down to his throat.
"She's so wet f' me, my princess," he groaned, the sound ripped from his chest as he watched the crimson drip further. "So pretty."
The sight was enough for him to dive right in with renowned fervor, steel fingers gripping your thighs and pulling you harder against his face, aiding you to hump your hips against his mouth, drenching him in your juices.
It was too much. You have been wet since the joust. Since you watched him barrelling into men left and right, knocking them down effortlessly, his size and broadness eclipsing any other knight on the field. The throbbing of your pussy never ceased as he fought so valiantly, only making you press your thighs together beneath your skirts and keeping in soft moans of wonder as you watched your sweet knight make his way to victory.
"Duncan," you moaned, broken and high, feeling the thread about to snap, only getting a muffled moan in response to his name being spoken by you, fingers tugging at his hair, needing something to tether yourself to before shattering. "My sweet Duncan, don't stop—"
"I got you, my princess," was muffled into your folds, his efforts doubling, feeling the way your thighs shook, his scalp stinging at the relentless way you held onto him, but he did not mind. He wanted you to use him. Wanted you to always use him to feel good. "Let me have it," he pleaded, tongue lapping at your throbbing clit, moving his head from side to side, the stimulation making a full-body shake run through you. "Please, princess, please—"
You were powerless to his pleading, to the way he looked between your thighs, eyes glazed, shining with so much devotion, your slick smeared all over the bottom of his face. Gods, it was a sight that'll keep you awake and wound up for nights to come.
It unraveled you now, peak unfurling in the bottom of your tummy, gushing into Dunk's mouth, crying out his name again and again as he continued to lap at the juices flowing against his chin, cheek, and on his tongue, moaning like it was the nectar of the gods. "Thank you," your sweet knight whimpered, panting into your pussy, his hips rutting faster and faster against the bed as he lapped up all of your slick. "Thank you, princess, thank you, thank—"
The words broke off into a long, punched-out moan, a full-body tremor bowing his hulking frame forward as he followed suit, cumming in his breeches, dirtying the inside of his armor. His forehead pressed to the top of your mound, tongue lolling out to softly lick the remnants of what he couldn't prior, cleaning you, sated and boneless between your thighs.
Your chest heaved with soft pants, watching him, gaze so achingly tender it could drizzle honey in its wake. The fingers that tugged at his hair gentled, petting soothingly, scraping at his scalp in slow, deliberate motions, making Dunk hum in delight against you, leaning into your touch like a flower towards sunlight.
"Thank you, my sweet ser," you whispered, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to his damp hairline, wanting him to know how grateful you are for him, getting a small, bashful smile in return as he turned towards your mouth, baby blues mirroring every feeling that resided inside your heart, making your chest ache.
synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like flies—leaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader
word count. 8,437
chapter 1 ⋆ chapter 2 ⋆
COMMENT IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!
authors note. mind you, it can get a little annoying at first since the reader genuinely lives in a fantasy of sunshine and happy endings 😭 but i tried to follow the plot/tone of the great so… yeah. she will become a baddie as the story progresses. also, i’m not planning to follow the canon events after the ashford tourney which means we are absolutely getting king aerion 🤍 and yes, i shamelessly stole some dialogue from the show because they were simply too funny not to include <3 likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!!
warnings. violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, eventual smut, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, profanity, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being a bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).
✴︎ 209 AC
THE AFTERNOON HEAT in Lys clung to the skin like damp silk, thick with the scent of salt wind drifting in from the sea, crushed rosewater from the perfumed courtyards, and incense curling lazily from a hundred painted temples. The air shimmered against pale marble walls, soft and luminous in the sun, as if the whole city had been carved to be looked at rather than lived in. Yet none of it felt real to you. In your mind, the world smelled of rain and smoke and the sea. Of wet stone streets, damp castle halls, and fires burning late into cold evenings. It smelled like the sort of place where important things happened.
You sat upon the old wooden swing in the center of the courtyard, its ropes creaking softly each time you pushed yourself higher with the tips of your slippers. Your dark green skirts fanned around your legs like spilled ink, brushing against the pale stone beneath you.
But your attention was fixed on the strip of sky above the rooftops.
“I am to be married,” you announced suddenly, unable to contain the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, your sister paused midstroke while brushing out her hair. She stared at you with immediate suspicion rather than excitement.
“Who,” she asked carefully, “would marry you?”
You laughed under your breath and leaned back against the swing ropes, letting yourself sway lazily. “A prince of fire and blood,” you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We shall spend our evenings reading poetry by candlelight while musicians play in the next room. He will understand me entirely. We will speak of philosophy and history and make the court less dreadful than it is.”
She snorted. “You make him sound like a savant.”
“He is not a savant,” you replied with mock offense. “He is a prince.”
“Yes, but is he aware we are poor?” she asked flatly. “Truly poor. Not tragic-poetry poor. Actual poor. Father died owing money to half of Lys. We still even need to water down the wine.”
You waved a dismissive hand. “That is beneath his concern.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Prince Aerion and I are to concern ourselves with finer matters.” You hopped down from the swing, smoothing the creases from your skirts before lifting your chin with practiced dignity.
The silver brush slipped from her fingers and struck the stone with a sharp crack. For a moment she only stared at you.
Then, very quietly, she said, “Prince Aerion?”
You smiled wider. “Yes.”
“The Targaryen prince?”
“Yes.”
“From Westeros.”
“Yes, from Westeros.”
The color slowly drained from her face.
“The ravens arrived this morning,” you continued brightly, crossing the courtyard toward her. “Mother accepted immediately, of course. By the end of the year I shall be in King’s Landing. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.” You clasped your hands together. “Doesn’t it feel strangely destined?”
“No,” she answered at once.
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
You let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting your head back toward the sky. “You are determined to ruin this for me?”
“They do not even have dragons anymore,” she snapped, stepping closer now, her voice tightening with unease. “The last one died years ago. Westeros is cold and filthy and full of miserable lords killing each other over chairs. And the prince…” She hesitated. “I’ve heard things.”
“From whom?”
“Merchants. Sailors from King’s Landing. Men who know better than to invent stories about princes.”
You brushed past the warning without care. “Sailors invent stories for sport.”
“They say he’s cruel.”
“And people said Father was clever,” you replied lightly. “The world exaggerates.”
She looked unconvinced.
You turned away before she could continue, lifting your face toward the blazing evening sky. Somewhere beyond the sea was Westeros. Somewhere beyond the horizon was a prince with silver hair and violet eyes and a destiny grand enough to pull you from this gilded, decaying life at last.
“If there are no dragons left,” you mused, “I suppose I shall simply have to hatch one myself.”
She stared at you as though you had finally lost what little sense you possessed.
“You cannot hatch a dragon.”
“Why not?” You asked ridiculously.
“Because dragons are dead.”
You shrugged. “So were we, practically.”
For the first time since the conversation began, genuine fear crossed her face. Without another word, she bent quickly to retrieve her fallen brush and hurried toward the house.
“I am finding Mother,” she muttered under her breath. “She has completely lost her mind.”
Aerion Targaryen was absolutely losing his mind.
He stood beside the tall arched window of the great hall, watching the Blackwater glitter darkly beneath a veil of grey cloud, one hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword as though it alone was preventing him from saying something unforgivable. In his other hand sat the problem itself. A letter.
Its seal had already been broken hours ago, yet Aerion still held it like he might somehow strangle better news out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. Its contents were simple enough to feel insulting.
A marriage.
No. Not just any marriage, an arranged match with a daughter of some Lysene house clinging to old Valyrian pride it no longer truly held.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had not asked for this. He would not pretend otherwise. Westeros had its customs, its alliances, its endless games of blood and crown—but there were lines he did not intend to cross without reason.
A prince of the dragonlords should not be bound to someone who did not carry their look, their blood, their unmistakable mark of Valyria. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The old fire, faint but undeniable.
It was not sentiment. It was sense.
His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window.
He would not be paraded through courts beside a bride who looked like a foreign ornament—pretty, perhaps, but wrong.
And alas! You paraded into the throne room smiling. Actually smiling. The doors of the great hall opened with all the usual dreadful ceremony, guards standing straighter than necessary while servants scrambled uselessly around your luggage. Aerion watched the entire thing from beside the Iron Throne with the exhausted disbelief of a man witnessing a public execution and slowly realizing he was the one being executed.
You walked into the hall looking pleased with life.
No!
Absolutely not!
Gods… you looked so delighted. The sight alone offended him.
Your dress swept over the stone floors in soft sea-green silk, expensive enough to suggest House Rogare had once been rich and stupid rather than merely stupid. Gold thread shimmered at the sleeves. Pearls hung from your throat. Your dark curls had half-fallen from their pins during the journey, though you either had not noticed or did not care.
Dark hair. Aerion stared harder. Green eyes. He felt his right eye twitch. Now he felt personally insulted by both.
You stopped in the center of the hall and looked up at the ceiling with genuine wonder.
“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.
Aerion glanced upward too. It was a ceiling.
“You look taller in your portrait,” Aerion remarked flatly the moment you approached. The hall felt still and you blinked once, clearly uncertain whether you had been insulted yet.
“Oh.”
Aerion lazily glanced toward one of the guards nearby. “Send her back. Find me a tall one.”
Aerion’s eyes flicked sideways just in time to catch the pointed look his father sent him from beside the throne. Maekar merely narrowed his eyes in warning, the expression of a man very clearly imagining the satisfaction of striking his son across the back of the head in front of the entire court and deciding against it only because foreign ambassadors were present. But Aerion could only justify his words by pointing at the snorting courtiers lazily– “See? Funny.”
You smiled politely in the careful way people did when they were not entirely certain whether the prince was joking or truly his words were no jest.
“I see.”
“I’m kidding,” Aerion said. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.”
“Oh,” you said politely. “Very amusing.” It was not convincing.
The maester—Gladys, and very likely the sole architect behind this catastrophic match, stepped in quickly, no doubt sensing yet another disaster beginning to unfold before the previous one had even settled.
“Prince Aerion, may I present Lady—”
“Yes, yes, the bride,” Aerion interrupted. “I gathered.”
You stepped forward then, bright-eyed despite everything that had already occurred. Aerion stepped back all the same, his eyes moving over you from head to toe like he was already finding faults.
“I wished to bring something from Lys,” you explained warmly. Aerion’s mind immediately went to Lysene courtesans. Lys was famously full of them. Or worse—poetry. Music. Some sort of embroidered love token. Gods. Aerion suddenly regretted existing.
But instead, you reached carefully into your sleeve and withdrew a tiny spruce branch wrapped delicately in ribbon. Not jewels. Not a book. But a fucking twig.
You held it out to him with both hands.
“I present this branch of spruce,” you said warmly. Aerion looked at the branch. Then at you. Then back to the branch again. Seven Hells!
“It is an evergreen,” you continued earnestly, entirely unaware that several grown men nearby were visibly fighting for their lives trying not to laugh. “I hoped it might symbolize our feelings toward one another. That we shall remain caring and faithful all our lives.”
Aerion took the branch between two fingers as though it might stain him.
“She gave me a twig,” he observed quietly.
Aerion tilted his head slightly. “She’s not inbred, is she?”
The maester nearly swallowed his own tongue. “There has been no indication of—”
“I assure you,” you cut in quickly, chin lifting with a sudden dignity, “I am entirely of sound mind, Your Grace.” And you were. You also very nearly said something about how funny it was for a Targaryen to be asking that question in the first place. Very nearly. But you did not.
Aerion considered this. The evidence currently suggested otherwise. You brightened again anyway.
“I also wished to thank you for your letter.”
The man frowned immediately. “My what?”
“The letter you sent to Lys,” you continued. “The one speaking of devotion and companionship.” Your expression brightened almost painfully. “It was beautiful. I read it several times aboard the ship.”
Aerion stared blankly for a long moment. Then he looked towards the maester. Said maester suddenly became fascinated by the floor.
“Oh,” Aerion said slowly. “That letter.”
“You wrote it, did you not?” you asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Yes,” Aerion said, as if recalling something mildly inconvenient. Your face, already bright, lit further at the answer, as though this confirmed something deeply meaningful. How utterly naive.
“I hoped,” you continued carefully, “that perhaps our love might grow slowly. Like a flame becoming large enough to warm an entire kingdom.”
Aerion nearly recoiled. Love. Gods above, help him. You really believed him. He exhaled through his nose. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Your smile faltered for the first time. Only briefly. Then returned again with terrifying optimism.
“And I hope I shall make you happy,” you said sincerely.
Aerion stared at you as though you had personally invented inconvenience. “You’re perfect,” he replied flatly.
The maester abruptly stepped forward before the conversation could collapse any further into disaster, hastily announcing that the wedding would take place on the morrow. Gods. As though there were any risk of you fleeing in the night. You looked far too pleased with all of this.
A young woman stepped forward from the line of servants and bowed her head. Meriel, you thought her name was—though truthfully, you had barely listened when the maester introduced her. Your attention had remained entirely fixed on the prince before you. Or rather, on the very obvious fact that the prince was looking absolutely anywhere except at you.
The windows. The banners.The Iron Throne. Or that one specific crack in the floor that suddenly seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Anywhere.
It should have embarrassed you, perhaps. Another girl might have wilted beneath it. But you had not crossed the Narrow Sea expecting instant devotion. Marriage, especially royal marriage, surely required patience. Time. Understanding.
And Prince Aerion, you were beginning to suspect, might require an impossible amount of all three. Still, you smiled.
He still did not look at you.
One of your Lysene servants stepped nervously forward beside the luggage, a pretty thing with blonde curls and nervous eyes. She had spent the entire journey seasick and terrified of Westeros.
Aerion glanced toward her absentmindedly while adjusting his gloves.
“You’re pretty,” he remarked casually.
The girl blinked, startled, before flushing pink. “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”
You stared at him. Ah. You thought slowly. So it would take a great deal of time.
Aerion, meanwhile, had already grown visibly bored with the entire exchange. He turned away with the restless air of a man abandoning an event halfway through because it had failed to entertain him quickly enough.
“I must tend to my whores,” he announced.
A loud throat-clearing echoed through the hall.
Aerion barely paused.
“…Horses,” he corrected lazily. “Horses.”
Several courtiers lowered their heads immediately, shoulders shaking with poorly hidden laughter. “Going riding,” Aerion added with a dismissive wave before disappearing out of the hall entirely.
Meriel led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep while servants hurried ahead carrying trunks that had absolutely not survived the voyage gracefully. Somewhere behind you, one had burst open entirely, scattering silks across a staircase and nearly killing a guard.
The keep itself felt colder inside than it had from the courtyard below. Not merely in temperature, but in spirit. Long stone halls. Narrow windows. Tapestries heavy with dragons and dead men. Still, you smiled as you walked.
“He seems lovely,” you said softly.
Meriel glanced at you.
“Mm,” she replied carefully. “Aren’t you gorgeously optimistic?”
You laughed under your breath. “It has been said.” Your fingers brushed lightly over the stone wall as you walked beside her. “I simply believe there is no other sensible way to be.”
Meriel made a small sound that suggested she strongly disagreed.
—
The wedding itself passed in a blur of incense smoke, candlelight, and exhaustion.
You scarcely remembered entering the sept. Only the weight of eyes following you down the aisle, the sound of your skirts dragging softly over stone, and Aerion standing at the altar looking like a man attending his own execution. Beautiful, unfortunately.
The septon droned on endlessly while Aerion looked bored enough to die from it. When the vows were finally spoken and you were presented to the court, your heart leapt despite yourself.
“Presenting Prince Aerion Targaryen and his wife—”
You smiled brightly and opened your mouth to speak.
“It is a—”
“No,” Aerion interrupted without even looking at you. “You don’t talk, my love.”
A stunned silence followed. “Oh,” you said after a moment. “Of course.”
Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed very violently into their sleeve. Aerion looked entirely pleased with himself.
Then, as if suddenly remembering he was expected to behave like a husband for at least one consecutive minute, he gestured lazily toward the side doors of the hall.
“So,” he announced, “a wedding gift for my new wife seems in order.”
The doors opened. And into the hall lumbered an enormous bear. You gasped. A real bear.
The court erupted into chaos almost immediately. One lady shrieked. A knight stumbled backward into a candelabra. The animal itself looked equally confused by the entire arrangement.
Aerion smirked faintly at your expression.
“You wrote in your letters that you wished to see one.”
You stared at the beast with open amazement. “You remembered?”
“No,” Aerion answered honestly.
The bear sneezed violently onto a nearby lord.
You thought it was wonderful.
—
By the time you finally reached your chambers again hours later, half the candles had already burned low.
Your gowns had been unpacked incorrectly. One of your necklaces was missing. A servant was crying quietly in the corner over a broken perfume bottle.
“Oh,” you said distractedly while searching through a trunk, “they’re somewhere, I’m sure.”
Meriel stood nearby watching the disaster unfold with the calm expression of someone already accustomed to royal households collapsing around her.
“Princess,” she said carefully, “where are the rest of your clothes?”
You looked around vaguely.
“An excellent question.”
Then you smiled suddenly, almost breathless.
“Me. A married woman.” You sat carefully at the edge of the bed, touching the fabric beneath your fingers like you still scarcely believed any of it. “How I dreamt of this.”
Meriel’s expression softened slightly.
“Congratulations,” she said quietly. Then, after a pause: “Madam… if I may speak plainly.”
“You may.”
Meriel hesitated.
“You do know what to expect tonight?”
You looked up at once, mildly offended.
“You suppose me more naïve than I am.”
“She explained it to you?”
“My mother explained everything.”
Meriel looked unconvinced already.
You folded your hands neatly in your lap, repeating it carefully from memory.
You spoke with complete sincerity.
“The man caresses you softly, pressing his lips to yours.”
Meriel blinked once.
“Your breasts and skin awaken and shiver with palpitating joy.”
Meriel blinked twice.
“Between your legs quivers and moistens with longing. He enters you and you become one.”
Meriel stared at you in silence.
“Your bodies meld, your souls mesh. As a sensation takes hold of you, you fall into a black sky filled with the shiniest of stars.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “You float for a time in ecstasy, before waves of pleasure push and pull you back into your body.”
Meriel’s face had gone completely blank.
“Your body ushers forth yelps, and sometimes song, before he and you explode within, collapsing together, spent and unified.” You sighed dreamily. “Then you lay together, laughing softly, weeping occasionally with ecstatic joy, and finally, he wraps his arms around you, whispers poetry softly into your ear, and you fall into a… delicious sleep.”
A long silence followed.
Meriel nodded slowly.
“…Yep,” she said at last. “That’s pretty much it.”
You smiled, reassured.
Outside your chamber windows, the storm clouds over Blackwater Bay deepened into night. Candles burned lower. Servants slowly disappeared one by one.
You waited.
And waited.
Aerion never came.
Months passed after the wedding. An astonishing amount of absolutely nothing had occurred within the marriage.
You and Aerion had been moved south to a smaller palace not far from Summerhall, supposedly for peace, privacy, and “the strengthening of the marital bond,” which sounded lovely in theory and deeply embarrassing in practice considering your husband still treated your existence like an administrative inconvenience.
The palace itself was beautiful, at least. Warm stone walls, open gardens, olive trees twisting beneath the sun, and fountains that actually worked, unlike the ones in King’s Landing that smelled faintly of death.
You spent your mornings wandering the gardens with books you never finished because you were too busy imagining dramatic future conversations with Aerion where he suddenly realized you were enchanting and regretted everything.
These conversations never occurred in real life. Mostly because Aerion was never there.
He hunted constantly. Rode constantly. Hosted drunken dinners for men who laughed too loudly and broke furniture. Once, he returned at three in the morning carrying an injured falcon and demanding a maester because “the bird understands him emotionally.”
The falcon died and Aerion mourned for nearly two days.
You considered poisoning him on the third.
At court dinners, he would sometimes remember you existed and stare at you with vague surprise, as though you had appeared suddenly from the walls.
“Oh,” he’d say. “Wife.”
Once, during supper, he had pointed at you with a fork and asked a servant, “Does she always sit there?”
You had thrown a grape at his face. He looked delighted by it for reasons that still irritated you deeply.
And then there was the matter of the marriage bed. Or rather, the complete and ongoing absence of it. Weeks passed, then months– nothing. Not even an attempt. Which would have been less humiliating had the entire palace not clearly noticed.
Servants noticed and servants talked. One maid fainted dramatically after discovering untouched marriage sheets and whispered something about curses. Another began leaving fertility charms beneath your pillows.
At first, you wondered if perhaps Aerion was shy. Then you remembered he was physically incapable of shame.
So eventually, you decided to take matters into your own hands. It had seemed reasonable at the time.
You had spent nearly an hour preparing yourself beforehand, which now embarrassed you deeply in retrospect. You wore a softer gown. You brushed perfume oil against your wrists. You even practiced appearing casually alluring in the mirror, though midway through it you realized you mostly looked constipated.
Still determined, you walked to Aerion’s chambers yourself. No husband could possibly ignore such effort.
And for one glorious moment, when the guards opened the doors without question, you truly believed things were finally about to improve. Then you walked inside.
And found Aerion entirely naked, beneath the Lysene servant he had once casually called pretty the day you met.
A long silence followed. Aerion looked up from the bed. Blinking slowly. Not even ashamed but merely inconvenienced.
“Oh,” he said.
You stared at him.
The servant stared at you, and looked ready to leap directly out the window.
Aerion looked between the two of you with visible irritation, as though you had interrupted him. Then, somehow making the situation infinitely worse, he leaned back lazily against the pillows and glanced between the two of you like this was a mildly awkward dinner arrangement rather than marital betrayal.
“You’re welcome to join us, if you like”
You left before murder became politically difficult to explain.
Behind you, you vaguely heard Aerion sigh in annoyance, as though you had been the difficult one in this situation.
You had had enough. Enough that you stopped waiting for footsteps outside your chambers at night. Enough pretending this marriage was merely delayed instead of rotten at its center.
Divorce was impossible. You knew that much.
Escape, however—
Escape remained an option.
You found Meriel before dawn while most of the palace still slept. Candles burned low along the corridors, their flames trembling each time wind slipped through the stone passageways. Meriel looked startled seeing you awake so early, though the expression disappeared quickly once she saw your face.
“I want to leave,” you told her quietly.
Meriel stared at you for a moment. “Leave where?”
“Away from here,” you replied. “Anywhere else.”
Meriel lowered her eyes.
“I need a large traveling trunk,” you continued, voice steadier now that the decision had finally been spoken aloud. “And a carriage. Something discreet enough not to invite questions.”
Understanding settled over her face slowly.
“You mean to flee.”
“I mean to survive.”
For a moment, Meriel looked almost sympathetic. Then she nodded once.
“I shall arrange it.”
But later that same morning, Meriel went to Aerion instead.
She found him in the training yard watching two knights beat each other senseless while he drank wine far too early in the day. Sunlight flashed against the practice swords each time they collided. Aerion barely looked at her when she approached.
“How is she?” he asked lazily.
Meriel hesitated only briefly. “Unhappy.”
“Hmm.”
“She wants to leave.”
That earned his attention. He hummed, “you want something in return.”
Meriel straightened slightly at that, speaking with a confidence that sounded practiced rather than natural.
“My father was stripped of his lands for siding with the Blackfyres years ago. My family lost everything. Our titles. Our place at court.” Her hands tightened together. “I have served loyally ever since.”
Aerion tilted his head slightly.
“You want your status restored.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Then, unexpectedly, Aerion let out a short laugh beneath his breath and lifted his goblet vaguely toward her.
“Gods,” he murmured, almost impressed. “You’re awful.”
—
The trunk was prepared before sunrise the next morning. Reinforced oak, iron latches, large enough to pass for travel storage without inviting suspicion. You climbed inside before the courtyard fully stirred awake, heart pounding painfully against your ribs while the lid shut heavily above you.
Darkness swallowed everything. And for a while, relief almost overtook fear. The carriage moved steadily beneath you. Wheels against stone. Horses breathing hard.
Distance growing with every turn. You were leaving. Finally.
But then the carriage stopped.
And you felt the trunk— the trunk you were in being carried. You shoved hard against the lid. Locked. And then you heard water. Cold seeped through the bottom edges of the trunk while the men carried it farther. Panic struck instantly, violent and absolute.
“No,” you gasped, throwing your shoulder hard against the lid. “No—!”
The trunk sank lower.
Freezing water rushed through the cracks faster now, swallowing the remaining air inside in brutal gulps. Your hands slipped against soaked wood as you shoved desperately against the lid, panic turning your thoughts into something sharp and senseless.
Above you, the voices had gone quieter. One of the men laughed nervously. Another muttered that perhaps this had gone too far.
Then silence.
For one horrible moment, you truly believed Aerion had left.
That this was how it ended, not with greatness or love, but alone in darkness inside a wooden box because your husband found cruelty entertaining.
Above the waterline, Aerion watched the lake for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a bored sigh, he turned his back as if preparing to leave entirely.
The men shifted uneasily beside their horses. One looked pale. Another muttered a prayer to the Seven beneath his breath.
And then suddenly—
Aerion laughed.
“Oh, Gods,” he said between amused breaths, turning back toward the lake. “You thought I was serious.”
The men stared at him. Aerion grinned broadly now, gesturing lazily back toward the shore. “Bring her back before she actually dies.”
Relief visibly swept through the soldiers so quickly. They rushed forward immediately, dragging the trunk back toward land with frantic urgency. The moment it struck the shore hard enough, the weakened latch snapped open completely.
You spilled out with it.
Water poured from your soaked gown as you collapsed onto the mud choking violently, coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. Wet curls clung against your face while the world spun sickeningly around you.
Above you stood Aerion.
Dry and perfectly composed.
One hand rested lazily over the hilt of his sword while amusement still lingered openly across his face. You looked up at him with absolute hatred. Aerion only smirked.
Then, as though this had all been a mildly entertaining interruption to his afternoon, he turned toward his men.
“Come along.”
The soldiers immediately began mounting their horses again. And just like that, they left you there. You walked back to the palace alone.
Soaked shoes scraping against dirt roads. Wet skirts heavy around your legs. Your entire body trembling. By the time you returned to your chambers, you already knew.
Meriel. Of course it had been Meriel. And worse— Aerion had not even granted her what she wanted. No restored titles. No lands. No reward.
The realization hollowed something inside you completely.
That night, your chambers were unusually quiet. You sat before the mirror still wrapped in blankets, staring numbly at the knife resting across your lap while candlelight flickered weakly against the walls.
Meriel stood nearby. At some point, she glanced toward the blade and asked mildly, “Would you like a cake with that knife, Princess?”
You let out a humorless laugh.
“Do not try to stop me,” you said quietly. “Just leave me be.”
“I would not presume to speak,” Meriel replied at once, folding her hands neatly before her. “For the Princess is so smart and book-readingly that I am certain her judgment must be sound.”
You looked down at the knife again.
“I am resolved.”
Meriel nodded once and turned toward the servant boy lingering nervously near the doorway.
“Fetch a bucket for the blood.”
The poor boy blinked. “Yes, miss.”
“And towels too,” Meriel added calmly. “There may be some overflow.”
“What am I to do?” you whispered instead. “Just live forever at someone else’s whim?”
“Godsforbid.”
You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the knife.
“I truly believed,” you admitted quietly, “ever since I was a child… that greatness waited for me somewhere.” Your voice shook slightly now, though whether from anger or heartbreak you no longer knew. “A great life. Something important. Like the gods themselves placed me here for a reason.” You stared blankly at the candlelight trembling across the room. “That I was meant to change something.”
Meriel was silent for a moment.
Then softly:
“Why did he make you a woman, then?”
You let out a hollow laugh beneath your breath.
“For comedy, I suppose.”
And so, months later, breakfast with Aerion had become less a marital routine and more a daily exercise in surviving each other.
You sat across from Aerion beneath the open arches of the summer dining hall while servants moved quietly between tables carrying fruit, fresh bread, and wine.
Aerion looked half-awake, dressed lazily in black riding clothes, one boot unlaced.
He stabbed violently at a pear.
“The Ashford Tourney begins next week,” he announced suddenly. “You’re coming.”
You blinked once. Then coughed delicately into your sleeve and Aerion looked up immediately. You coughed again, but weaker this time.
“Oh dear,” you murmured sadly. “I fear I may be terribly ill.”
Aerion stared at you blankly. Then rolled his eyes.
“Tragic.”
You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. “I believe it may worsen if exposed to excessive sunlight.”
“How brave of you to battle through it during breakfast.”
You ignored him with dignity.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, watching you with open annoyance.
“You do realize people will ask questions if my wife refuses to appear beside me.”
“Then tell them I died.”
“That would create paperwork.”
Aerion stood abruptly, already bored with the conversation. And then paused.
He glanced toward your stomach.
“You’re not pregnant yet, are you?”
Silence.
You narrowed your eyes slowly. “Aerion,” you said carefully, “you have not stepped foot inside my chambers since the moment we married.”
He blinked once. As though genuinely forgetting this detail. Then his face twisted slightly with irritation.
“Annoying.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
Annoying?
Annoying?
Aerion was already pulling on his gloves.
“We should probably do something about that eventually,” he muttered distractedly.
“You think?” You shot him a sharp look across the table. “What a groundbreaking conclusion.”
Aerion finally glanced at you properly for the first time that morning, the inside of his cheek pressed lightly beneath his tongue as he studied you with lazy irritation.
“You’ve been in a terrible mood lately.”
You laughed in disbelief. “Lately?”
“Yes.” Aerion blinked.
“I walked into your chambers months ago and found you naked with another woman. Then you nearly had me drowned in a lake.”
“And I offered to include you,” he pointed out immediately, gesturing vaguely in your direction like this had been an act of staggering generosity on his part rather than insanity. “As for the lake, that was clearly a joke.”
“A joke.”
“Yes.”
“You sealed me inside the trunk.”
“You survived.”
“You watched me drown.”
Aerion frowned slightly at that. “That feels dramatic. You were underwater for hardly any time at all.”
You stared at him.
“And besides,” he continued, now sounding faintly offended himself, “I came back.”
You shut your eyes briefly. Enough.
Instead, like an angry child trying very hard not to throw something, you planted both hands flat against the table and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him for even another second.
Aerion sighed through his nose, already irritated by your irritation.
Then he waved vaguely over one shoulder as he started toward the courtyard.
“Later.”
The moment he disappeared through the arches, your composed expression collapsed entirely.
“I hate you,” you muttered venomously into your wine.
Life within the small palace quickly settled into an exhausting rhythm of endless feasts.
Aerion hosted them constantly.
The halls filled night after night with second sons of noble houses and young knights who had little to inherit but still too much pride to behave accordingly. Men who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth order, had little to do besides drink themselves stupid, chase women through corridors, lose fortunes over dice, and wake the next morning only to begin the cycle again.
They clung to Aerion all the same.
Not out of affection, he was too sharp, too unpredictable, too openly violent when irritated for that— but because he funded the entire arrangement. The wine, the food, the horses, the tours, the endless indulgence of it all. Aerion paid for their comfort, and in return they laughed at his worst remarks on command. Because if Aerion said something once, and then repeated it slowly while glancing at the room, it meant they were supposed to laugh.
Even when it wasn’t funny.
Especially when it wasn’t funny.
While they drank themselves into stupors below, you found your escape elsewhere.
The library.
It became yours almost by instinct.
Quiet, tucked away from the noise of feasting, it smelled of dust, old parchment, and forgotten ink. Most of the palace ignored it entirely, which suited you perfectly.
Most afternoons, while the men stumbled around the courtyards half-drunk and shouting at one another, you remained hidden among the shelves with a book open across your lap.
You had always loved reading.
Your mother used to tell you that knowledge was the only thing in this world that could not easily be taken from a woman. Knowledge meant power, she would say while correcting your Valyrian translations at the dinner table. And power meant importance. Change.
You had carried those words with you across the Narrow Sea. Held onto them tightly.
Because despite everything; the miserable marriage, the endless feasts, the loneliness of this strange country, you still believed you had been meant for something more than sitting quietly beside a prince while men spoke over you.
You wanted to do something that mattered.
And near the edge of the nearby village, just beyond the palace grounds, sat an old abandoned cottage slowly collapsing into itself beneath climbing ivy and years of neglect. You wanted to turn it into a school. Not for noble girls. Noble girls already had tutors and books and futures decided for them.
You wanted a school for girls who had nothing at all. Girls who could not read their own names. Just a place where girls could learn to read without asking.
And with that thought, you swallowed your pride. The next morning, you joined Aerion on a hunt.
It was not an invitation so much as you appearing beside him as he mounted his horse, which he regarded with immediate suspicion.
“You’re coming?” he asked.
“I would like to see the forest,” you said simply.
He stared at you for a long moment as though trying to determine whether this was an inconvenience or a threat. Then he shrugged, already losing interest.
“Fine.”
The hunt itself was chaos.
Aerion, however, was in a rare good mood— amused, and almost tolerable. The kind of mood where asking him for anything felt marginally survivable.
So when the ride slowed briefly, you took your chance.
“There is something I would like to do,” you began carefully.
Aerion did not look at you. “That sounds expensive.”
“It is not—”
“Everything is expensive,” he cut in.
You hesitated.
Then, quietly, “There is an abandoned cottage near the village. I would like to turn it into a school.”
“Do what you want,” he said, already bored, adjusting his reins. “Just don’t make it inconvenient.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“That’s it?”
He shrugged. “It’s a cottage.”
A pause.
Somewhere behind you, a hunter laughed too loudly at something Aerion had said earlier and then immediately laughed again, louder, as if reminding everyone it was supposed to be funny.
Aerion rode on without waiting for your response.
And just like that, it was done.
No discussions. No debate. Just permission given carelessly, like throwing coins at a beggar to make them disappear. But it was enough. You would take it.
You began preparing soon after.
The cottage sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten thought—half-collapsed roof, broken shutters, weeds pushing through the stone floor. Still, you stood in it for a long time the first day, imagining voices inside it. Girls reading aloud. Chalk on wood. Something small, but alive.
Meriel came with you more than once after that, wordless at first, then slowly softening into the idea of it.
It almost felt possible.
Until it didn’t.
You came back after supper. The sky had already turned dark. From a distance, something felt wrong. The air smelled wrong. Then you saw it.
The cottage.
Burned.
Not damaged. But burned.
Blackened beams collapsed inward like broken ribs. Smoke still curled faintly into the night sky, as though whatever had been done had not yet finished being cruel. Meriel went very still beside you.
You walked forward slowly, as if approaching it carefully might undo it.
It did not.
By the time you reached the ruins, there was nothing left that could pretend to be a school.
Only ash.
—
The palace was loud.
Drunken laughter spilled through the halls. Music echoed off stone. Someone was singing badly again.
You found Aerion in the main hall, seated at a long table surrounded by men who laughed too loudly at everything he said. A cup hung loosely in his hand.
He did not look up when you entered.
You walked straight toward him, and the people noticed immediately. You stopped in front of him.
“You burned it,” you said.
Aerion blinked once.
Then, slowly: “Oh.”
He leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of a man already bored.
“You didn’t say it was for girls.”
“Women in the villages here cannot read,” he added. “They’re not taught.”
Your hands tightened at your sides.
“That is not—”
“And they should not be,” Aerion said, cutting in.
“Women are for seeding, not reading.”
Laughter rolled through the hall.
You stared at him like he had spoken in a language you no longer recognized.
“…I told you I wanted a school,” you said slowly.
“Yes,” Aerion replied, as if that explained everything.
“And you burned it down.”
“I did,” he confirmed.
No hesitation.
You exhaled sharply through your nose.
“Well, you may go. I forgive you, of course, as I am a man of gentle heart and enormous cock.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“You are disgusting,” you hissed.
“You do not lie to me again.”
The glass left his hand without warning. It shattered against the pillar beside you—but by then, you had already moved. A thin cut sliced across your right palm, blood beading slowly against your skin. Barely a scratch.
Aerion watched the fragments scatter across the floor before his gaze drifted back to you, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Ooh,” he drawled. “You’re admirably quick.”
You did not give him any more time to give comments as you turned to leave, anger radiating. You seethed while walking back to your chambers.
The next day there was another feast.
Meriel told you to go to tell the court that you are still alive and breathing.
Aerion was in unusually good spirits that evening, laughing too loudly at something one of his men said. And because when Aerion repeated a joke, they laughed as though it had been genius. Even when it isn’t.
You mostly ignored all of it.
Instead, you found the bear.
It had been brought to the palace courtyard as one of Aerion’s strange, impulsive gifts, something from the hunt, something alive that had survived him when most things did not.
You sat with it quietly for a while, fingers brushing through its fur while the feast roared on inside. It was easier than people. It did not speak. It did not mock. It simply existed beside you without asking anything.
“Maybe you’re the only one here,” you muttered softly, “who hasn’t tried to ruin my life.”
The bear shifted slightly under your hand.
For a moment, it almost felt like it understood you.
And then- the sound of an arrow splitting air. It happened too fast to process properly. A sharp twang from the training platform where Aerion and his men had decided, in their usual brilliance, that the courtyard was suitable for target practice even during a feast.
The arrow struck clean.
Right through the animal. The bear collapsed instantly.
You stared at it for a moment too long, as if waiting for the world to correct itself. But it did not. And then you stood.
Across the courtyard, laughter broke out. “Good shot,” someone called.
Aerion’s voice followed lazily, unconcerned. “Oh, dear. Someone’s cross.” he spoke lazily when he saw you cross the courtyard in a straight line. Aerion was still smiling when you reached him. With no hesitation, you raised your hand and slapped him on the cheek. Hard.
The sound cracked through the hall and silence followed immediately. Even the music faltered. You didn’t wait for anything else. You turned and left.
—
The library was quiet in a way the rest of the palace never managed to be. Not merely silent, but softened, as though even sound was reluctant to disturb it. Dust floated through thin shafts of light from the high windows, drifting over rows of old parchment and ink-stained ledgers, the smell of aged wood and forgotten knowledge clinging to everything.
It was the only place in the entire palace that did not feel like it belonged to Aerion, as if even his presence hesitated at the threshold.
You did not sit at a chair. You sat on the floor between shelves, knees drawn in loosely, staring at nothing in particular while your breathing slowly unraveled. Then your hands began to shake, then enough that you stopped trying to hide it at all. The crying came after that, uneven and broken, sharp breaths caught between anger and humiliation and grief until none of them could separate cleanly anymore.
You did not expect him to follow you.
Aerion did not speak immediately when he entered. He stood there for a moment as if assessing whether this was worth interrupting, then eventually crossed the room and sat down across from you.
“We’ve got problems, haven’t we?” he said at last.
You did not answer.
Silence stretched, thick and unbothered.
“I suppose you are the only person in my life,” he added after a moment, almost thoughtfully, “who has not loved me.”
A breath of disbelief slipped out of you before you could stop it, half-laugh, half-sob.
“It is inconceivable to me,” he continued, as though your reaction was irrelevant, “and says nothing good about you.”
You looked up sharply at that.
He met your gaze without hesitation, unflinching, almost curious.
“If you had shown me an ounce of kindness,” your face twisted as you eyed him, “I was ready with a heart full of love.”
And then, because he could never resist undermining even his own seriousness, his eyes flicked over you and he added, almost offhand, “You look really pretty when you’re angry.”
That was it. Something in you cracked fully open.
“My heart is breaking,” you said, and this time the words came out broken with it, tears spilling freely as a muffled sob forced its way through your throat. “I miss home. I’m lonely for family, friends, fun, ideas, strawberries—”
“And I need my cock sucked,” Aerion interrupted flatly.
You froze.
“What?” you asked in disbelief, staring at him like you had misheard the language entirely.
“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly as if this were logical, “we’re sharing, right? Our needs?”
“Just let me go home, please.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
He glanced away for a moment, as though considering something practical. “Strawberries, I’ll work on.”
Then, more to himself than to you, he added, “What happened to that happy little girl who gave me a twig?”
“She died,” you said immediately.
Aerion sighed through his nose. “Seems overly dramatic.”
He looked at you again, then added, “I am mostly kind to you. Do I beat you?”
“I suffer the blows of your disdain daily,” you hissed, pushing yourself up until you were standing over him where he still sat.
Aerion tilted his head up at you slightly.
“It’s not the same as actual blows, though, is it?”
“Well—”
“What, you don’t know?” he cut in.
Before you could react, he stood. His hand closed around your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from stepping back, and then—suddenly, sharply—he struck you in the stomach.
The breath left you instantly. You doubled slightly, stunned more than anything, pain blooming hot and immediate through your middle.
Aerion watched you bend forward.
“Well,” he said calmly, releasing you, “compare, and get back to me.”
You straightened slowly, shaking.
“Mother and Father never acted like this. My mother was a saint,” he replied. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reflexively, “I’m glad she’s not alive to see this. Not that I’m glad she’s dead. I’m not—”
He stopped himself, as if realizing he was losing his own argument, and exhaled sharply through his nose.
You were still staring at him, unblinking.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You’re a disappointment to me, too.”
Then, after a pause, his voice sharpened again.
“I do not need a wife with a poisonous mouth and a dry cunny. I will shut you up at my pleasure.”
“You will try and fail,” you said immediately, voice raw.
“You will be happy,” he continued as if you had not spoken. “You will die here in content old age, having given me many hours of pleasure and service, and many heirs. Boys, preferably.”
His gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing.
“I do have a temper and some rage. You cannot cross me. Especially not in front of others, or you will pay. Endlessly.”
A pause.
Then, quietly, final in a way that was almost certain.
“And you will never win.”
I hope he loses.
Not in the polite way other wives were taught to think it, no soft prayers whispered into candlelight, no folded hands asking for a safe return, no devotion. You did not want safety for him.
I hope he loses the tourney, you thought, watching him across the courtyard as he adjusted his riding gloves, I hope he falls off his horse. I hope the impact is sharp enough to silence him permanently. I hope something in him breaks in a way that cannot be repaired.
Your finger tapped against your gown once, then again, then again, a quiet rhythm of imagined outcomes. You found yourself thinking of it too easily: the snap of bone, the sudden stillness of a body, the stunned silence of a crowd that had cheered him only moments before.
Other wives would have been praying. You found yourself praying for injuries.
He would not come back with laughter still clinging to him. He would come back quiet, maybe even regretful. Or not at all.
Outside the palace entrance, the air was bright and unforgiving. The horses were already prepared, restless beneath their riders, the sound of metal and leather filling the space like a ceremony you had no interest in participating in. Aerion adjusted his riding gloves with careless precision, as though nothing in the world had ever resisted him for long.
You stood beside him. You did not speak. You did not wish him well.
You only performed the smallest, most formal curtsy you could manage. Whether it was even correct no longer mattered.
Aerion glanced at you briefly, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, he simply turned away and mounted his horse.
Then he left.
And the gates closed behind him.
—
Days passed slowly after that.
The palace did not change much in his absence, which you found irritating. The halls remained full, the servants continued their routines, the air still carried the same polished emptiness. If anything, it only made his presence feel less necessary in hindsight, as though he had always been an unnecessary noise in a room that functioned perfectly well without him.
You filled the time carefully.
The library became your refuge again, its silence more honest than anything else in the palace. You spent hours there among books you did not always read, simply existing in a space that did not demand anything from you. When even that became too heavy, you returned to embroidery, though not of flowers as was expected—but insects. Spindly things, sharp-winged things, delicate and unpleasant in a way.
Meriel came and went quietly, as she always did, saying little unless spoken to.
Time passed in a strange, suspended way.
Then one afternoon, a servant came running through the corridor, breathless, face pale and twisted with panic.
“He died!”
The words echoed too loudly down the stone hall.
“The prince died!”
For a moment, everything stopped. Even the air felt like it paused to listen. You looked up slowly from your work. Your fingers still rested on the fabric, unmoving.
Someone nearby gasped. Another voice immediately began asking questions, overlapping, frantic.
A second servant reached you, hesitating as if unsure whether you were supposed to collapse or celebrate or scream. His eyes darted away quickly, as though afraid of your reaction either way.
But then—
A flicker at the corner of your mouth. Barely there.
Something almost like relief, almost like laughter, almost like—
No.
Not yet.
Before it could form properly, Meriel arrived. And the moment you saw her face, you already knew something was wrong. She did not look panicked. She did not look confused.
Composed in a way that made your stomach tighten instantly.
She stopped in front of you.
And spoke clearly.
“Prince Baelor died.”
Silence.
Oh.
You felt it land slowly.
Not Aerion. Not your husband. Not your imagined ruin finally delivered.
Someone else. Someone entirely different.
Your fingers loosened slightly on the fabric in your lap.
And for a long moment, all you could think was:
Oh.
savant - a person of profound and exceptional knowledge. i figured people in lys probably wouldn’t use the word “maesters” the way they do in westeros, so i went down an internet rabbit hole looking for similar terms
updates may be slow since i’m starting summer classes at uni tomorrow, but trust that i will see this fic through to the very end 😈
the softest side of fire and blood 𖹭 aerion targaryen
aerion returns home to eager footsteps and a daughter too excited to slow down. the stairs are unkind to hurried feet. thankfully, her father is not.
the moment word of aerion's return reaches the halls, it carries with it a shift in the air itself, something alive and anticipatory that draws you to the entrance before you even realize you are moving.
he stands there when the great doors open, framed by daylight and travel-worn shadows, silver hair slightly disordered, his presence no less formidable for the dust of the road upon him.
you step to his side, instinct rather than choice. your hand brushing his arm in quiet assurance that he is here, whole and breathing.
"you return in one piece," your eyes trace every line of him as if to confirm it yourself. aerion glances down at you, something softer flickering beneath the usual steel of his expression, and exhales faintly.
"did you doubt it?" he replies, tone touched with dry amusement, though his shoulder leans ever so slightly into your nearness.
from above comes the sound you know all too well. quick, uneven footsteps paired with a voice too bright to be contained by distance.
"father!" your daughter calls, appearing at the top of the staircase with all the force of her excitement, her small figure already rushing forward before caution can catch her.
your breath catches instantly, your body tensing as you step forward, the warning forming too late upon your lips.
"slowly—" you begin, but the moment has already slipped beyond control. her shoe catches, enough to steal her balance, and the world seems to tilt with her as she stumbles forward. the impact against the railing is sharp and unforgiving, followed by the immediate, heart-wrenching cry that echoes through the hall as she collapses where she fell.
everything in you lurches forward, but aerion is faster.
he crosses the distance with a speed that leaves no room for hesitation, as though the space between them has no right to exist, his usual composure cast aside for something far more urgent.
"easy now, easy," he murmurs as he reaches her, dropping to one knee and gathering her into his arms with a care so deliberate it borders on reverence.
her sobs come fast and broken, little hands clutching at him as though he alone can anchor her back to safety. you kneel beside them a heartbeat later, your own hands brushing gently over her, searching, checking, steady despite the quickened pulse in your chest.
"let me see, my love," you whisper, easing her hair back from her face, relief threading through you when you find no blood, only the beginnings of a swelling bruise.
aerion does not release her, not even for a moment.
instead, he adjusts his hold, one hand cradling the back of her head with surprising gentleness, the other moving in slow, grounding circles along her back as her cries begin to soften.
"you are unhurt," he tells her quietly, his voice stripped of its usual sharpness, steadied into something warm and certain. "it was but a misstep, nothing more. you are strong, little dragon."
she hiccups against him, her breath uneven as she buries her face into his shoulder, seeking comfort in the very place she had been rushing toward.
"it hurt," she whispers, small and shaken, her grip tightening.
"i know," aerion answers without pause, his forehead lowering briefly to rest against her hair in a gesture so instinctive it almost feels sacred.
"but pain passes," he continues softly, his thumb brushing beneath her eye to wipe away lingering tears. "and you have already proven yourself stronger than it."
you watch them, something deep and quiet settling in your chest as her cries diminish into soft sniffles, her small frame relaxing little by little in his hold. his hand never stills, never falters, as though he could will the hurt from her simply by remaining.
"no more running on stairs," he adds at last, the faintest edge of firmness returning, wrapped carefully in concern rather than reprimand.
she nods weakly against him, still clinging, as if letting go might undo the comfort he offers.
only then does he lift his gaze to you, something unspoken passing between you in the quiet that follows.
you reach forward, smoothing your daughter's hair once more, your touch gentle and grounded by the steadiness he has restored.
"she takes after you," you murmur softly, a hint of fondness threading through your voice despite it all.
aerion exhales through his nose, something almost like a scoff, though it lacks any true bite. his hold tightening to reassure himself she is truly safe.
"then she will learn and she will endure."
she shifts slightly in his arms, her sniffles fading into quiet breaths as she tilts her head to look up at him, lashes still damp.
"father, may i have lemon cakes?" she asks, voice small but hopeful, testing whether the world has truly righted itself again.
aerion studies her for a brief moment, weighing something far more serious than a simple request, his thumb still absently brushing away the last trace of tears beneath her eye. then his expression softens in that rare, fleeting way reserved only for her and you.
"you may have anything you desire," he says quietly.
and just like that, her smile returns, bright and immediate like the fall had never happened at all.
Please, I need a Baelor drabble with the size difference kink. While they're alone in his office, Baelor can't resist pulling his fiancée into his lap under the pretense of looking through an illustrated book together. It's the first truly intimate moment they share, and the first time they both realize how small she is compared to him.
Blue Tapestries
Baelor Targaryen X F Reader
prompt: size kink (this concept was so cute)
WC: 1k
“that one is interesting” you remark leaning over his shoulder as he holds open the book on his desk. You were discussing artwork for what would become your shared chambers. Baelor wanted you to feel comfortable there, welcomed, like it was truly both of your space and not just his.
“And is that because you truly enjoy it or are you drawn to it because it’s red and think I will prefer that?” He inquired.
“well…a bit of both I suppose my prince-“
Baelor, he had told you to not bother with the title any longer. He’d feel like a fool if his wife called him my prince all throughout the day. You needed to become comfortable with just saying Baelor…or at least My husband. He’d be happy with anything other than his official title across the realm.
“I do prefer blues. Are there ones of a similar design in blue Baelor?” You attempted honesty and casualness at the same time. Which made the man smile, he was pleased, his canines flashing made that indisputable in your nervous mind.
“blue, that is a calming color.” He flipped through some of the pages quickly. “Is that how you wish to feel in our chambers?”
You went red in the face. He seemed a bit startled by the reaction which made you even more unsure if he’d intentionally been trying to draw it out of you.
Your fingers nervously fiddled with your skirt. “I must admit, I know not how to feel in our chambers.” You were nervous, you hoped he did not take offense to the admission but he seemed reasonable and level headed enough that he would not find your worries and uncertainty insulting.
“You’ll still have a separate room, one that is solely yours if you feel called to rest there after we wed, I will not invade the space.” You were young, far too young for him if he was being truthful but there was also something about your innocence that he felt drawn to. You were honest, more honest that woman closer to his age would be if they found themselves in your position. Baelor found a blue design and he sat back a bit so you could see the tapestry illustration better.
You leaned over to look at it closer, finger coming out along the page to trace it. “This one is pretty.” You were glad to think about decor rather than room arrangements for a moment. The prospect of sharing a bed with Prince Baelor has been taking up much of your daily thinking!
“sit,” his hand touches your side, you were already so close to him but he finally broke the touch barrier. He’d held your hand in the gardens, kissed your cheek when the courtship was agreed upon but outside of that he has been the perfect gentlemen.
You glance to the door where a guard stood, worry all over your face.
“you will be my wife within the fortnight, we can share a seat my lady.” He assured. Though you were hardly sharing a seat…truly you were just sitting atop his lap.
“there we are,” his hand smoothed down your skirts and his palm rested over your outer thigh to keep you sat security against him. “Now we can both look.” It was a kind explanation to give for your current positioning.
You nodded and leaned forward just a bit to flip one of the pages. Baelors eyes glided from your fingers against the parchment up your arm, to your round shoulder and down your back to where he could feel your bottom against his left thigh.
You fit perfectly against him. He missed being this close to somebody. It had been so long since Jena was alive, and even longer since she would have done something like sit in his lap and just let him look at her.
Observing was his favorite pastime, he had to do it all day long for political matters, he missed getting to do it for pleasure.
“Your hand is half the size of the book.”
“sorry?” You then, and the small hand that he’d been fixated on was suddenly pressed to his other leg because you were shifting to look back at him.
“your hand,” his long fingers trailed over it and he wrapped around your wrist pulling it up so it waivers din the air between you both. “Is so small.” He exhaled, mismatched eyes burning into your own. your fingers twitched as you attempted to find something reasonable to say, but all your could think about was about his fingers were currently devouring your wrist.
“hold yours out.” You smiled slightly when he complied and his hand let go of you, his hand laying knuckle down against his thigh. You held the table to shift back to face forward before laying your hand over his.
“so large.” You swallowed snd Baelors fingers curled until they eventually touched the tips of yours. “Will there be a desk in our bedchambers?”
Baelor had to fight the urge to chuckle at the question. He wasn’t sure where exactly you were going with it but he did find it charming that you even considered that there was possibly of him not having a desk in his bedchambers.
“aye, unless that is distasteful to you?” His hand that has remained on your lap shifted, slightly, and when you seemed to not stir be wrapped that arm fully around your midsection.
“No, I wish for there to be one.” You admitted and leaned back against him until your head rests against his shoulder. “I like sitting with you.” The pretty flush was back. Eyes still locked on his hand and how you barely reached beyond his palm no matter how much you stretched your fingers out.
“Then our marriage will be quite joyous…for I like when you are sat here with me.” He said finally curling your hand up with his. “I think there will be a great deal more that I enjoy about you m’lady.” He said pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
Summary: Aerion was humiliated by the hedge knight, leaving him bedridden and suffering. A few knocks to the head left him forgetting much of his life— and even his ways...
Warnings: Fluff + angst, amnesia, Ooc!Aerion, mentions of bloodshed, death, cremation, grotesque wounds, mentions of infertility, mentions of blood magic, arranged marriage, Aerion doesn't like his wife(until he does), mentions of incest, mentions of consummation, it is said that Aerion mistreats his wife.
I am not responsible for the media you comsume.
I know this trope has been done many times before, but I was struck with a desire to write it myself.
Forgive me. It has been almost two years since I have written fanfiction(on a different account). This is a test to see if I should transition back into posting.
The intro is really long, I'm a yapper.
The Targaryen lineage had long since been deemed cursed, a price to pay for defying the old Gods in Valyria.
Dragon blood flowed through the descendants of those who once performed magic to control the beasts. It is said that the Gods had tried to eradicate them for their sins.
The Doom of Valyria; where the ground split itself in half and burst.
And then infertility for those who survived.
When the last dragon died, it was also said that the magic in a Targaryens veins had nowhere to go, resulting in a madness that was swiftly becoming common for the royal breed.
"Every time a Targaryen is born, the God's flip a coin."
Perhaps Maekar's line was cursed.
His brother had created two honorable young men to continue on the legacy of leaders. One to be King of Westeros and the other to be Lord of Dragonstone.
His own wretched offspring had not been as blessed upon birth, no matter how Maekar wished to shape them.
Daeron, his firstborn, had been a child who cried throughout the night. His restlessness never ceased, even as he reached adulthood. Cursed with dreams of death and destruction, he was well on his way to drink himself into an early grave.
Not a warrior.
Not a scholar.
Not a politician.
A whoring drunk.
Aerion, his second born, was worse. Capable and intelligent. Beautiful and lithe.
But above all else, he was delusional and cruel. He had been promising in his youth, but wickedness was planted when he learned of the blood he harbored. The young man fancied himself a dragon, and for that, he would one day suffer.
From torturing his own siblings to throwing cats down wells and even forcing servants to drink boiling wine, Aerion was rotten.
Out of his siblings, he was the first to be wed. The hope Maekar held arrived in the shape of a highborn lady.
With no Valyrian blood flowing through your veins, Aerion detested you. He hated the lack of silver-gold hair on your head, and he hated the lack of violet in your eyes.
He had wanted a sister and would have even settled for a cousin, but his father brought forth a complete stranger.
No traditional Valyrian wedding took place either. He did not get to bind your blood and claim that at least some dragon blood flowed through you now.
A dream he had since he was a boy was thrown out of the window the second he entered the Great Sept of Baelor and draped a cape over your shoulders instead. His Houses sigil was embroidered into it, but he couldn't help but think that you were an imposter amongst his kin.
He performed his duties that night and felt slighted when no child bloomed. He didn't visit your bed again.
It wasn't until Ashford Meadow that he finally slept beside you, forced to share a chamber.
A tourney for Lady Gwin Ashfords nameday was held in the Reach. Neighbors to the Stormlands, the journey had not been long nor tiring.
Prince Baelor and Prince Valarr rode south to join their family as well.
When Maekar left to search for his missing sons, Aerion's front finally dropped.
No longer having to deceive his father, he drove his lance through the jugular of a horse, resulting in its death and the broken leg of its rider.
That night, he broke a puppeteers fingers.
A "mockery", he claimed.
A "veiled attack" on house Targaryen.
A simple hedge knight challenged him, and the Prince would not forget that.
By the next morn, the first Trial of Seven since Maegor the Cruel was conducted.
"Fear not for me, wife." Aerion had told you when he was dressing in his armor, voice mocking. "The God's rule in my favor. They know who the true champion is."
If only Aerion actually believed in those God's.
The Trial started with a shock. Hand of the King, heir to the throne, Prince Baelor joined the opposing side, fighting against his two nephews and younger brother.
The horn sounded, and horses startled.
It was a foggy day, and the silver metal of each fighter's armor left it easy to mistake one for another. Aerion's spiked visage stood out amongst the others, even as he rolled about in mud.
Competitors fell, and others persevered.
Aerion's screams were heard when a sword caught near his groin, slicing through a weak spot in his armor. When he thought he killed the hedge knight, Ser Duncan rose again.
In the end, beaten beyond belief, Aerion was forced to withdraw his accusations, lest he succumb to a worser fate.
No real consequence came from the grounds until Prince Baelor fell, skull caved in by his own brothers mace.
Those in attendance took a pause.
In a land he did not hail from, Baelors body was laid to rest. He should have been back in Kings Landing or even Dorne, not in Ashford Meadow. Instead, his pyre was built the day after his death.
Nobody but the Septon spoke, wishing the man well in his transition to the afterlife.
Maekar, beaten and bruised, stood like a statue, unaware that his brothers last words were praises of how strong he could be. His mace struck true, and his big brother suffered because of it.
At the end of the service, only Valarr lingered.
You joined your good father and his sons back to the castle, observing the glum atmosphere as lesser Lords and Ladies packed up to leave the grounds.
The Tourney had ended.
Before the procession, Maekar had sat silent in the room while Aerion rested in a milk of poppy haze. By Baelors funeral, his last sip of the elixir had worn off while he was alone. He was awake, aching beyond belief with no help.
Daring to set your eyes upon your mangled husband, the door opened with a creak. The hinges were not oiled as well as the ones in Summerhall.
The Prince could not turn his head, laid in bed with the sheets just above his sternum, his swollen eyes were set upon the ceiling.
He was gnarled with open gashes upon his face, bruises along his forehead, and matching black eyes. Never had you seen him like this.
Your hand raised, covering your mouth as you stood over him. It was a ghastly sight, one you were sure he would not have wanted you to see. He did not want to be vulnerable with the likes of you around. It was why you had not visited him the day before.
His dry lips parted, parched for water, but also reacting to his obscured vision of you.
"Is it the Mother or the Maiden who looks down upon me?" He rasped, speaking words you had not expected. His jaw barely moved, likely sore. "Mayhaps the Gods are cruel and such a beautiful sight is really the Stranger..."
Never had Aerion described you as such.
Your mourning clothes were nothing far from the colors of his house, which you were often forced to wear. You had not expected to be attending a funeral and were unprepared when it came to it.
Surely, Aerion was jesting. It was like him to jape about such a thing, especially when Baelor had gone against him. He likely thought his uncle deserved it.
"I ache, my Lady..." He whispered then, eyebrows stringing together.
"You are healing, husband." Lord Ashfords Maesters had attended to him, and his wounds were clean, but the stench of festering flesh permeated around the chamber.
His features softened. "What?"
"You are bruised. And your leg..." You trailed off, unable to truly speak of the extent of his injuries when Maekar was the only one to truly know. Too close to his manhood with the possibility of permanently altering his gait.
"No," He tried to shake his head, but he did it with a slowness that showed the ache. "Husband. You called me husband."
Confusion struck you then. You had referred to him with the title since you wed him.
His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "My lady, I do not recall having ever seen your face before..."
You had never seen him so unguarded, so soft. Now, he claimed to have never seen you before. This time, your eyebrows furrowed. "I am your wife, Aerion. We wed late last spring. Do you truly not remember?"
You were dumbfounded upon hearing such a thing. Could Aerion be toying with you again? Or was this a serious result of the Trial?
"I am wed to you?" He questioned, his lilt gentle. Slowly, his split lips spread into a subtle smile. "Truly, my lady?"
Your head nodded, and your hand lifted, hovering, hesitating to touch the one he had resting on his abdomen.
"Yes..." You breathed.
He sighed loud enough for you to hear, looking as if his smile would widen, only for his face to twist up. His jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared while his upper lip curled.
All he knew was that he was in pain. He recalled no dragons. No blood purity.
"Do you require milk of the poppy?" Your eyes darted to the bedside table, where there was no more of the suppressant. "I will alert the Maester. Please wait here, my prince."
You were unaccustomed when it came to taking care of your husband, but when that same confused tone left his lips, you paused.
"Prince?"
Aerion often took arrogant pride in his title. He thought it to be well deserved for someone like him. The three Conquerors paved this path for dragons and in turn— him. He would not let anyone forget that.
Your skin finally met his own when your hand settled over the back of his wrist, barely touching it.
"Need you anything, husband?" Your voice was nothing more than a murmur, wary of this forgetfulness.
He continued to stare up at you before attempting to shake his head again. "Nay.... I think I would quite like to keep looking at you."
You nodded and brought a chair closer to his bed, making promises to stay by his side, watching over this alternate of your husband. A version of him you had never once seen, but would cherish.
You brought his ailment to the attention of the Maesters and helped feed Aerion more suppressants. You helped him into robes when the family had to depart from Ashford Meadow and kept a keen eye on him as he scowled from the front of the wheelhouse.
When the idea of sending this vulnerable version of Aerion to Lys was spoken by Maekar, you protested with tears in your eyes. In the end, Aerion gained his lucid state back, reminding you just how monstrous he truly was. Horrified by his recollection of softness, his tongue was sharper than a blade.
He was shipped off the second his deepest gash scarred.
A/n: I have wips for Maekar, Daeron, Aerion, and Valarr. I need motivation. Omg. This is why I was on break for two years. :P
Summary: You and Baelor are given a second chance—one neither of you expected, and neither of you were meant to have. The first time, duty kept you apart. This time, you choose each other despite it.
But when he is drawn into defending a hedge knight, you’re forced to confront how fragile that chance is—and how much you’re willing to give to keep him safe.
Pairing: Husband! Baelor x Wife! reader
WC: 8.9k
Warning: 18+, smut, pregnancy, mentions of violence and gore, family drama, complicated relationship with maekar, second chance, betrayal, mentions of sacrifice, non-canon,mentions of being a young widow (before meeting baelor again), targaryen family stress.
part 1/2| part two
Growing up, you always kept yourself busy. Your fingers were never idle as you didn’t much care for the feeling of not doing anything. Your ladies in waiting always wanted to talk about men and betrothal prospects, but you cared not about those things. You always focused on studying your histories, family lineage, learning about old valyria, and anything else that mattered.
Your cousins were the only two people who could keep you distracted and make you forget your studies. Baelor and Maekar, two different sides of a coin and two people that you loved dearly. They were who you could always confide in and run to when you needed anyone.
No one batted an eye at your relationship with them over the years, despite the obvious deep connection that had been building. You did not just love them as cousins and they did not just love you that way either. You loved them both in different ways and even kissed both of them, but your connection with Baelor was always deeper.
He was what you needed and what you wanted.
The two of you would often sit about and discuss your family and certain histories, it would always feel like the conversation would never end. With Maekar, he was not interested in those kinds of conversations— he craved intimacy and quietness. He did not truly understand you and your mind.
While learning, you got hands-on experience helping wounded knights after tourneys and on the battlefield. You learned what herb did what, how to neatly stitch the skin, what pastes worked on wounds, and how to be of use. You found another way to keep your hands from being idle and your from mind thinking of Baelor. Both you and Baelor knew that eventually things between the two of you would come to a head, but it did not stop either of you.
You loved him and he loved you.
You lost your maiden hood to him, you fell deeper with him as the days passed.
It wasn’t until he approached you in the courtyard that things changed.
“Baelor, what’s wrong?” You asked, your eyes looking at his somber facial expression.
He gave a half convincing smile, fidgeting with the ring on his finger.
“My father has proposed a marriage alliance between me and a woman from House Dondarrion.”
“Oh.. that is great news then. Congratulations, Baelor.” You spoke, your voice shaky.
He grabbed your hand, his mismatched eyes scanning yours.
“Do not pretend with me, my love. I do not want this anymore than you do.”
You took a deep breath as you did not want to cry in front of him.
“I am happy for you, cousin.”
His brows furrowed and his feelings were clearly hurt.
“Cousin?—“
“I will have the betrothal stopped. I will marry you in secret, if I must.”
You gave an insincere smile and held his hand.
“It is your duty, Baelor.. I am happy for you and I hope that she is wonderful.”
You pulled your hand from his and cried on the steps of the keep. You did not want to let him go, you wanted to be selfish and marry him or escape to Lys. Unfortunately, he needed to do what was asked of him.
You avoided him for a bit, but he did not let go of the idea— so you left. It broke your heart to leave him, but his betrothed deserved a chance at his love.
Baelor would often send you ravens, but you would ignore them— you had to. You spoke to Maekar on rare occasions, but not often.
Years had passed by and your feelings had dulled, but never truly left. You sent Baelor ravens congratulating him on the births of his sons and condolences when Jena died. Your heart broke for him, as you knew that this would change him.
Several years had passed with yourself becoming a widow, before you and Baelor would see each other again. It was as if no time had passed between the two of you, the warmth was still there. You both talked about your experiences being married and then being alone for sometime after their death. Baelor mentioned his children and Maekar’s, how they drove him mad. You were unlucky in marriage and did not conceive due to your husband’s death early on. It was no secret that it upset you for a bit, but you did learn to live with it.
What started as small conversations and walks in the garden together, led to dinner in his chambers, and then letting him make love to you the way he had been dreaming of.
You loved your late husband, he was a good man— but you never loved him the way that you did Baelor. A feeling that made you feel guilty constantly during your time together. Everytime you laughed too hard, kissed him, let his hands curl around your body at night—you felt guilty.
Guilty because you knew deep down inside that your late husband never stood a chance with you, not in the way he deserved.
You had no intention of getting married again, or even seeing Baelor again— but he was determined to not let you slip through his fingers. The two of you had a second chance and he was going to take it. It took a little amount of convincing, but the two of you got married. A chance at love again with the person you should’ve married to begin with.
You were the happiest that you had been in a long time. He loved you in a way that was hard to put into words, a way that made you look forward to every morning and night with him. Your marriage was easily accepted by the realm and the family, which was your biggest worry. Maekar was distant with you and did not speak much on his feelings, he just said that he was happy for you and his brother. He wanted you to be happy and cared for, in whatever way that took hold.
Three years later..
The sun had begun to peek through the closed shutters, the slits of light shining onto the floor. The birds were singing and you could hear the soft thuds of footsteps in the hall.
Baelor’s arm was draped over your stomach, his head against the back of your neck.
It was the day that your family had to start your travels to Ashford and you wanted him to get as much sleep as he could— he would need it. You slowly pulled the silk sheets from around you, trying to be as slow and unnoticeable as possible. You began to slowly move his arm and slip from under his grasp, until he pulled you back close to him.
“Where do you think that you’re going?” He grumbled under his breath.
You let out a sigh of defeat, “I was trying to let you rest. I did not mean to wake you.”
He kissed the back of your neck, his fingers holding your belly.
“You did not wake me, my love. It’s time for me to get up anyhow, we have quite a busy day.”
He took in the scent of your skin, the honey and lavender soap still strong against it.
“I will have the staff bring you some Elderberry tea with your breakfast today.”
Your fingers rubbed against his, your brow raised.
“I did not ask for tea?”
“No, you did not. However, you were restless last night and you need rest. I want you to rest as much as you can on our way to Ashford.” He replied.
“I will be fine.” You protested.
He moved in the bed, bringing his head to your round baby bump.
“You’re growing our daughter. She needs a healthy mother and a well rested one.”
He placed kisses to your belly, his hand rubbing against it.
“You have no idea if it’s a girl.” You laugh.
He moves back up to your face and presses a gentle kiss to your lips.
“Yes, it is. I can feel it.”
He moves the sheets and begins to climb out of the bed as you grab his hand.
“Wait, stay in bed with me a moment longer.” You asked.
“As you wish.” He smirks.
It was moments like these where you couldn’t believe that there were years where he wasn’t in your life.
Your nightgown showed more of your chest than it should’ve and Baelor took notice, his mismatched eyes roaming your chest. Since the beginning of your pregnancy, your breasts had swelled and your hips had widened. It was impossible for any of your gowns to hide your figure and for him to not notice.
Your skin was smooth and glistening in the faint sunlight.
He pressed a small peck against your collarbone, his beard prickling your skin. His hands wrapped around your waist as he pulled you closer to him.
He placed another kiss against your skin, this kiss right atop of your breasts.
“Baelor.” You spoke softly.
“Yes, my love?” He replied, still placing kisses against your skin.
You pulled away from him, pulling the sheet over your exposed skin and feeling insecure.
He stared at you with a confused look, his hand reaching out to touch yours.
“My love, you don’t have to hide from me.”
“My body doesn’t look the same, Baelor.. it’s changed.” You spoke, your voice coming out small.
He crawled closer to you and pulled you into a kiss, his kiss soft and slow.
“I know, my darling. You have grown more beautiful by the day as you flourish growing our child. I love every bit of it and you.”
Your eyes water, his sweet words were exactly what you needed to hear.
You continue kissing him and helping pull your nightgown up for easy access.
“My beautiful wife.” He mumbled.
The heat between your legs began to build as you kissed him. It’d be a while before you’d get more time alone and you needed him.
His cock was already hard when he pulled his trousers off.
“I’ve been thinking of you and your sweet cunt for the last few nights.” He whispered into your ear as he climbed over you.
Without ripping your nightgown, he pulled down the top and exposed your breasts.
He dipped his head down and swirled his tongue around your nipple, the sensation making your back arch.
“Baelor.. please.” You moaned.
He loved when you’d whine and beg for him. He also loved how sensitive your body has been to his touch since you got pregnant.
His tongue and lips trailed back up to your mouth as he adjusted your legs.
“You want me to fill you?” He asked, his eyes watching you unravel.
You nodded.
He chuckled, “be good for me and use your words.”
“Please, Baelor—“
“Don’t tease.” You whined.
With one slow thrust, he pushed into you— making both of you gasp.
“God’s.” He groaned.
He loved to take his time with you, fucking you with long and deep strokes.
Your breath mingled as you took every inch of him.
“I love you.” You moaned.
His kiss with you deepened. “I love you too, my sweet dove.”
Your nails dug into his back and his name spilled from your lips. He was so deep inside you, the head of his cock was hitting the right spot.
“This.. feels so good.” You whimpered.
You could feel your peak coming faster than it normally did.
“I can feel you clenching around me, cum for me my love.”
The sound of your wet cunt being fucked filled the room.
You got closer and closer with each thrust, you legs wrapped around his waist and your toes curled.
His name came from your mouth on repeat and tears formed in your eyes as you reached your peak.
He kissed you, grunting in between. “That’s right, sweet dove. Just like that.”
“I’m so close.” He groaned.
He kept his pace and fucked you to the point of crying his name from pleasure.
His deep and guttural groan filled the air as his ropes of cum filled you. He continued to kiss you as he rode out his climax and fucked his cum deep inside you.
“You mean the world to me. I don’t know how I’d ever live without you.” He spoke.
After catching his breath, he gently pulled out and climbed out of bed. You no longer needed Elderberry tea as you were beginning to get sleepy now. He helped you clean yourself up as you could no longer see over your belly.
He kissed your belly with a chuckle, “I hope you’re okay in there.”
You smacked his arm.
Shortly after, the two of you began to bathe and get ready to leave in a bit.
The travel to Ashford was miserable for you as you could not get comfortable in the carriage or outside of it. You could not wait for it to be over and dreaded the way back before you had even gotten there. Baelor would sit in the carriage with you sometimes, but he mostly worried about you and the babe not getting rest.
To add to the tiresome situation, Daeron and Egg were not present at Ashford with everyone else. Another thing to worry everyone about.
“Spring rains have swollen many of our streams, perhaps the young princes have just been delayed?” Lord Ashford spoke as the four of you walked in.
You held your belly, wincing as you felt a sharp pain.
“Fuck me.. delayed? They’re not delayed.” Maekar complained.
You took off your cloak and handed it to the staff.
“Do not curse our gracious host.” Baelor sighed.
“Maekar!” You scolded.
“I said fuck me, not fuck him.” Maekar added.
You rolled your eyes and took a seat at the table, your feet hurt and you felt pressure in your belly.
Baelor stared at you and the grimace on your face, “are you okay?” He mouthed.
You nodded.
“Daeron belongs on a tourney field no more than Aerys or Rhaegal.” Baelor pointed out.
You giggled from your seat, grabbing Maekar’s attention.
“You find that amusing?” He asked.
“Not amusing, but true. A tourney will not fix his drinking.” You mentioned.
Maekar grabbed a few of the nuts from the bowl and sat down with a loud grunt.
“By which you mean, he’d sooner ride a whore than a horse?”
“She did not say that.” Baelor interjected.
A member of the staff brought you water as you sat there at the table.
“Thank you.” You spoke.
“You!—“
“Who are you and what do you mean by spying on us?” Maekar spoke loudly, getting up from his chair.
You glanced over the brim of your cup, trying to see who the man was.
It was a very tall man, broad shoulders, pale skin and short red hair. He said that his name was Duncan. He meant no harm, only wanted to bother your husband about being added to the list for the tourney. Once you realized the conversation was not of importance, you zoned out— trying to relax in your chair.
You absentmindedly laughed along with Maekar when Ser Duncan corrected Baelor on how many lances had been broken.
Baelor confirms that he would add him to the games, making him speechless.
“I wish you the best of luck, Ser Duncan. I can’t wait to see you out there.” You spoke with a smile.
He bowed. “Thank you, my lady and my prince.”
Maekar rolled his eyes.
“We get it, you’re grateful—now fuck off.”
You sighed, sipping more of your water.
“You must forgive my brother, ser. His sons went astray on the way here and he fears for them.”
Duncan was shocked.
“Oh, my lord. I trust that they shall not be found dead.”
You audibly laughed, “wow.”
Maekar sits up in his seat, a scowl on his face.
Ser Duncan left the room promptly afterwards and did not seem to see his statement as anything other than harmless.
“Why the fuck would he say that?” Maekar questioned.
“He meant nothing by it, clearly.” You replied.
Maekar grumbled something under his breath that you couldn’t make out.
Baelor reached out, placing his hand on your thigh. “My love, are you sure that you’re okay?”
You took a deep breath, your fingers curled around your belly.
“The babe is upset with me. They are kicking to their hearts desire.”
He grinned, placing his hand overtop of yours.
“Strong like her mother.”
“I want to lay down. I am exhausted.” You mentioned.
Baelor stood up from his seat, grabbing your hand and helping you up.
“Lord Ashford, if you’d be so kind— can you show me and my wife to our chambers?”
Lord Ashford basically started running to the front of the room, “of course.”
He brought you to the room you’d be staying in and your trunks were already inside.
“Where do you think Daeron and Egg are?” You asked as Baelor shut the door.
“I’m unsure, but I know they’re not far away from here.”
You slid your boots off, a sigh of relief leaving your mouth.
“I want to take a bath and go to sleep.”
He twisted his rings as you stood there scanning the room.
“I can have a bath arranged.”
You looked back at him, “Will you join me?”
He walked to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and belly.
“Unfortunately, I have a few things to take care of. I can join you some other time.”
You turned around facing him, a frown on your face.
“Okay.” You mumbled.
“If you are awake before supper, I will have time when you take another one.” Baelor mentioned.
You nodded as he placed a kiss onto your forehead.
“I will have a bath set up for you, but I have to leave.”
You gave him a kiss as he walked out of the room.
The room was smaller than you were used to, but it had a better view of the outside and a better fireplace. You were grateful for it and going to enjoy it, nonetheless.
Over the next few days, you had begun to get annoyed as you were hardly seeing your husband. By the time he’d crawl into bed with you, you were already asleep.
You missed him and his touch. You had decided to make it your mission to find him and have time with him.
Once you had gotten dressed, it felt as if you’d walked all over Ashford and there was no sign of your husband.
You decided to try the library before you’d go find Maekar and ask.
You opened the door to the library, the door shutting softly behind you. The smell of paper, ink, and something earthy overwhelms your nose— it almost makes you feel sick.
You walked, peeking through the long aisles and hoping to see your husband. Just as you were about to give up, you found him standing near a table and reading a scroll.
“Husband?” You whisper, catching his attention.
“My dear, is something wrong?” He asks, staring at you.
You slightly tilted your head in confusion. “No, I just wanted to see you.”
“I’m just reading over these scrolls, looking for a bit of information.” He mentioned, looking back down at the scroll.
You nodded, biting your lip and running your hands along his chest.
“I missed you, husband.”
He nodded absentmindedly. “Oh, is that so?”
“Yes, you’re always getting into bed so late and then you’re needed again early in the morning.”
“The perks of being a prince, my love.” He replied.
He was so invested in reading the scroll and not even looking up at you.
“Baelor?”
He glanced up from the scroll and saw your needy puppy dog eyes, the eyes that make him weak.
He set the scroll down and looked at you. “What’s the matter?”
You kissed him, your kiss shocking him as he glanced around with one eye to make sure that you’re alone.
“I told you that I’ve missed you.” You muttered.
He pulled away with a chuckle. “I understand, I do— however we cannot have that kind of affection here.”
You began to pout.
“You haven’t touched me since we’ve been here.. I want you to fuck me.”
He rubbed your arm. “I will.”
You began kissing him again, feral and needy. Seemingly, catching him off guard — but he welcomes it.
“You want me to take you in here?” He questioned.
You moaned, your lips not leaving his.
“What would someone think if they walked in and saw that?” He asked.
You pulled away from him.
“They’ll think that you love your wife even still as she’s heavily pregnant. Unless, you do not want to?”
He kissed you, beginning to undo his laces.
“I want to, I just don’t ever want you in a compromising position should someone come in.”
He turned you around, bending you over the table. He pulled your gown up and tore your tights.
“Baelor.” You whispered, shocked he tore your tights.
“Shh.” He commanded.
He spit into his hand and rubbed it onto your already soaked cunt. His head rubbed against your entrance, making your legs weak.
He pushed his cock inside of you, your fingers gripping the table as pushes in every inch.
Your eyes rolled back into your head from the pleasure.
His hands gripped your hips as he pounded into you, leaving you speechless.
“You are so tight.” He growled.
Soft moans spilled from your mouth as he fucked you, turning you into a blubbering mess.
“Oh, Baelor.” You cried.
He covered your mouth to keep you from being loud.
“My sweet wife, you cannot be loud.”
It felt so good, better than it normally does. It could’ve been because of the thrill of it all, but it was pure ecstasy.
The way his cock filled you, the way that you gripped it as if you were made for it. Your knuckles were turning colors from how hard you gripped the edges.
“Fuck.” You whimpered.
“I’m going to cum, sweet dove.”
Your breaths were ragged as he pounded into you, your pussy stinging from the stretch.
He groaned, his moan being caught in his mouth as he slammed into you one last time.
You could feel his cum fill your cunt, the warm sensation bringing a smile to your face. You did not mind that you did not orgasm, you just wanted to feel him inside you.
He pulled out of you and pulled your gown down while he tucked himself back into his trousers.
His chest rising and falling fast. “I was not too rough, was I?”
You shook your head with a smile,” not at all.”
Baelor glanced around to make sure that you were still alone. He pulled you into him and pressed a kiss to your lips.
“You are a naughty thing, completely irresistible.” He chuckled.
He pulled away and grabbed his scrolls, preparing to leave.
“I will see you for supper.”
You smiled, feeling satisfied and confident. “Okay.”
As he walked out, you decided to find your own scrolls and books to look at. You’ve found yourself to be very bored as Baelor has been busy.
The baby kicked hard, taking your breath and making you hunch over.
“Your kicks are fierce.” You mumble to yourself.
You walked around the library, rubbing your belly with one hand and holding things in the other. The library was one of your favorite places to be, there’s always an abundance of chances to extend your knowledge. Once you grabbed everything that you wanted, you made your way to your chambers — happier than ever.
You took a quick bath to clean up and began reading a scroll that mentioned the medicine options for the people in Tyrosh. They were a bit different than what was offered in Kings landing. It made you want to talk to Baelor about it.
Once supper was over, the high that you once rode on earlier was gone. You sat at the table with your husband, Maekar, Aerion, and Lord Ashbury as Ser Duncan requested an audience. All four of you sat at the table and listened to him recount the events as Aerion had assaulted a woman for a puppet show, and broke her fingers.
“You broke the fingers of a puppeteer? An innocent?” You questioned.
Aerion continued to crack nuts with his knife as all of you awaited his answer.
The servant came around the table with a pitcher of wine, pouring in each one of the goblets. You politely held your hand over yours, your eyes still lingering on Ser Duncan.
“A trial by combat. I request a trial by combat.” Dunk spoke confidently.
Your husband sighed, his fingers toying with his rings.
“I refuse.” Aerion spoke.
“You cannot refuse.” Maekar gritted.
“Any knight accused of a crime has the right to demand as such.” Baelor added.
Aerion sat there in thought as he loudly chewed the nuts.
“A trial of seven, that is my right I do believe.” He spoke.
You glanced at him, a lump in your throat at the idea.
“A trial of seven, Aerion? Are you mad?” You asked, your anger detectable in the question.
Baelor glanced at you and placed his hand over yours on the chair, trying to calm you.
Maekar looked around in confusion. “What the fuck is a trial of seven?”
The table went silent as all of you glanced looks of disbelief. Ser Duncan stood in the middle of the room and was confused as well, waiting for a response to Maekar’s question.
Your husband explained what it is and how it worked, undoubtedly with more patience than you’d ever have.
Maekar shrugged. “Well, if it was the Andals.”
“I’m sorry, your grace.. the old man wasn’t much for praying. What is a trial of seven?” Ser Duncan asks, still confused.
“The Andals believed that if seven champions fought, the gods being honored would be more likely to intervene and see the guilty party punished.” You spoke.
Maekar silently questioned Aerion and his motives for asking for a trial of seven— something seldom invoked and a six thousand year old belief.
You looked at Baelor and he can see the panic all over your face. His fingers rubbed yours, “it will be okay.” He whispered.
“Ser Duncan must pay for each of his crimes against us, or would we live a matter of Targaryen of honour in doubt?” Aerion questioned.
Your hand smacked the table in annoyance, startling Lord Ashbury.
“Do not speak to any of us about Honor, Aerion. You are asking to risk fourteen lives over your nonsense, cowering behind an ancient tradition.” You remind him.
“Possibly so, but he has to pay.” Aerion doubles down.
“This is fucking nonsense.” Maekar cursed.
“Is it? I don’t believe so.” Aerion answered.
He brought down his knife on a nut and sent the nut flying across the table. With no remorse, he pointed below and signaled for Lord Ashby to get it.
Your husband and Maekar sighed in unison.
Maekar stood up with a scowl on his face and yanked Aerion from his seat.
“Come here, idiot.” He grumbled, pushing Aerion into the hall.
“Aerion is well within his rights. A trial of seven must be held at dawn.” Baelor mentioned.
Ser Duncan’s brows raised.
“What does that mean?—“
“I must fight seven men?” He questioned.
“Don’t be a fool, Ser Duncan. It is seven against seven.” You assured him.
“You must find six other knights to fight beside you.” Baelor noted.
“But I have no one else!” Ser Duncan stressed.
“If the cause is just, then men will fight for it. If not, it will be because you are guilty.” Lord Ashbury spoke.
You held you belly and slowly began to get up from your seat, Baelor standing with you and holding your hand.
The two of you walked to your chambers, you just a step ahead of him.
You flung open the door to the room, Baelor gently shutting it behind you as you paced.
“A trial of seven? He’s going to get people killed!” You fumed.
Baelor stood there, his lips pursed and his mind elsewhere.
“Unfortunately, that is his right.”
“You know that your brother will defend him and that he will also drag Daeron into it as well.” You pointed out.
Baelor walked to you, placing his hands on your arms and stopping you in your place.
“My love, do not overwork yourself over this. I don’t want you to upset the babe.”
You scoffed. “She’s already upset.”
His lips curved in a half smirk. “Ah. A she, is it? Earlier you told me that you were unsure.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to not allow him to change the subject.
“I am not amused.”
He pulled you into a hug, placing a kiss on your head.
“I know—“
“Everything will be okay. I’m sure my brother will be able to hold his own.”
You took a deep breath, looking up into his eyes and giving him a kiss.
“Please, do not join.”
“I won’t.” He promised.
He helped you get undressed and watched as you crawled into bed. As you laid there, he got undressed and laid beside you.
His fingers found you farther from him on the opposite side of the bed.
“Come closer.” He asked softly.
You moved closer to him, your back against his chest as his fingers curled around your belly.
“I do not want you to continue worrying about the trial. It is something out of our control, but keeping you and our child safe with no stress is in my control.”
You put your hand over his, allowing yourself to relax. You gasp as the baby kicks.
“Someone is awake.” Baelor jokes.
A flicker of happiness takes over you and your worries for a moment.
“She’s normally not too active around this time.”
He kisses your shoulder.
“I cannot wait until her arrival.”
Both of you had given up on considering a boy, as Baelor is adamant that it’s a girl.
“I want to name her Baela.” You admit.
His fingers stiffen around your belly in surprise. “Oh?”
You slightly turn your head, your brow raised.
“If that is alright with you?”
He kisses your cheek with a smile on his face.
“That is quite alright—“
“Baela Targaryen, a name fit for a princess.”
You turned to face him, your belly pressed against his.
“I love you, Baelor.”
He kissed you, his hands on your face— pulling you in deeper.
“I love you so much, my sweet dove. I had not known true love until I got a second chance with you and for that, I’m grateful.”
You pressed your forehead into his chest, snuggling into him and his warmth. Within a few moments of laying like that, you had fallen asleep.
The morning sun had not risen, in fact it had rained during the night— leaving everything damp and muddy. Not even the clouds could be seen due to the mist that had surrounded the area. The cold front had settled in like a cough in your lungs.
As you started to wake up, you could feel the warmth in the room from the fireplace.
Your hand instinctively moved around the silk sheets in search of Baelor’s warmth, but instead you found his side of the bed cool and empty.
Your eyes opened, the sound of bustling outside of the door as people prepared for the trial of seven. You got up from the bed and got dressed, preparing to leave your chambers.
“I guess, we shall go find your father.” You spoke looking down at your belly.
As you walked out of your chambers, stationed outside of the door was your sworn protector— Ser Lyle.
Your brow raised as he had no need to be stationed there.
“Oh. Goodmorning, Ser Lyle.”
He bowed. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Why are you standing here?” You asked nicely.
“It was Prince Baelor's orders.” He admitted.
You couldn’t mask the confusion on your face. “Alright. Have you seen my husband?”
He shook his head.
“Not since earlier, my lady.”
You began to walk away.
“Well, I guess that you will be walking with me as I try to find him.”
You and Ser Lyle walked down the busy halls in search of Baelor, but there still was no sign of him. No sign of him, Aerion, Maekar, or any of your family— which worried you.
You finally found him in the dining hall, talking to the servants — but instead of a feeling of relief, your blood ran cold.
He noticed you out of the corner of his eye and watched as your hand held your belly.
You stared blankly as your husband finished his conversation with the servant, standing in front of you in armor.
“Baelor—“
“What are you doing?”
He walked towards with calculated steps.
“Ser Duncan needs another knight.”
You brows furrowed, “how is that your responsibility?”
He grabbed your hands into his.
“They will kill him, if I do not help. It is my duty to protect the innocent the same way that he protected the puppeteer.”
You scoffed, pulling your hands away from his.
“Do not risk yourself for this foolishness, please.”
He brought his hand up to your cheek, rubbing away the tear that fell.
“It will be alright, my love. I’m just merely helping keep Ser Duncan alive and my brother away from him.”
“I do not want you out there at all. You should be with me in the stands—“
“Your brother has something to prove, you do not.”
He puts his hands on your belly, rubbing it and looking at your glassy eyes.
“I will be back and unscathed for both you and her.”
Your tears began to fall, your nerves now getting the best of you.
“Please, Baelor.” You beg.
He placed a kiss on your lips, your tears wetting his face.
“I must go, my love.”
He walked out of the room, leaving you standing there. You winced in pain as you felt a sharp pain in your stomach.
“Ah!”
Ser Lyle runs to your side. “Are you alright?”
You took a deep breath and nodded.
Baelor had decided to join the stupid trial of seven after he swore that he wouldn’t, which upset and angered you beyond belief. You loved him dearly, but you just wanted him to be a coward this once.
You and Ser Lyle made your way outside, waking through the dewy grass and mud. You mounted your horse, confusing Ser Lyle.
“My lady?”
You held your stomach, the pain continuing. “I need to speak with my husband.”
Ser Lyle mounted his horse and followed you.
The mist was thick, covering everything the eye could see and wetting your clothes like steam. The crowd in the box above cheered with excitement still as your husband said that he’d take Ser Duncan’s side.
The more pain that you felt in your belly, the more that your horse Maggie got upset. It was as if she could feel what you felt.
“Easy, girl.” You spoke.
When you reached the doors to the field, Ser Lyle got off his horse and climbed the stairs to the stands. He spoke to Lord Ashbury, who agreed to allow you on the field for a few minutes.
He came back down and got onto his horse, your anger written on your face.
The heavy doors in front of you opened, catching people’s attention. Baelor’s sentence is interrupted when he sees you riding across the field towards Maekar with Ser Lyle.
Maekar was in formation with his men as you rode up to him, his brows beginning to furrow.
“Woman are you mad? What are you doing out here?”
“I need to talk to you.” You spoke.
You and him moved away from the group.
“Did you know that he was going to do this?” You questioned sternly.
He looked at you, a scowl on his face but his inevitable softness towards you being apparent.
“No, I would’ve told you.”
“You should’ve had Aerion withdraw his ludicrous accusations.” You mentioned.
He pulled his shoulders back in offense.
“That low level hedge knight beat my son.”
You scoffed. “After he broke the fingers of an innocent woman, would you have not done the same thing if you saw that?”
Baelor watched the interaction between you two, it doesn’t look heated— but it seems as if it’s getting there.
“Someone’s in trouble.” Lyonel teased.
Maekar rolled his eyes at your question, “it doesn’t matter. We are the blood of the dragon, he cannot do that.”
You nodded, trying to maintain your composure.
“You even dragged Daeron out here?—“
“You’re willing to allow your son to risk the safety of this family when you know he’s wrong?”
Maekar held the reins to his horse, gritting his teeth.
“You know what Aerion is, you know that this is wrong— but I presume that he matters over everyone else. Consequences be damned, we’re all expendable for your precious Aerion.” You spat.
Maggie was neighing and becoming more upset as the moments go by.
“Don’t be stupid, woman.” He replied.
“I’m not stupid. I have a child on the way and my husband is out here risking his life for this nonsense.”
“He doesn’t have to be out here, but even then— I will not allow anyone to hurt him. I’d never do that to you or him.” He confessed.
Baelor rode over to you and Maekar, approaching closer as the conversation ended.
“If he gets hurt, because of this chip on your shoulder and needing to prove yourself— I will never forgive you.”
You rode away from Maekar and met Baelor at the center of the field.
“Wife, what are you doing here?”
You held your belly, a frown on your face as you experienced more sharp pain.
His expression softened. “Are you okay? Do we need to get the Maester?”
You gritted your teeth, “I’m fine.”
You grabbed his hand as your horses stood beside each other.
“Please.. please be safe.”
He nodded, giving you a rather affectionate kiss in front of everyone.
“I will. This will be over and we’ll be in bed laughing about it later.”
“I love you.” You replied.
He kissed your hand. “I love you most.”
You took a second and began to ride off the field with Ser Lyonel.
Your stomach was is knots and nothing about this situation felt good or right.
The wind blew as you and Ser Lyonel made your way off the field and back through the gates. The men begin lining up for the first charge and you cannot stop crying. This entire thing feels strange to you and you cannot calm your nerves about it.
You and Ser Lyonel dismounted your horses and walked up the stairs to the stands. You wiped your eyes and take a seat beside Egg.
Egg grabbed your hand as he could see that you were nervous and had been crying. All you could do was pray to the God’s that your family walked away unscathed from this nonsense.
It felt as if everything around you has begun to move slow, like time itself is stopping.
The sound of the horn blew and their horses started charging.
You saw that Ser Duncan had immediately been wounded by Aerion and knocked off his horse. The sight of the immediate brutality made your stomach churn.
Baelor saved him from being tag teamed by Maekar, thank the gods. You couldn’t and wouldn’t watch this knight be killed without a chance.
Daeron was hit in the helm and knocked off his horse, laying unconscious on the field.
Raymun and Steffon Fossaway began to fight and it did not look good at all. Eggs small hands gripped yours as he saw Ser Duncan clearly losing to Aerion.
You prayed for this to be over, it was such foolishness.
Everyone in the stands held their breath as they saw Ser Duncan cut Aerion’s thigh and heard him scream in agony. Maekar rushed to save him and even killed Lyonel Baratheon’s horse— but he’s still held back.
You let go of Egg’s hand as the pain in your belly continued..
You were too busy wincing in pain to pay attention to Ser Duncan collapsing on the ground.
“Get up—“
“Get up, Ser Duncan!” Egg pleaded.
The wind blew harder than it had, blowing some of your stray hairs into your eyes.
You couldn’t stand to watch anymore of the trial and got up from your seat, making your way onto the stairs. Your body swayed on the stairs with the wind as if you were dizzy, Ser Lyle grabbed you out of instinct.
“Princess, are you okay?”
You nodded, grabbing the rail. “I am alright, it’s just the babe being stubborn today.”
“You should go see the Maester.” He mentioned.
“I will once this is over, I just want Baelor with me.”
He let go of you as you steadied yourself. “Very well, princess.”
Your nerves increased as you stood there, because you couldn’t see what was going on. The longer it went on the more unwell you felt.
A few minutes later the horn blared and you felt like you could finally breathe again. You didn’t care about anything else, you just wanted your husband and Maekar safe.
The walk down the stairs felt like an eternity, but you made it to the bottom and waited for the doors to open.
As you waited, there was so much commotion and so many people walking about that you moved to the side to get out of the way. Once it cleared up, you walked around with Ser Lyle and looked for your husband.
He was nowhere to be found until you looked in one of the tents. He stood in front of you with Maekar, Egg, Ser Duncan, and Raymun Fossaway.
When you walked in, Raymun stiffly and painfully bowed.
The tent smelled of sweat, mud, and copper— an awful combination.
Baelor smiled at the sight of you, his bloodied helm and armor.
“My sweet wife, what are you doing here?”
You hugged him despite his dirtied armor. “I’m so mad at you. I was scared for you.”
You looked up at him and pressed a kiss to his lips.
“I am fine, it was nothing that I couldn’t handle.”
You pulled back from him and wiped the tears that pooled in the corner of your eyes.
“Where are Aerion and Daeron?” You asked Maekar as he pulled his helm off.
“They are being seen by the Maester. They will need rest to heal, but they will be fine.”
“That’s good news.” You replied, rubbing your sweaty palms on your hand.
You held your belly. “I need to go see the Maester as well, I’ve been having pain.”
“Okay, I will get my helm off and follow you.”
“Maekar, will you help me get my helm off? the visor is cracked.”
Maekar looked at him with his head tilted.
“What are you talking about? You don’t have a visor.”
You watched as you were confused as well, because he never had a visor on that helm.
“Ah.” He mumbled.
Baelor glanced at his hands. “My fingers feel like wood.”
Maekar rolled his eyes, “it sounds like you need to rest.”
Baelor grinned.
“My helm is on pretty good due to his mace.”
Your brows furrowed, “you hit him with your fucking mace?”
“It was an accident.” Maekar spoke plainly.
Baelor looked at you as if he was in a distant place and not in the room with you.
“Baelor?”
He struggled to look at you and seemed confused.
“Maekar, don’t take his helm off.”
Something was wrong, very wrong and you felt it in your bones. You walked around his helm to see if there was any blood or anything wrong. You had seen plenty of accidents before in battles and didn’t want to take it off, if you weren’t sure.
There wasn’t anything obvious to the eye at first, until you saw it. Bright red blood dripped down his neck from his helm.
“Oh, God’s.” You mumbled.
“Baelor, my love— are you okay?” You questioned, scanning his face.
“I.. I am.” He struggled.
“What is going on?” Maekar asked, a frown on his face.
“How hard did you hit him with that fucking mace, you idiot?”
He just stared at you, reluctant to answer.
“I’m not sure.”
Your eyes started to water from sheer panic and worry.
“Can you see how many fingers I’m holding up?” You fretted.
Baelor stared blankly. “Three, my dove.”
Your face dropped in horror and so did Maekar’s, you were holding up five fingers.
“Get him to our chambers now!” You yelled.
“Do not let him lie down and please do not take his helm off as it might kill him.” You mention, your words filled with anger.
Maekar looked at you with more fear than you’ve ever seen.
“What?”
“I have seen so many head injuries on the battlefield. Him not knowing how many fingers I’m holding up is a bad sign. A bad fucking sign, Maekar.” You choked.
You pointed your finger in his face. “I warned you. I fucking warned you!”
Ser Lyle and Raymun got him into your chambers.
You followed them and had Maekar fetch a blacksmith along with the Maester.
Baelor’s eyes were open, but he was pretty much out of it. His eyes didn’t even seem like his and he was not saying anything.
You shut the door and along with Ser Lyle’s help, you stripped him out of the rest of his armor— examining his body.
There was some decent bruising and few cuts, but nothing that is dangerous.
“How do you want me to lay him on the bed, Princess?”
You sighed, wiping the sweat from your forehead and stripping the bed down to its sheets. Your mind raced to think of an answer and the correct approach.
“I don’t know where he hit him.. but the blood was coming down the back of his neck—“
“Lay him on his stomach.”
Getting him onto the bed was difficult as he had gone unconscious. The pain in your belly had gotten worse as the time passed by, it was radiating up your back and down your legs.
The room felt small, you felt like it was crumbling.
Maekar rushed in with the Maester and the Blacksmith.
“What can I do to help, my lady?” The Maester asked.
You paced, holding your belly.
“I need warm water, needle, thread, and towels—“
“We’re going to cut his helm off strip by strip until we understand the damage.”
The Maester was shocked, but brought the supplies to the bed.
“Have you done this before, my lady?”
You shook your head no.
You went into the corner and prayed— asking the seven for their guidance, steady hands, and quick thinking.
Maekar and Ser Lyle stood to the side watching as you prepared everything. Once your hands were rinsed off and your sleeves were pushed up, you sat on the bed to begin.
You held your breath as each strip was cut, scared of what you’d see. You put your ear closer to his mouth to hear him breathing, making sure that everything was okay.
The blacksmith had cut all of the pieces off except one and the fear had settled deep inside your veins.
You paused for a minute and took a deep breath. The windows were open to provide full sunlight and it still didn’t feel like enough.
Your hands shook some as you gently and just barely raised the last piece of his helm to get a good look.
A gasp left your throat as you gently placed it back down and ran to the window to throw up.
Out of all the things that you could’ve imagined, that was the worst case scenario.
Tears fell from your eyes as you wiped your mouth.
“Is it bad?” Maekar asked, his voice small like a child.
“The spike on the helm is embedded inside—“
You could see his heart drop in his facial expression.
“I have to gently pull it out, without pulling his skull and brain out of place..”
“I can see his brain, Maekar.” You sobbed.
You gave yourself a few minutes to cry, getting it all out so that you could be focused and do this as efficiently as possible.
A few deep breaths and remembering that you wanted to save your husband.
You slowly pulled the helm out, blood flowing out as you did. You placed the towel onto the back of his head and laid the piece of helm on the table. Luckily enough, there was no brain matter present on it.
The blood did slow down after a minute or so and you began sewing his skull into place, your hands shaking as you pull the thread.
It took you twenty minutes, but you finished. Once you finished the Maester cleaned around his wound and bandaged his head up.
Your husband is the best part of you and this family. If he dies, then everyone falls apart. Your family wouldn’t survive without him
Maekar tried talking to you, but you avoided him at all costs. His unruly son is the cause for all of this and you couldn’t bear to look at him.
The Maester applauded you for your thinking and skill as things could’ve been totally different. He reminded you that it is a waiting game as of right now and we wouldn’t know until he woke up, if he did.
That was the part that made it unbearable, he could be crippled in every mental capacity after this along with other things.
You didn’t leave his side at all and after a few hours, you safely flipped him onto his back. You spoke to him and told him how much you loved him and laid your head on his chest.
By day five, his heart rate had slowed tremendously and his breathing was shallow. The Maester confirmed your worst fear, he was dying and it could be any moment.
You grabbed your wrapped book from your trunk, placing it beside him.
“I won’t let you die. I cannot.” You mumbled.
You had made your peace with the situation and accepted what you were going to do. You summoned Maekar and had him come to your chambers.
“Has something changed?” He asked, a scared look on his face.
You shook your head.
“No, but it can at any moment.”
You grabbed a towel and opened the mason jar in your hand.
“Let me see your hand.”
He absentmindedly gave you his hand as he stared at Baelor lying in the bed.
You rubbed his palm and cut it with your knife, startling him.
“What the fuck?”
You held his hand over the jar and watched as the blood dripped in.
“Don’t be a baby.” You scolded him.
“Why the fuck did you cut me?” He questioned.
Once you had enough blood, you pressed the cloth into his hand and repeated the same thing with your own hand.
His brows furrowed seeing you do these things.
“What are you doing?” He asked.
“Saving your brother, my husband.” You spoke plainly.
“Are you a witch?”
You glanced at him, pulling the cloth from his hand and placing it on your own.
“I am not, but would it matter if I was? I am fixing your mistake at a heavy cost, might I add.”
He had so many questions and judgments, but he kept them to himself. He had already done enough and did not want to get in your way nor stop you from saving his brother. He could live with a lot, but not the idea of having killed his own brother.
“I need some blood from Aerion.” You mentioned.
He took you to get what you needed and you returned to the chambers.
You cut some of his hair and wrapped it into the towel you had, stuffing it into the mason jar. You added some herbs and some of your own hair.
After that, you closed the lid and stood by the bed, taking a deep breath and reciting the High Valyrian on the page. Once you completed it, you tossed the mason jar into the lit fireplace.
It was as if the wind in the room immediately shifted, everything below the surface changing.
Now, you just had to wait and hope that it took. You only could hope that the God’s and Baelor would forgive you for what you did.
A few hours later, you noticed that you were spotting and it was a deep red color.
SYNOPSIS. You swore you’d never go back to him after you only barely made it out of his troublesome life, but you had no other choice when you found yourself in peril and your only lifeline was his number on your phone.
CONTENTS. 18+ DARK CONTENT (mdni), modern!au, targaryen as a mob family of some sort, yandere!aerion targaryen, extremely dubious consent, non-con elements, violence and blood, death, unhealthy relationship, and just about everything else, manipulation, toxic!aerion duh?, implied stalking, unprotected piv sex, creampie, breeding kink, pet names, suicidal ideations, just overall dark and unhappy, f!reader, no specific house or family for reader & no description except that she’s a commoner. 6k words, not proofread and english isn’t my first language, so i’m sorry for errors/typos! only partially edited.
AN: i really just wanted to write yandere!aerion mixed with some yakuza sprinkle… this is not a full-length, properly fleshed-out fic so let’s not think about semantics and technicalities, i had no choice but to write a background -.- #lowkeypissedmeoff anyway, i just miss him baddd & akotsk </3 girl i don't even go here to write, i had to make this acc just to post this.
In the Crownlands, you were either rich or poor—there’s no in between. Sometimes the rich could get poor, but scarcely the poor have gotten rich, and on top of everything and everyone were the Targaryens. People in a league of their own, thought themselves dragons made flesh.
If you weren’t one of them, your luck can and will change as fast as a dragon can ride the winds. Which was precisely why you now found yourself in this situation, when just half an hour ago, your only concern was what you’d be having for dinner.
Death.
There’s a dead body on your dirty floor lined with a cheap peel-and-stick PVC decal that lost its initial color ages ago. You didn’t even know who it was, though after seeing your deadbeat father’s text, you got the idea.
sorry luv, had to flee really quickly. frey’s found me.
What the actual fuck? You read the text about twenty times already but the bitter tears still haven’t stopped flowing. Only seven words and they were almost comedic. This was your home, your own apartment that you yourself pay for with your minimum wage salary, the only safe space you have, and now it’s ruined. Your dad wasn’t even supposed to be residing here, you just took him in for a short while because he told you he needed a place while looking for a job.
He told you he was clean. Sober. No more debts, no more dirty laundry. He told you he turned over a new leaf and that he will rebuild his life. Well, obviously, he lied about everything because now you’ve got a dead middleman on your floor. You wouldn’t even put it past the Freys to put a bounty on your head as well, knowing how evil they can be. Why your dad ever thought about owing them something, you’ll never know, but he’s always been too stupid and reckless for his own good, and he always found a way to rope you in trouble as well.
After all, it was how you met him. Aerion Targaryen. Your parents never really married—good riddance—and they’ve been separated since you were seven because your mom despised the circles your dad ran in, and the kind of jobs he did, so she took you with her. But she died just shortly after your eighteenth birthday and there was no one to take you in but your father, who at that time, worked as a gunman for the Lannisters.
Even though you technically lived together, you rarely saw him due to his job and if you caught him home during daytime, he’d be passed out on the couch and gone by the time you get back. It was fine, it was routine. But there were rare times he would take you with him to galas, or whatever they call those stupid parties the filthy rich people who run King’s Landing throw every other week. You’re my date, he would say, which basically meant him quickly introducing you to people who don’t even bother to glance at you before spending the rest of the evening talking about death and violence so offhandedly while you sulk in the corner, thinking about the assignments you have to cram once you get home.
The one time you decided to slip away and hide out in the gardens, you met him. It was dark and quiet, far away from people whose single bracelets cost more than your meager apartment, who never had to think about rent or if they’ll have something to eat the next day, who don’t pay attention to anyone they deem inferior to them, who look down on people like you—they probably think your father is filth, too, but so long as he did those dirty jobs for them, he’s not entirely useless.
You hated them. You envied them. Every day you wished they were dead, and every day you wished you could live just like them, and not have to think about shit like couponing and salaries anymore.
You were mindlessly thinking about the stunning dress you saw earlier that you just knew you would never afford when a sound of a branch cracking snapped you out of the trance. You quickly whipped your head around, clutching at your dress—which paled in stark comparison; a simple flowy dress with lace hemming you thrifted months ago.
There he stood. Bright as a flame, with the infamous platinum hair of the Targaryens, bloody red suit under a black overcoat loosely hanging around his shoulders, when he raised an arm to light the cigarette on his lips, you saw the glint of a silver brooch depicting their three-headed dragon sigil pinned to the left pocket of his suit. You knew nothing about him except the fact that he’s the son of Maekar Targaryen, a little older than you, and that he drives the loudest car in town.
He inhaled, looking down, and blew out the smoke slowly before lifting his head. He met your eyes immediately because you were the only one around aside from him, he tilted his head a little, probably thinking whether he knew you or not, then dragged his eyes over your figure. It made you feel small, because you were basically an ant in comparison to him.
“Who are you?” why he even bothered to ask, you didn’t know.
“Nothing of importance,” you replied, shocked at how you even found your voice to reply.
That very night changed your whole life. From then on, Aerion Targaryen became a figurehead in your lowly life. You two talked for hours outside until your dad texted that you had to go, you thought it’d be the first and last time you saw him but he showed up outside the community college the next day, to the shock of everyone, including you. You became quite famous overnight—the commoner who Aerion Targaryen picked up outside of the public university his very own family funded, the commoner who found herself in rooms with girls from prominent families, the commoner who would vacation every other week with the princeling of the city.
It was sudden. It was a thrill. It was good, until it wasn’t. Aerion was a man who does things extravagantly, every act of love was too much, too major, too big, and it all became too suffocating. For the next two years, your life was a rollercoaster ride and every day that passed by felt harder than the last. You got sucked into his world and you grew to hate it because it felt like a prison. Often times, you’d find yourself in a club with the likes of Tybolt Lannister, Lyonel Baratheon, Otho Bracken, Steffon Fossoway, and Androw Ashford, and you would ask yourself just what the fuck you were doing there.
When you turned twenty and realized you needed to get your act together, you felt nothing but dread. How were you even going to tell Aerion that you wanted to stop whatever it was that you have with each other, that you’re going to be starting your final year in uni next year, and that you have actual plans for your life? Would it be better to just ghost him and pray he doesn’t have your father killed?
Turns out you didn’t have to do that much thinking. The last time you were over at his ridiculously lavish penthouse, just shortly before third year ended, he told you he was going to go to Lys as per his father’s instructions. Maybe a year or two, maybe more, something about taking charge of their family’s foothold there. He sat you down when he told you, then went on and on about how mad he was about leaving you behind, and spent the next few hours having you cream on his cock. A farewell gift.
It was surely a gift to you. You were finally going to be free from the crazy world of the Targaryens and their friends, free from being in enclosed spaces with people so detached from reality, free from the nights spent with Aerion talking about how he wanted to hurt and humiliate his cousins, Valarr and Matarys, in great detail, free from the blood stains, the substances, the judgmental looks—from everything.
So you took and took what he gave until you were spent. Come next morning, he told you he’d be back eventually, and that he will come find you when he comes home, you just smiled and nodded like a pup. Honestly, at the time, you were sure he was going to find someone else—someone more worthwhile—over there in Lys, and by the time he gets back, it’d be for the wedding of the century. That’s why when he left the country, you got rid of everything that connected you to him. You left town even if it meant longer commuting time, went no contact with your dad, changed your phone, stopped checking whatever news there is about the mad family. You trapped yourself in your own little bubble.
And it worked for a time. You heard about Aerion coming home but pretended not to, you steered clear from the mainland and just minded your own business, your old phone sitting discarded on the bottom of a box you kept under your bed. Things only started going to shit when you dad somehow found where you lived—naturally—and begged for you to take him in. Just for a while, he promised.
So now, there’s a dead person on your floor that he killed and you didn’t know what to do. The only thing you knew was that more men would break down your door to demand for your father and if they didn’t find him, they’d take you. Fuck, you didn’t even know what your father did, last you checked he was still with the Lannisters.
Your hands shook as you shut your phone, dragging your hands over your face in pure exasperation. You probably had two hours, at best, and that’s if they didn’t have a backup already driving down your street. You stared off, wondering if killing yourself would be easier than anything else, when your eyes darted to the brown box under your bed. Yes, there’s always him. You would call it last resort but frankly, he’s your only option in this case.
Is it worth it? You worked so hard for the life you now have, simple as it is. If you do this, he’ll see you again, he’ll know where you are, he’ll be part of your life again. You’ll be crawling back to the pit of dragons and vipers, to the world of big men killing small men, to the lion’s den that you managed to escape unscathed. You’re sure you’ll never get that chance again, no, this time, there’d be no escaping Aerion Targaryen.
You slowly crawled towards the bed, avoiding making any noise as if the lifeless body would wake up if you got too loud. You pulled the box out with shaky hands, hands feeling dusty and heavy with the weight of his face, his power, and the fact that he’s the only person—the best person—to get you out of this mess. You took the things out one by one, barely sparing them a thought, and when your hand grazed the cool metal of your old phone, it felt as if a thorn pierced your very soul.
Is it worth it? You thought again as you waited for it to open. Do you love your life so much for this? You thought as you unlocked the phone. Would it be better to be dragged by Frey’s men than this? You thought as your finger hovered over his contact name.
The answer was no, obviously. Aerion was unpredictable, impulsive, and dangerous, but he was yours at one point, and you were his. A small mercy. With the Freys, at the very least, you were going to be assaulted for hours on end before they even tell you what they wanted with your father, then they’d probably torture you until they get to your father, if he’s not already dead or on a boat to Volantis.
You felt another tear roll on your face. Why? Why were you so unfortunate? All you ever wanted was a quiet life, that’s what your mother would’ve wanted as well. If she were here, you would’ve been fine and happy. Instead, you’re here, weighing your incredulous options: walk back into Aerion Targaryen’s dragon pit, wait for the Freys to get to you, or die by your own hands. How ridiculous. A humble degree, a small-paying job, an apartment with peeling wallpapers, and a net worth of about 500 golden dragons—that’s who you were. You haven’t even gotten yourself far and now you’re about to set yourself back a thousand steps regardless of what you choose to do.
Another tear fell as you pressed the call button, and when he answered on the third ring, you had a waterfall rolling down your face. Pathetic, pathetic.
“Baby,” he said, laughing airily. He sounded ecstatic. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. “I’m so glad you finally called. Do you know how long I’ve been trying to reach you for the past couple of weeks? I—”
“Aerion,” you cut him off breathlessly, internally cringing at the crack in your voice. “I need…I need your help.”
It was silent for a while, you had to check the screen just to make sure the call was still on going.
“Text me where you are.” he said before the call dropped. You stared at the screen for a few seconds before you managed to type your address, then you stared more. You’re in now. Again. You just plunged yourself back into his world and it wasn’t even your fault, you thought bitterly.
You wished your father would die. Soon. It would make life a little better when you’re back in one of the Targaryen buildings, watching Aerion shoot people while he cages you between his legs, that’s for sure.
You checked yourself in the mirror and almost laughed at your state. You brushed out your hair in slow motions, took a shower, and made yourself look more presentable. Why? No idea. It felt right. Yes, it did, because you’ll probably be signing yet another NDA contract at the end of the night, what, with this chaos. What is Maekar Targaryen doing these days, you thought. Does he even remember you? Will it be the same miserable secretary handing you the papers to ensure your silence? It felt like endless staring and thinking until a knock interrupted your train of thought.
Your heart beat increased comically fast it felt like you were on the verge of palpitating. Who was it? Has your executioner finally come?
“Baby? It’s me, open the door.”
Indeed, he has.
You looked at yourself one last time before you walked towards the door, you counted to ten before you twisted the knob, making sure to get your breathing even before facing him. Soon as the door went ajar, he pushed it wide and let himself in, quickly wrapping his arms around you.
“My girl,” he mumbled through your hair, you could clearly hear him sniffing you as his arms tightened around you—one hand on the back of your head and the other around your waist, “I’m here, I’m here.”
You couldn’t find it in yourself to return the embrace so you just gripped the sides of his coat until he pulled back to look at your face. His hands felt hot against your cheeks and you could only meet his violet eyes for two seconds before they found focus in his silver hair instead.
“What happened, hm?” he asked, eyes never leaving your face.
“I don’t even know,” you could only whisper.
His eyes trailed off and his hands went slack when he registered the body, one of his hands found yours to clasp as he side stepped to take a closer look, pulling you with him.
“What the fuck happened? Who is this?”
“I don’t—it’s my dad. I went home to this, and a ridiculous text about him leaving,” you replied, dragging a hand over your face again, “Apparently, he owes the Freys or something, I don’t know. They’re hunting him down so he left. With no care about me or this dead body he killed within my house, of course.”
Aerion took a quick look around at that, the frown never leaving his face. “Ah, yes, you moved out shortly after I left, did you not?”
You closed your eyes for a second. Of course, he kept track. You were delusional to think you truly slithered out of his life. He probably had someone watching you since he boarded his jet, keeping tabs on you even when he’s a whole continent away, simply because he can. Why he has never seek you out until now, you didn’t know, but part of it’s simply because it was well within his power to do so.
“Yes,” you said, barely audible.
Aerion looked at the body again, then pulled out his phone to type something quickly. You didn’t see it, and you were not sure you wanted to. Then he slipped it inside the pocket of his coat before turning towards you.
“Well, we need to get you out of here, my love. I’ll take care of everything, I promise, you don’t have to do anything now.” he said, still gripping your hand, raising the other one to tuck a hair behind your ear before sliding it under your chin to tilt your face up.
You finally met his eyes. Those same old violet ones, overly piercing. “Where would we go?”
“To Dragonstone, maybe? Baelor—”
“No,” you said, shakily. You really cannot deal with anything or anyone else right now, if you had to step one foot inside their main headquarters, you’d die, “No, Aerion, please, I don’t want to go there right now.”
You gripped his arms with trembling hands, feeling tears threaten to fall again.
“Alright, alright,” he said, placing a hand against your nape to pull you closer and press a kiss to your forehead, "I’m sorry, no Dragonstone. Let’s go home instead.”
He pulled you against his chest, and you couldn’t stop the tears then. Home. Home? But this is your home. Whatever could he mean?
What did you do? You could only ask yourself as he guided you out of the apartment, out of your home. The walk to the complex entrance was quiet, your footfalls echoing against the hallway as he rubbed circles on your palm. There was a sleek, black SUV waiting at the front and he opened the door for you before entering himself.
“My house,” Aerion said as the partition rolled down a few inches before closing again. When the click of the doors locking resonated inside the vehicle, it felt like being locked within a cell with no chance of ever getting out.
This was it, you’ve sealed your fate. And the fact that you didn’t even have the slightest idea of what’s to happen now scared you even more. This was your first encounter with Aerion in years, you don’t know what’s changed, you don’t know what stayed the same, you’re walking in blind and the only thing you’re certain of was that the door you came in through was now barred.
“I moved out too, you know,” Aerion shattered the silence, “No longer staying at the penthouse. I live in an actual house now, in Duskendale, we’ll get there in about an hour.”
“Duskendale?” you repeated, aghast. For some reason you couldn’t wrap your head around the idea of Aerion having an actual house and lot. Your home was located in Rosby, the next town after King’s Landing, and the one before Duskendale.
“Yes,” he answered, laughing a little at your reaction, “I got it constructed while I was still in Lys, then I set it up as soon as I got home. I’ve been back three weeks and haven’t had time to rest with all the planning on top of work, it’s why I haven’t had the chance to meet with you yet.”
Your chest tightened at that. Out of fear, or something else entirely. He planned on seeking you out eventually. Of course, of course, you honestly shouldn’t be surprised at this. But you were.
“It’s been quite the mess for the past month because of those Blackfyre bastards, yet again. But it’s all done now, you actually called at the perfect time, I was thinking about you earlier…” he said, pulling you by the waist even though you were pressed flush against him already, he pulled again, this time placing you on top of his thighs and wrapping his arms around your torso, “I was planning on how I was going to meet you, and then your name flashed on my screen as if the seven above themselves had intervened. I was so happy, baby, so relieved. You haven’t forgotten about me, after all.”
He was whispering in your ear from behind, bouncing you on his lap as if you were a babe, or a toy, you don’t know which was worse. You felt cold dread wash over you.
“The place is all set up, you’ll see.”
He didn’t speak any more after that, simply resting his chin above your head and occasionally placing a kiss on whichever spot he wanted to. You didn’t know what to feel so you just closed your eyes, afraid of what he said earlier but trying not to think much about it.
After what felt like forever, the car stopped. Aerion slid you back into the seats before stepping out of the car and holding out his hand for you, you took it wordlessly, keeping your eyes down on the pavement.
You didn’t even get to register the area or the house from outside because he immediately dragged you, not sparing a glance at the car behind. He unlocked the door with a smile, breaking out into a wide grin when he let you inside.
“Welcome home, baby,” he said, shrugging off his coat and throwing it haphazardly, “Do you like it?”
You looked around. Ivory walls, mostly black or brown furniture, some pop of red, golden yellow lights, dragons everywhere—it was so him. It’s exactly where you would expect Aerion to live.
“I don’t understand, Aerion,” you said, not meeting his eyes and instead focusing on the chandelier above. You knew exactly what he meant, you just wished otherwise. You couldn’t accept it.
“I told you, I’ve been preparing for this. This is where we’re going to live from now on,” there it is, the verbal confirmation of your greatest fear. He ran his fingers through your hair, “I told you back then, before I left, that I was going to come back, didn’t I? Now here I am, back for good. Now, we can continue where we left off. You don’t have university to worry about anymore and you don’t have to work, either. It’s like what I said earlier, you don’t have to do anything.”
He shuffled closer, standing directly in front of you. He placed both hands on each side of your face and raised it up to look at him, “I’ll take care of you now, just like before but much better. Father put me in charge of the ports, the docks, shipping and fishing, all that shit. The Velaryons, the Celtigars, the Bar Emmons, they’re all under me now. I can do whatever I want, I can give you everything and more. You don’t have to worry about anything now, baby, especially not your useless filth of a father or those Frey scums. You just have to be here, with me.”
He said it all so earnestly and his smile was so genuine you’d think he was talking about flowers and rainbows. It was unsettling, it was off-putting. The cage felt as if it was closing in around you.
“You don’t even have to think,” he added, “I love you so much, you know that right?”
Yes. No. No. Yes. You couldn’t speak, you could barely process everything, you could only stare at his eyes, feeling yourself get lost in them. A pool of violet fire. Wildfire.
Then, he bent down to kiss you. Devouring your lips with ferocious hunger. He sucked and licked and bit, forcefully pushing his tongue inside to tangle it with yours. He didn’t stop until you two couldn’t breathe, his forehead falling against yours with a breathless laugh as his hands dipped lower and lower, fondling at your breasts.
“I missed you so much, only the thought of you and the life we’re going to build kept me sane back there in Lys,” he said.
We’re going to build. We. As if you had any part in all of these. As if you wanted this as much as he did.
His hands found your ass, cupping them for a moment before lifting you off the floor and throwing you over his shoulder like a sack, then he made his way to the long couch nearby, gently laying you down on it.
He made quick work of his trousers and you felt the noose on your neck getting tighter, you could do nothing but swallow when he removed his dress shirt, and when he met your eyes again, his violet eyes filled with lust, you just pressed yourself harder against the soft couch. There’s really nothing else you could do anymore.
“I need you,” he said, swiftly unclasping the button of your pants and tugging it down along your underwear in one violent motion.
You only stared at him. He stared at your cunt, licking his bottom lip in anticipation.
He ran his middle finger up and down your pussy, whimpering, as his other hand fisted his cock. He placed his knees on top of the couch, towering over your laid out figure, and when his eyes met yours again, his smile got even wider. If he noticed your discomfort, saw that there was no life behind your eyes, he said nothing. No, he was in his element. He’s not thinking about you, he’s thinking about him, and a little bit of his idea of you.
The you that you peddled to cater to his whims, the you that he molded and polished, the you that should’ve been no more but is, right here, in this gilded cage he now calls your home. The obedient pup, the pretty little doll, the commoner girl to decorate his side; to calm him down when Baelor or Maekar is hot on his trail; to soothe him when Valarr does something better than him; to coo and whisper sweet nothings in his ear after a particularly trifling day at the office; to take his cock like a good wench when he gets back from their ancestral house, raging.
You thought you buried this version of yourself already but you were wrong. It just became dormant with the dragon far away from home, but now he’s here, and his touch was searing, and you’re back to being the sweet little thing for him to devour completely.
Just like before, he had said, but much better. To you, it is much worse, and you put yourself in this position, so really, who should you blame? Your father and the Freys long since have left your mind—here, there is only you and Aerion.
He raised both of your legs, holding them up for a moment to admire your glistening cunt before placing them over his shoulder as he slowly pushed his cock inside. He moaned, but you bit your lip to stifle yours. When his entire length was inside, he stilled, bending down to bury his face against the crook of your neck.
“I love you so, so much…” he whispered before pulling back to face you, crashing his lips into yours and finally starting to move.
He rutted into you like a rabid dog, moaning and groaning loudly. His hands left your ankles to grip your thighs, pushing them against your chest and locking you in a mating press. You couldn’t stop your noises anymore, they were useless anyway. This was real now, no more stopping it. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll talk to him and set some things straight, you were always good at coaxing him into doing things for you. But now, right here, you’ll just have to take what he will give, and all the problems will be for tomorrow.
This is gratitude, for taking you out of your apartment with a dead body. This is grace, for cutting off contact with him and moving out of King’s Landing. This is penance, for not crawling back to him as soon as he arrived from Lys. This is punishment, for striking a conversation with him that night years ago. This is your fate, your nightmare turned into reality, simply for being in the wrong place, in the wrong time, with the wrong person.
He hit a particularly deep spot and your moans blended into one another, reverberating across the empty living room. Just you and him. You and him. Him, and you.
Him.
You. You.
You had nothing but him now.
Plap, Plap, Plap.
“I—love—you—more—than—anything.” he said with each thrust, sealing the last one with a kiss. His thrusts grew erratic which meant he was nearing his release, and you could feel yourself tightening as well.
“Tell me you love me,” he said, fingers finding your clit to rub against it in rapid motions, sending you over the edge with a loud moan.
“I-” you gasped as he changed pace, going from fast, short strokes, to deep, hard ones, “I love you,”
You already came but he still did not stop, chasing after his own release. It was overstimulating and it made you arch your back. Your legs were shaking but he paid them no mind, removing his fingers from your clit to wrap it against your neck as the other one slipped under your head and pulled at your hair hard, your eyes found the ceiling where the carvings were starting to get blurrier due to your tears and his choking.
“That’s righttt,” he mewled, panting on top of you, each thrust got even deeper and rougher now—if those were possible—the ridges of his cock dragging deliciously against the wall of your warm cunt that was gripping him like a vice. “I’ll make you very happy, baby, here in our own home.”
His hand left your neck and slid downwards to press against your lower belly, right over where his cock bulged, “I’ll make you my wife, and soon we’ll have babies running around the house. It’s been my dream. You, my flame, my wife, and our clutch of hatchlings.”
You could only moan due to the pleasure he was giving you, barely hearing his words. He dropped his head to your neck again and that’s when he spilled his cum inside of you, the warm liquid coating your gummy walls. It was so warm, so filling. For a second, it even felt good. You were both out of breath, your legs still over his shoulders, his cock still snug inside of you.
He still didn’t pull out when he met your eyes for the nth time that evening, “I’m not going to leave you again.”
If he was assuring you or himself, you weren’t sure.
You stirred awake. The first thing you registered was the soft mattress, and then the arm over your stomach. You opened your eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling and you slowly blinked the sleep away.
When you glanced over to your side and saw Aerion, the memories of last night came flooding in rapid succession. There was a dead body in your apartment, your father left, you called for Aerion, you’re in Duskendale, you two had sex. You don’t remember what happened afterwards but he must’ve brought you in bed and cleaned you up because you were too tired.
You grimaced, then grimaced some more. There was no one you hated more than yourself at that moment, clutching at the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself. You looked at Aerion again, he was in deep sleep, it seemed. You looked at the other side of the bed and found your phone, as well as his, on top of the table. You glanced back to make sure he was still sleeping before you reached for your phone, quickly unlocking it to check for new texts, you only saw one, from your boss, asking if you were alright, which admittedly, confused you but you thought none of it yet. Maybe it’s because you’ve never been late or absent before.
You exited the messaging app, pondering on whether you should bother resigning or not as you opened Google to check the news. The first article made your whole body rigid, and your bones felt like icicles as you clicked on it. It loaded fast, the headline written in big, bold letters, screaming at you.
One unidentified body found dead off the shore of Blackwater Bay, a burnt down apartment floor in Rosby, House Frey’s stocks plummeting overnight—could they be connected?
KING’S LANDING, CROWNLANDS — The body of a man believed to be in his late forties washed up earlier this morning as reported by the fisherman who saw him, meanwhile, in an apartment complex in Rosby, a fire broke out in one of the units around 11:23 P.M., which quickly spread to the neighboring units, the entire third floor was wiped out by the time the firefighters got around to it but they were able to stop the fire from spreading to the other floors.
All the way in the Riverlands, House Frey is facing a quake as major institutional shareholders, such as the Tullys, the Brackens, the Blackwoods, and the Strongs, are selling large volumes of stocks after a particularly negative research note about the company was released to the public this morning.
READ MORE…
You stared at the screen, reading the words over and over again, like they might change if you just pass by them one more time. You couldn’t breathe. Just what were you supposed to feel now? Only yesterday, you were wishing for the death of your father, weren’t you? Now, there’s a body found floating around Blackwater Bay which was undoubtedly him. You also realized that the reason your boss texted you was because your home literally burned down, along with the rest of your neighbors who weren’t even supposed to be part of this mess. You felt sick, you felt bile come up your throat and threaten to spill. No, you thought. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Which one? Another voice inside your head asked. Not one, you bitterly answered. Not your father’s death, not the gunman’s, not those of your innocent neighbors, not the drive all the way here, not the sex—none of these things were supposed to happen.
And yet.
You heard a sleepy groan behind you, followed by a hand mindlessly rubbing against your back. Your skin felt prickly, your hands numb, the touch of his palm on your bare back felt scorchingly hot. You silently slipped the phone under your pillow but did not turn nor speak, you felt him breathing down your neck regardless, pressing a searing kiss on your shoulder before nuzzling the side of your head.
“Baby?”
In King’s Landing, you were either the predator or the prey—there’s no in between. But you’re not in King’s Landing anymore, you haven’t been for a long time, you’re in a big house in Duskendale where there’s only Aerion and you. And now, your hangman’s awake, and the hangman’s knot felt cold as it coiled even tighter around your neck.
There will be no execution today, nor tomorrow, nor in any foreseeable future, but you already felt like you were dead, a limp body suspended in the air by a rope tied at the end of a gallow.
