How would the akotsk men react to the reader accidentally getting hit by someone else? I love your blog!!
⋆˙⟡ HURT BY ANOTHER — akotsk men
⋆˙⟡ summary how they react to you being hurt by someone else.
⋆˙⟡ notes requests are closed! i have so many fics on the go rn
⋆˙⟡ warnings aerion
MASTERLIST
AERION
the whole altercation had been his own fault, but he would not take such blame.
him and a smaller lord had gone from a heated debate to physically launching at each other.
nobody would dare intervene, or else it would be their life ended. but you did not share their fear.
you tried to shove your body between them both, catching the smaller lord's fist to your cheekbone.
only when the prince's wife had been struck did people clamber from their seats, aerion lifting you from your position at his feet.
he would have their head. even if it were an accident.
even if you pleaded him not to, that is was just a careless accident.
"people must learn to mind their gangly limbs. accident or not. they must learn." he would tell you, as you cried into his lap later that night.
VALARR
you would find enjoyment in watching little lords, matarys included, train with blunted steel around the castle.
for king's landing had the best master of arms, of course.
but you were stood too close, and matarys had swiped his sword blindly, cutting through the fabric of your dress.
your arm had bled, though it was not a deep laceration. easily wrapped, required no stitching.
the boy cried into your chest, tears soaking your bodice as he apologised profusely.
“it is okay, little prince.” you soothed him, but it seemed his tears caught the attention of his elder brother, your husband, valarr.
“only a minuscule cut, husband.” you spoke for the boy, who refused to let go of your skirts. “i am fine.”
valarr inspected the wound, fingers delicately assessing it. but he was in a good mood, wanted to teach his brother how careful he should be around princesses. and women, in general manner.
“sorry wife, we have to amputate it.” he sighed, only worsening the tears of his brother.
you shoved your husband, who still had firm hold of your wound. kissing above the severed fabric.
BAELOR
you had begged and pleaded your husband to let you try your hand at sword fighting.
after many moons of denying you, insisting it would be dangerous.
and a long night of trying to get your way with sweet kisses and wandering hands, he allowed it.
you wore thicker skirts, gloves, a tailored padded vest; all to appease your husband.
it all happened so fast, you couldn’t keep up with the lord training you. and he sliced your shoulder.
it wasn’t a fleshy wound, nothing a bandage could not fix. even as the lord fussed over you, keeping pressure on your shoulder with his severed cloak, you were more annoyed than anything else.
for you knew what your husband would say.
“never again.” he mumbled at your side, crouched beside the lounging chair as a maester tended to your cut.
MAEKAR
maybe not as extreme as aerion, but would berate and dismiss the offender.
striking a woman, his wife, would not be simply forgotten. albeit an accident.
a guard had barged you down a small stairwell, in front of your husband, who had swiftly shoved the guard in retaliation.
“were you born blind or are you simple?” he would retort. despite the guard’s apologies, admitting he did not see you behind him in approach to your husband.
he would check you were okay after the fact, no wounds or broken bones. would
but the guard soon disappeared from his post, though not without generous coin, at your request.
DAERON
wouldn't be there to witness you getting hurt, and I think that would make him feel worse.
you would run to find him the moment you had caught an elbow to the face, from a pair of drunken men fighting.
crying sobbing into his chest, unable to speak about what had happened.
he would sober up so quick. and he would detest using his family name to inspire fear, but for you, he would.
he did not have the stable footing to fight for you, but he would focus on ensuring you were okay. kissing your head better, cooing at you like a struck child.
a whole load of "there, there" and "i'll make it better for you".
DUNC
his emotions would get the better of him.
maybe some drunken lord swung his empty mug of ale around in song and dance, the thick metal cup colliding with your head.
he would shove the drunken lord, sending him stumbling onto the floor.
heavy breathing, clutching your head to make sure you were okay.
he would take leave with you immediately, though he could hold his own in a fight. nobody would dare even challenge your giant husband.
but taking you away from danger and ensuring your safety was paramount.
LYONEL
is starting a fight.
if some drunken fool barged you in the midst of dance, sending you to the floor to be trampled on.
the drunkard would be hoisted out of the feast by his guards, whilst he tended to you.
he would throw you over his shoulder, take you to a vacant spot in the hall to check you over.
"i promise, my love, i am fine." you would scoff at his unnecessary attention.
"nobody will hurt my wife whilst i am still breathing. forgive me for caring so much about my sweet girl."
─ summary: The stress of pregnancy, stepchildren, travel, and stifling summer heat leave you beyond desperate for a break.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x reader (second wife)
─ word count: 4k
─ content: 18+ MDNI | fluff | age gap | pregnancy | skinny dipping
─ a/n: A quick little follow-up in my Baby Project universe. This can be read on its own, of course, but if you want to read the others, they are here and here. I have one more blurb and a fic for these two, and I think their story will be complete. Thank you as always for reading, commenting, liking, reblogging, and sending requests. 🖤
The road had unspooled endlessly beneath the carriage wheels, a monotonous ribbon of dust and heat that had begun long before the sun fully cleared the horizon. You had maintained your composure through the long hours, sitting with your back straight and your hands folded in your lap, the very picture of the patience you prided yourself on. But the summer sun was not a kind master; it beat down upon the roof of the carriage, turning the enclosed space into an oven. The air inside was stale, recycled a thousand times by the lungs of five people, and thick with the scent of leather and dust.
Worse than the heat, worse than the stifling confinement, was the restless life shifting within you. The babe had been active since dawn, a relentless flurry of elbows and knees that pressed against your ribs, bladder, and spine with no regard for your comfort. You shifted your weight for the hundredth time, trying to find a position where your organs didn't feel like they were being rearranged by a tiny, determined fist. A sharp kick dug into your side, forcing a sharp exhale through your nose. You rubbed a hand over the swell of your belly, a silent command to settle that went entirely unheeded.
Sharing the carriage with the young children had been manageable at the start. They had slept for the first few hours, their heads lolling against the squabs in a way that was adorable. But as the morning wore on and the heat intensified, sleep had given way to fractious boredom.
The peace shattered with Rhae's high, piercing shriek.
You opened your eyes, blinking against the dim light, to see Rhae's face crumpled, red and wet with tears. She was clutching the side of her head, her small fingers tangled in her pale hair.
"Daella pulled my hair!" Rhae wailed, the sound bouncing off the wooden walls of the carriage. "She pulled it!"
Daella sat opposite, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set in a stubborn line that reminded you instantly of her father. "She took my doll," Daella shot back, her voice sharp. "I asked for it back and she wouldn't give it. She's a thief."
You looked from one tear-streaked face to the other, the heat pulsing at your temples. You turned your gaze to Daella, meeting her defiant stare with a steady one of your own.
"Pulling your sister's hair is not an answer to anything," you said, your voice firm but level. "No matter what she did. We do not hurt each other."
Daella's eyes dropped to her lap, her fingers picking at a loose thread on the velvet. She didn't apologize, but the rigid set of her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
You shifted your attention to Rhae, who was still sniffling loudly, dramatic sobs hitching in her chest. "And taking things without asking isn't right either," you told her gently. "If you want something, you should ask for it nicely. You know better."
Rhae sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She nodded, a small, miserable motion.
Silence settled again, a fragile, temporary truce. You leaned your head back against the carriage wall, closing your eyes for just a moment, hoping the babe would take the hint and stop kicking your spleen.
"Mother, Egg kicked me," Daella's voice cut through the quiet, accusatory, and whining.
"I did not," Egg retorted immediately, his voice rising in indignation. "She is taking up all the room. My leg was just there. It's not my fault she moved into it."
"He did it on purpose," Rhae chimed in, her tears forgotten as quickly as they had appeared. She always rallied to a cause. "He always kicks."
"I absolutely did not," Egg shouted, his face flushing. "You're both liars."
"Enough," you murmured, but the word was lost in the rising tide of their voices.
"You kicked!" Daella screamed.
"I did not!"
"You're squishing me!"
The cacophony filled the small space, a swirling vortex of childish grievances that seemed to magnify the pressure in your skull. The babe chose that moment to deliver a swift, hard punch to your diaphragm, knocking the wind out of you. You pressed a hand to your chest, gasping slightly, and felt the last frayed thread of your patience snap.
You leaned forward and rapped your knuckles sharply against the carriage window, three sharp cracks that silenced the interior instantly.
The glass pane slid open, revealing the flushed face of one of the household knights. He looked concerned, his eyes darting past you to the wide-eyed children huddled on the seats.
"Inform my husband," you said, your voice steady but carrying an edge of steel that made the knight straighten his spine, "that I cannot go on anymore. We stop. Now."
The knight nodded, touching his gloved hand to his chest, and rode ahead.
You sat back, the decision made, and felt a small measure of relief settle in your chest. Outside, you heard the call go up, the shout of the outriders passing the message back. The pace of the horses slowed as the convoy began to search for a suitable place to halt.
Maekar would not argue. He had been watching you closely for weeks, his violet eyes tracking your every movement with a mix of concern and a fierce, protective instinct. He knew the discomfort the child caused you, the sleepless nights, and the swollen ankles. He would halt the sun itself if he thought it would give you a moment's peace.
The retinue guided the carriages off the road and into a patch of sparse woodland that offered the promise of shade. Servants spilled out into the clearing, unloading supplies and hammering stakes into the hard earth.
The carriage door swung open, letting in a rush of air that was only slightly cooler than the interior. You gathered your skirts, preparing to step down, but a hand appeared before yours.
"Let me help you, mother," Daeron said.
He stood on the step, his hand extended, his expression open and warm. He was your eldest stepson, a man grown now, yet he looked at you with a genuine affection that never failed to soften your heart.
Before you could take his hand, another voice spoke from the ground just next to him.
"She isn't your mother, Daeron. She's barely older than you."
Aerion stood there, his arms hanging loose at his sides, a smirk playing on his lips. He had offered some variation of this observation regularly over the year you had been married to his father. It was never quite a direct insult, never loud enough to cause a scene, but it was a persistent, low-grade poison he dripped into every interaction. He enjoyed the discomfort it caused.
Daeron didn't look at him. He simply smacked Aerion across the back of the head. It was solid, the smack of a brother who had reached the absolute limit of his tolerance.
Aerion's head snapped forward. He stared at Daeron, his smirk vanishing, replaced by a look of incredulous outrage.
Daeron looked back, his face blank, and then turned back to you, his hand still extended as if nothing had happened.
You took his hand, gripping his forearm firmly, and allowed him to help you down the steps. Your feet touched the grass, and you took a breath that felt deeper than any you had taken all day.
You looked at them — Daeron, rubbing his hands together as if to clean them of Aerion, Aerion, still glaring at his brother — and the three younger children now spilling out of the carriage behind you, already picking up the threads of their argument.
"Go," you said. Your voice was pleasant, but it carried exhaustion. "All of you. Please go and play somewhere else. I need quiet."
They scattered. Daeron herded the younger ones toward the trees, shooting a warning look over his shoulder at Aerion, who wandered off in the opposite direction, kicking at the dirt.
You stood alone in the center of the chaotic activity. The camp was taking shape around you with the efficiency of a military machine. Pavilions rose, the heavy canvas thudding as men hammered in the stakes. Horses were being unsaddled, blowing air through their lips in loud snorts. The smell of woodsmoke began to drift through the air, mixing with the scent of pine needles and dry earth.
You found a camp chair that had been set out near the fire pit, a sturdy, canvas-backed seat, and lowered yourself into it with a sigh. You closed your eyes, letting your head fall back. The babe shifted, rolling over in a way that relieved the pressure on your ribs but settled heavily on your bladder. The air here was moving, at least. A faint breeze stirred the loose hairs around your face, cooling the sweat on your neck.
For ten minutes, it was perfect. The sounds of the camp became a rhythmic white noise, a lullaby of labor and life. You breathed in, breathed out, and felt the knot in your shoulders begin to loosen. It was going to be all right. You would rest, eat something cool, and sleep through the worst of the heat.
Then, the noise drifted back.
It started as a murmur, a hum of voices carried on the wind from the edge of the clearing. Then it sharpened into distinct tones. Egg's voice, high and insistent, Rhae's wail rising like a siren, Daella's sharp, demanding bark.
They were arguing again. It was a different dispute than the one in the carriage, but the cadence was identical, the eternal argument of children, a loop of grievance and defense that had been playing since the dawn of time. You could hear Aerion's voice now, too, laughing, egging them on, adding fuel to the fire.
Your eyes snapped open. You stared into the middle distance, your jaw tightening. The peace had been an illusion. They would come looking for you to decide who was right and who was wrong, to be the mother and the judge and the keeper of the peace.
Absolutely not.
You turned away from the noise, away from the camp, and walked toward the dense line of woods on the opposite side of the clearing. You moved quickly, before a servant could approach, before children noticed, before Maekar could come to check on you. You needed to be away from them. You needed to be alone.
The ground beneath your feet changed from trampled grass to a soft carpet of pine needles and fallen leaves. The air dropped in temperature immediately, the shade of the canopy cutting the harsh glare of the sun. It was cooler here, shadowed and green.
You walked without a destination, guided only by the need to put distance between yourself and the noise. You broke through the tree line and saw it.
A clearing opened up before you, dominated by a lake that sat like a jewel in the forest floor. The water was still, glass-like, catching the late afternoon light so it glowed with a fractured gold at the edges. Tall trees surrounded it, their roots gnarled and exposed at the water's edge, creating natural seats.
The air here was different, clean and smelling of wet stone. You stood at the edge of the bank, looking out over the water, and felt the sweat on your skin begin to chill.
Without hesitation, you reached up and began to unlace your gown. Your fingers, usually nimble, felt thick and clumsy. You fumbled with the fastenings, but eventually, the fabric gave way. You shrugged out of the outer layers, letting them pool on the mossy ground before ridding yourself of the underlayer. Finally, you were left in your small clothes, the cool air raising gooseflesh on your arms and legs. You took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the cold, clean air.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
The voice was deep, rough, and laced with a familiar incredulity.
There was no need to turn around. His following you wasn't a surprise; Maekar's eyes were always on you.
"It is obvious," you said, your voice calm, "that I intend to go for a swim."
You heard the crunch of heavy boots on the forest floor as he stepped closer. "This is not appropriate," he said. His voice was tight. "We are in the middle of the forest. The camp is yards away."
You turned to face him.
He stood a few paces away, still in his riding gear, dust coating his black leather. His silver-gold hair was damp with sweat, his pale purple eyes were wide, darting from you to the lake and back again. He looked like he was trying to solve a puzzle that made no sense.
You looked at him with the expression that meant you had already made your decision and were simply being patient while he finished talking.
"The water is cool," you said, nodding toward the lake. "I am uncomfortable. Your child has not stopped moving since before midday, and my body feels abused." You placed a hand on your belly, emphasizing the curve. "I am going in. You are welcome to come with me, or you can stand there and melt."
Maekar looked at you. You could see the arguments marshalling in his eyes. The idea of his wife, heavy with child, swimming naked in a wild lake was likely giving him an apoplexy.
"Fine," you said pleasantly, cutting him off before he could speak. "Stand there."
You turned your back on him. You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your small clothes and pushed them down, standing completely naked.
The cold water was a shock, sharp and biting, gripping your ankles and sending a jolt up your spine. You gasped, but you didn't stop. You walked deeper, the water rising past your knees, your thighs, your hips. The buoyancy of the water lifted the heavy weight of your belly, instantly relieving the pressure on your back. You groaned in pure relief, a low sound that echoed across the water.
You submerged yourself completely, ducking your head under the surface. The world went silent and muffled, the heat of the day banished in an instant. You stayed under for as long as your breath would allow, then broke the surface, pushing your wet hair back from your face.
You turned in the water, finding Maekar was still standing there, still watching you. His hands rested on his sword belt, his stance rigid. But the annoyance was gone from his face, replaced by something else. His eyes were dark, fixed on the way the water slicked against your skin, on the curve of your shoulders rising from the depths. He looked struck, as if he were seeing you for the first time, struck by the reality of you — young, wild, and undeniably, vibrantly alive, carrying his child in a body that he worshipped.
You smiled at him, treading water, feeling the cool current cradle you.
"The water is perfect, Maekar," you called out, your voice carrying clearly across the stillness of the lake. "Are you coming?"
He stood with his boots sinking slightly into the soft mud at the water's edge, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression stern. The silver-gold of his beard caught the light, and his lilac eyes were narrowed, scanning the treeline as if expecting a battalion of witnesses to emerge from the bushes.
"I hope," he said, his voice a low rumble that carried easily over the water, "that our child does not inherit your complete absence of propriety."
You laughed, the sound bright and echoing off the water. You swept a wet lock of hair back from your face, shaking your head. "It is not an absence of propriety, Maekar," you countered, and the water felt wonderful sliding over your shoulders. "It is being full of life. You, my husband, should try it sometime."
His eyes narrowed further, the corners crinkling in a way that betrayed his sternness. He looked like a prince trying to scold a wayward sprite, and it only made you bolder. You tipped your head back, letting the water support you, before sinking beneath the surface. The world went silent and muffled, a cool blue void where the only sound was the rush of water in your ears. You stayed under for a moment, relishing the peace, before breaking the surface again with a gasp, shaking the water from your eyes like a dog.
He turned his head slowly, checking the perimeter one last time, his eyes sharp and assessing. The woods were quiet, save for the chirping of crickets and the distant rustle of small animals. There was no one but the two of you.
With a sudden, decisive movement, he reached for the clasps of his doublet. His movements were efficient. He shed the leather and the linen beneath, letting them fall carelessly onto the grass. He kicked off his boots, pulled down his breeches, and stood there for a moment, pale and sculptural in the dappled light.
He stepped into the water. You saw the hiss of breath leave him, a sharp intake through gritted teeth. The cold was a shock to his system, a stark contrast to the heat of the day and the warmth of his blood.
"Seven hells," he muttered, a string of curses following that would have made a pirate blush. He waded deeper, the water rising up his legs, his torso, his muscles contracting tight against the chill.
"Maekar," you exclaimed, giggling as he scowled at the water, his face a mask of suffering.
"It is freezing," his voice tight. He pushed forward, shivering visibly.
You paddled toward him, a grin splitting your face. "I can see that," you teased, letting your eyes drift deliberately over the water lapping at his hips, the way the cold had affected him immediately.
"Oh, can you?" He glared at you, a deep scowl on his face that had absolutely no bite behind it. "You are enjoying this immensely," he grumbled.
You nodded, still smiling, treading water closer to him. You reached the point where you could comfortably place your feet on the bottom of the lake, the silt soft between your toes. The water here came up to your chest, covering you modestly, though there was no one to see. "Immensely," you confirmed.
He reached you, the water now feeling more comfortable as his body heat began to radiate through the coolness of the lake. He reached out, his hands large and warm, gripping your waist to steady you in the water.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, the concern for you overriding his annoyance at the temperature.
"Much cooler," you sighed, leaning into his touch. The relief was absolute. The ache in your back from the carriage ride had dissolved, the restless pressure of the babe soothed by the buoyancy. "Much more comfortable."
He looked down at the swell of your stomach beneath the water, distorted slightly by the ripples but undeniable. "And the little one?"
"Your littlest dragon," you said, resting your hands over his where they gripped your waist, "never slumbers. He is quiet now, though. The water soothes him."
He laughed, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. It came easily, as it always did near you. The tension that etched permanent lines into his face around others seemed to simply evaporate when you were alone like this. He loved you so much; you could feel it in the way he held you, not just as a possession, but as something precious.
He pressed his lips to your forehead, a tender gesture that contrasted sharply with the rough curses of a moment ago. "I am sorry," he whispered against your skin.
"For what?" you asked, tilting your head back to look up at him.
"For the heat," he said, kissing your temple. "And the road. And the endless hours in that damned carriage." He paused, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "And for the children," he added, which made you laugh again, a bright, bubbling sound that he seemed to drink in.
"They are our children, Maekar," you reminded him.
"They are terrors," he corrected, pulling you tighter against him. "But yes, they are ours."
You held onto him lightly, your arms looped around his neck, and he supported you with one hand at your back, the other resting protectively on the curve of your hip. You floated together in the shifting golden light, the world narrowing down to the circle of your embrace. You talked about small things: what you wanted to eat when you returned to the pavilion, the dress you thought you might wear tomorrow, amusing things the children said before the stop. He filled you in on the dull conversations he had been forced to endure with the convoy commanders and told you stories about how he would swim in the Kingswood with his brothers as a child.
You spent this time in perfect peace, just the two of you, content in each other's company, completely in love. The water cradled you, the sun warmed your shoulders.
Eventually, though, the sun began to dip lower, casting long shadows across the water, and the air took on a sharper edge. Maekar noticed it first. He rubbed a hand up and down your arm, generating friction.
"It is time to get out," he said, though he made no move to release you. "Or you will catch a cold, and I will be forced to listen to the Maester lecture me on the humors of the body for an hour."
You sighed, resting your forehead against his chest. "I suppose you are right."
The water felt colder the moment you left his embrace. You waded back to the bank, the water dripping from your skin, and he followed close behind. You dressed on the bank, the air feeling cool against your damp skin. There was an intimacy in the silence as you helped each other with buttons and laces, fingers brushing against still-wet skin. You took a moment to just stand there, savoring the quiet, the smell of the pine trees and the lake, the feeling of being clean and refreshed.
Maekar turned to you, fully dressed again, his hair wet and slicked back, making him look younger and less severe. He stepped close, cupping your face in his hands, and kissed you deeply. He broke the kiss only to lower himself to one knee, pressing his lips to the swell of your stomach through the fabric of your dress.
"Behave yourself," he said to the babe. "Listen to your mother."
He stood up and offered you his arm. "Come, my love. Back to the chaos."
You took his arm, leaning into him as you walked back toward camp. The trees thinned, and the orange glow of campfires flickered ahead. Evening was settling in softly around the edges of the day, the harsh light replaced by the gentle, forgiving glow of twilight.
As you drew closer, the sounds of the camp reached you: the clatter of pots, the low murmur of men settling down for the night. And then, cutting through it all, the children. They were somewhere in the middle distance, still running, their voices carrying through the cooling air. You could hear Egg shouting orders, Daella's high-pitched whine, and Rhae's defiant yell. It was a cacophony of noise, a stark contrast to the serene silence of the lake.
You looked up at Maekar as you walked, his profile stoic and handsome against the firelight. "This babe is lucky I'm their mother," you said, a playful confidence in your tone. "We'll have so much fun!"
He laughed sharply, a bark of amusement that drew a smile from you. "The babe is lucky I am there to keep them out of the trouble you cause," he retorted, squeezing your hand. "Otherwise, we will have a rogue on our hands. A true menace to the realm."
You laughed, the sound mingling with the night air. You looked at him, at the way the firelight caught the silver in his hair and the softness in his eyes that was only for you.
You thought that of everyone in the world, you were the luckiest because you were his.
Synopsis: Silks of mourning, heart of stone, she returns to the shadow of the throne. He seeks to conquer, to bend her knee, but the widow is wilder than the sea. A garden whisper, a shifted power, the poison blooms in the midnight hour.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, Dubcon/Noncon, Targcest, Power Play, Breathplay, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, mentioned Political Child Marriage, mentioned Murder/Poisoning, Toxic Dynamics, Age Gap of 6 years (Aerion is nineteen, Reader twenty-five)
Word Count: 4.5k
A/N: I‘m thinking about turning this into a series, leave some thoughts please
The memory always smelled of incense and stale, spilled wine.
Ten years old and already harboring a cruel, restless fire in his veins, Aerion had stood in the shadow of a weeping marble maiden in the Great Sept of Baelor, his violet eyes narrowed to slits.
The air in the grand structure had been thick, suffocatingly dense with the perfume of burning Myrish resins and the heavy, metallic tang of melted tallow from ten thousand candles. The high, vaulted ceilings of the Sept had caught the low, monotonous drone of the High Septon’s voice, turning the sacred vows of holy matrimony into a droning, endless dirge that echoed off the Seven-pointed walls.
Aerion had not been looking at the holy man, whose heavily embroidered vestments swept the polished marble floors, nor had he been looking at his father, Maekar, whose heavy, block-like brow was furrowed in silent, characteristic displeasure beside him.
Maekar hated King’s Landing, hated the courtly displays, and hated the political bartering of his own family.
But Aerion’s mind was entirely disconnected from his father’s brooding.
He had been looking at her.
She had been sixteen then, a Late-Born Princess draped in silver-spun lace that had looked like frosted cobwebs gathered from the deepest, most ancient catacombs of the Red Keep. Her Targaryen features were so painfully, radiantly pure that they seemed to mock the lesser bloodlines of the Realm that had gathered to witness the sacrifice.
She had been bartered away to the highest bidder, an arrangement handled with the cold precision of an accountant closing a ledger.
Her mother, Queen Myriah, had died bringing her into the world—a late, exhausting pregnancy that had withered the Queen’s remaining strength, costing the Realm its mistress and leaving this girl as a beautifully tragic afterthought in the crowded, hyper-politicized halls of the Capital.
She was a child born to an aging mother, a Princess who arrived when the royal nursery was already overflowing with heirs and spares, making her a pawn to be saved until the political scales required a heavy counterweight.
To secure the Realm after the Blackfyre Rebellion—where the immensely wealthy House Hightower had notoriously kept a foot in both camps, sending sons to fly the red Dragon and the black—King Daeron knew he had to bind Oldtown tightly back to the Iron Throne.
The solution was the Late-Born Princess.
She was handed over to the young, prideful heir of Oldtown, a man whose family ruled the richest city in Westeros, the seat of the Faith, and the home of the Citadel.
Aerion vividly remembered the way the young, haughty Lord Hightower’s hand had clamped around her delicate, pale wrist at the altar.
He remembered the sickening aura of righteousness that draped the man—a youth steeped in the suffocating etiquette, religious piety, and endless hypocrisy of Oldtown.
Aerion remembered the precise moment his young, volatile heart had turned into a knot of black, possessive fury.
Even at ten, a boy already standing on the precipice of his own celebrated malice, Aerion had known with a terrifying certainty that she did not belong to that pious, arrogant Hightower.
As she had walked past him down the aisle, her amethyst eyes had briefly flicked to the young Prince standing by the pillar. She had not looked broken; she had looked entirely hollow, a cold, empty vessel waiting for a purpose.
Aerion had reached out, his small hand brushing against the trailing silver silk of her veil as she passed, a silent vow binding him to her before he even understood the true nature of his own desires.
She belonged to the fire.
She belonged to him.
For nine long years, that memory had festered in the dark corners of Aerion’s mind like a wound that refused to close, rotting into something dark and obsessive. While he trained in the dusty courtyards of Summerhall until his palms bled and blistered around the hilts of his practice swords, while he earned his reputation as the volatile, arrogant, and dangerous 'Brightflame', and while his brilliant mind began to fracture into the erratic, violent impulses that terrified his gentler brothers and deeply troubled his father, he had dreamed.
He had dreamed of black ash, of roaring green wildfire, and of ripping his aunt away from the high, oppressive towers of Oldtown, regardless of how much blood he had to spill to achieve it.
The opportunity to finally claim what he believed was his birthright had aligned perfectly with the grand political movements of Summerhall and King’s Landing.
The grand tourney at Ashford Meadow was drawing near—an event of massive proportions meant to draw the finest knights, the richest lords, and the most ambitious hedge knights from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
Prince Maekar had strict, structural plans for his sons, mapping out their journeys like a general preparing for a campaign.
He had already sent his eldest son, Daeron—the thoroughly disappointing, drunkard Prince who would rather drown in a barrel of ale than pick up a lance—along with young Aegon across the land toward the Reach. They were escorted by a small, stern vanguard of Summerhall guards whose sole, exhausting purpose was to ensure that Daeron actually made it to the tourney grounds instead of taking up permanent residence in the first squalid tavern he encountered along the Roseroad.
Maekar himself had ridden North to King’s Landing first, dragging Aerion along in his wake like a hound on a short chain. The purpose of this detour to the Capital was entirely calculated:
They were to convene at the Red Keep with Prince Baelor, the Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne, so the two prominent Targaryen powerhouses, the oldest and the youngest son of King Daeron, could ride down to Ashford together.
It was to be a calculated display of unified royal strength, a visual reminder to the lords of the Realm that the Dragon still ruled supreme, even when encased in black armor.
But the very moment the massive ironwood gates of the Capital opened for them, allowing their horses to clatter over the cobblestones of the lower bailey, Aerion had abandoned his father’s side.
He did not care about Baelor’s endless military strategies, nor did he care about the petty court politics that his father so rigidly adhered to.
While Maekar climbed the steps to the Red Keep to greet his brother, Aerion had caught wind of a specific carriage entering the city walls through the King’s Gate just a day prior—a carriage bearing the heavy stone sigil of the Hightowers of Oldtown, its wooden panels heavily draped in the somber black cloth of mourning.
King Daeron held a dinner in the evening; now, that he had his four children reunited, he wished to see them sitting once again all together at one table—he had been lonely after his wife’s passing, his children having their own families. The King was just a man beyond his prime, yearning for his youth again after the past demanding years—the time of children running within the Red Keep, his wife’s soft hand hooking around his elbow.
Under the flickering amber light of the Queen’s Ballroom, the Late-Born Princess sat draped in modest black silks, playing the part of the perfect, grieving widow flawlessly.
Across the table, sitting in the shadow of his father’s massive bulk, Aerion watched her. He sat slouched in his high-backed chair, a cruel, mocking smirk playing on his lips as he picked idly at his food. When her amethyst eyes slowly drifted up from her plate, her gaze locked onto his, her lips twitching into the ghost of a knowing, condescending smile.
The spark had hit the oil.
Aerion masked his boiling impatience behind a slow sip of his wine, but his mind had already left the hall.
He endured the rest of the agonizingly long feast in deceptive silence, waiting for the dead of night to slip past the guards and claim his long-awaited prize.
The heavy oak doors of the Maidenvault shut out the oppressive, suffocating humidity of the King’s Landing dusk, but they could not shut out the stench of stagnation that permeated the old fortress.
For the young widow, returning to the Red Keep felt less like a glorious, triumphant homecoming and more like stepping back into a familiar, gilded cage—albeit one where the bars were currently draped in the heavy black fabrics of a grieving wife.
She stood before the tall, arched mirror in her private chambers after the family feast, the quiet of the room broken only by the distant, rhythmic crashing of the Blackwater against the jagged cliffs below.
Her fingers worked methodically, almost detachedly, at the silver clasps of her mourning gown. The fabric was a heavy, suffocating Dornish silk, dyed the color of a starless night, absorbing what little light the flickering beeswax candles provided.
She hated it.
She hated the false solemnity of the fabric, the way it clung to her skin like a second layer of sweat in the summer heat, and most of all, she hated the performative, weeping grief expected of her by the hypocrites at court.
They expected her to be a broken, weeping thing, a widow crushed by the loss of her lord.
They did not know the truth.
They did not know who she had become in her 'exile'.
With a practiced, elegant twist of her wrists, she loosened the tight stays of the gown. The dark silk fell away all at once, pooling around her ankles like a shadow cast off and discarded on the floorboards, leaving her standing in nothing but a thin, translucent linen shift. Her Valyrian traits—the flawless, pale skin that seemed to trap and reflect the soft candlelight, the heavy spill of spun-silver hair falling past her shoulders, and the deep, haunting amethyst eyes that had seen far too much of the world’s ugliness—shone brilliantly in the dim room.
She was no longer the young, compliant girl her father had sent away to be broken by a stranger.
She was no longer the frightened maiden who let powerful men control the trajectory of her life.
She was a woman fully realized, a dangerous, calculating contrast to the fragile girl who had been bartered away nine years prior.
Her time in Altsass had not broken her; it had forged her, sharpened her, and left her with a heart as cold and unforgiving as Valyrian steel.
From the dark, unlit corner of the spacious bedchamber, a heavy floorboard groaned.
She did not startle.
She did not gasp or reach for the small, silver-hilted dagger hidden beneath her pillows.
Instead, her eyes merely shifted, tracking the movement through the reflection in the polished glass of the mirror.
Emerging from the velvet shadows near the heavy, dust-laden window hangings was the boy from the Sept, though he had grown far too large, far too muscular, and far too inherently lethal to be considered a child anymore.
Aerion. Maekar’s secondborn out of six children—a testament to how studious her stern brother had been in his marriage bed, filling the halls of Summerhall with a small army of unnecessary Princes.
Aerion was nineteen now, a Prince in the absolute zenith of his cruel, striking youth. He possessed the classical, ethereal beauty of their ancient bloodline.
Still, it was a beauty that had been sharpened to a razor’s edge, warped by a restless, predatory energy that radiated from him like heat from an oven.
His violet eyes were blown wide, his pupils dilated to near-black in the dimness as they swept hungrily over the bare, pale skin of her shoulders, the soft, rhythmic swell of her breasts beneath the thin linen, and the dark pool of discarded silk at her feet.
The nine years of physical distance and silent exile had done absolutely nothing to temper his obsession; they had only turned it into a starving, ravenous thing that had been locked in a cage, waiting for the right moment to break free and consume everything in its path.
”You enter a lady’s chambers unannounced, Nephew,“ she said softly, her voice a smooth, melodic purr that was entirely devoid of the fear, panic, or outrage he so clearly craved to see from her. She did not even turn around to face him, keeping her back to him as she watched him in the reflection.
”Have they entirely forgotten to teach you manners in your father’s house, or do you simply lack the basic wit required to knock on a door?“
Aerion crossed the room in three long, predatory strides, his heavy leather boots making virtually no sound against the rugs, his movements fluid, frantic, and driven by a desperate, volatile frenzy that he could no longer contain.
He did not answer her taunt.
He did not need to waste words on pleasantries or courtly jests.
He closed the final distance between them until the hard plate of his chest pressed flush against the soft curve of her back, his breath hot, ragged, and uneven against the sensitive nape of her neck. In the mirror, his silver hair, shorter and more wildly styled, mingled intimately with the long, flowing waves of hers—a terrifyingly beautiful sight of pure, concentrated Valyrian blood.
”He is dead,“ Aerion hissed, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated directly against her bare skin, sending a jolt of heat through the small space between them. His hands, rough, calloused from years of heavy broadsword training, and unyielding, seized her hips with a bruising force, digging brutally into her flesh through the thin linen of her shift.
”The young lord of Altsass is dead, and you are back where you belong. With me.“
Before she could speak, before she could even draw a full breath to respond to his arrogance, he violently spun her around to face him. His grip shifted seamlessly from her hips to her wrists, his long fingers wrapping around them like iron manacles, cutting off her escape before she could even contemplate it.
With a sudden, aggressive surge of youthful strength, he shoved her backward. Her knees hit the plush edge of the velvet fainting couch, and she fell back onto the cushions, the breath leaving her in a soft huff. Aerion followed her down instantly, crowding her space, pinning her lower body beneath the heavy, solid weight of his thighs and torso.
He loomed over her like a vengeful god of silver and fire, his chest heaving under his fine crimson doublet. He held her wrists trapped flat against the velvet cushions above her head, staring down at her with a smug, triumphant sneer—the look of a boy who believed he had finally, single-handedly conquered the magnificent Dragon he had spent a lifetime stalking from afar.
”Look at you,“ Aerion breathed, his eyes scanning every inch of her face, searching with an almost manic intensity for the first sign of tears, the first tremor of terror, his lips parting in a cruel, mocking smirk.
”The untouchable Princess. The prize of the Hightower. Now you belong to the Brightflame. I will break you, Aunt. I will break you until you forget his very name, until you forget the face of every man who has ever dared to look at you.“
She looked straight up at him. She did not struggle against the crushing hold on her wrists.
She did not cry out for the guards who stood stationed at the end of the long corridor.
Instead, a slow, deliberate smile curled the corners of her lips, entirely unfazed by his posturing. Her amethyst eyes flickered with a cold, mocking amusement—a deep, ancient knowledge that hit Aerion’s fiery temper like a splash of ice water.
”Is this what you think dominance is, Aerion?“ she purred, her voice dripping with a calculated, deeply patronizing sweetness that cut through his arrogance like a knife.
She tilted her head back against the cushions, deliberately exposing the long, flawless line of her throat to him, inviting his malice.
”A boy playing at being a man, hiding behind his royal title and his brute strength? You tremble beneath your armor, little Prince. I can feel your heart hammering against my chest like a trapped bird. You have lusted after me since you were a child wetting its bed, and now that you finally have me beneath you, you do not even know what to do with me.“
Aerion’s face flushed a dangerous, violent red, the blood rushing to his cheeks as his royal pride was instantly, utterly shattered by her absolute lack of submission. He had expected her to beg, to weep, to tremble under the reputation of the Brightflame. Instead, she was looking at him as if he were an amusing, troublesome child.
”Silence!“ he snarled, his teeth bared like a rabid beast, his grip tightening on her wrists with such sudden, vindictive force that her fingers began to go numb against the velvet.
”You think you are a Dragon,“ she whispered, her gaze locking onto his with an unshakeable, terrifying intensity, utterly unbothered by his mounting rage.
”But you are just a boy starved for affection, begging a woman for a taste of what you could never have by right. Go on then. Show me your fire, Nephew. Or are you too weak, too frightened, to handle a real Dragon?“
With a choked, feral sound of pure, unadulterated fury, Aerion snapped.
The fragile thread of his restraint broke entirely.
He let go of her wrists, but before she could even think to move or reposition herself, his large, calloused hand flew to her throat. His fingers clamped tightly over her windpipe, pinning her neck down into the cushions and cutting off her air supply in an instant.
The sudden, violent restriction of oxygen made her head swim, bright sparks of light dancing wildly behind her eyelids, but the physical danger only deepened the dark, wicked thrill coiled tightly in her chest. She did not fight the hand at her throat; instead, she arched her back into his touch, her lips parting as she drank in the sheer, unhinged danger of him.
”I will choke the arrogance out of you,“ Aerion growled, his face inches from hers, his eyes wild with a mixture of hatred and consuming lust.
He used his free hand to rip the thin linen shift down the front. The fragile fabric tore with a sharp, violent sound that echoed like a whip-crack in the quiet room.
Her breasts were fully bared to the cool, stagnant air of the chamber, her nipples instantly hardening in response to the chill and the sheer adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Aerion did not waste another second on words or threats. He abandoned all pretense of royal courtliness, all the rigid rules of chivalry his uncle Baelor tried to beat into him. He tore frantically at his own breeches until he was completely free, his hot, heavy length pressing brutally, unyieldingly against her bare thigh.
He did not ease into her.
He did not give her time to adjust or prepare.
Driven by a feral, aggressive hunger and the agonizing, accumulated weight of nine years of bitter denial, he drove himself inside her with a sharp, heavy, and unforgiving thrust.
She choked out a sharp gasp, the sheer suddenness of him stretching her open, her fingers instantly flying to his broad shoulders. Her nails dug deep into the meat of his back, tearing through the fine fabric of his crimson tunic to draw bright red blood beneath his skin. The pain and the pleasure were a blinding, tangled web, consuming her senses completely.
Aerion began to move inside her with a brutal, relentless, and unpolished rhythm, his hand still heavy and unyielding on her throat, keeping her balanced perfectly on the knife’s edge of consciousness. He was taking her roughly, trying to assert the dominance she had mocked, trying to force a confession of surrender from her lips.
”Say my name,“ he commanded, his voice a broken grunt as his hips slammed repeatedly against hers, the heavy wood of the fainting couch creaking loudly beneath their combined, shifting weight. He was sweating now, his silver bangs damp and clinging to his forehead, his movements frantic, wild, and entirely unpolished by experience.
”Tell me I am your master. Tell me I am better than he ever was. Tell me you belong to me.“
She could barely breathe, her lungs burning desperately for air under the pressure of his palm, but she resolutely refused to give him the satisfaction of the degradation he so desperately wanted.
Instead, she used her own body to utterly degraded him.
She arched her hips high to meet each of his frantic, desperate thrusts, wrapping her long, pale legs tightly around his waist, locking him securely into her heat. She controlled the depth of his penetration with subtle, wicked tilts of her pelvis, forcing a sharp, undone moan from the Prince’s own throat.
Aerion gasped, his violet eyes completely losing their focus as she scooped and squeezed tightly around him. His frantic rhythm faltered as her mature, practiced movements completely disarmed his aggressive posturing. He had come here intending to break her, to ruin her, but instead, he was drowning in her, completely trapped by the very prey he had sought to conquer.
”You are... nothing but a boy thinking of himself as a man,“ she managed to gasp out against the heavy pressure of his hand on her windpipe, a breathless, broken laugh slipping from her bruised lips.
Before he could process her mockery, she brought her hands up between their faces, her fingers flexing like claws as she slid them deliberately around the thick column of Aerion’s throat. She dug her nails deep into his sun-warmed skin, her thumbs locking hard over his windpipe, returning his violence with an aggressive, suffocating force of her own.
Aerion choked, his violet eyes widening in shocked disbelief as she squeezed, restricting his breath until the veins on his forehead bulged and pulsed beneath his silver hair.
The shared asphyxiation turned the air between them into an explosive vacuum. Bound together by a mutual stranglehold, they stared into each other’s eyes—two apex predators trading oxygen for pure, unadulterated madness.
She tightened her inner walls around him, deliberately driving him closer and closer to the absolute brink of his control.
”Look at you... ruining yourself for me.“
Aerion’s control shattered into absolute nothingness. He let go of her throat, his hand flying down to grip her outer thigh, hoisting it much higher over his broad shoulder as he began to drive into her with a desperate, frantic, and terrifying speed.
He was a man possessed, a creature of pure impulse, his breathing coming in ragged, weeping gasps as he sought his release. He was no longer a Prince; he was a starving beast consuming its only meal.
She met him stroke for stroke, her own pleasure rising in a dark, violent crescendo fueled not by submission, but by the sheer, intoxicating power she held over the future of the Realm. She was guiding his madness, shaping his fire, turning his obsession into a leash.
With a final, incredibly deep thrust that pinned her flat and breathless against the velvet cushions, Aerion shattered. He shuddered violently from head to toe.
A loud, undone cry left his lips, echoing off the stone walls of the Maidenvault as he spilled himself deep inside her, his muscles going completely rigid before his strength gave out. Her hands withdrew, the sudden air flow stung his lungs, his body collapsing heavily on top of her, his head buried deep in the fragrant crook of her neck.
The silence of the room returned, broken only by the sound of their ragged, echoing breathing.
For several long minutes, the Prince lay entirely spent, his royal arrogance completely drained out of him, reduced to a panting, heavy weight against her chest. He was weak now, vulnerable, his defenses completely obliterated by the intensity of the coupling.
Her fingers ran gently, almost soothingly through his damp silver hair, her touch remarkably soft, almost maternal, yet entirely, deeply sinister.
She had him.
He was hers now, bound securely by the secrets of the flesh, a powerful, volatile weapon she could wield however she saw fit in the dangerous games of the court.
She shifted slightly beneath him, her lips brushing softly against his burning earlobe. Aerion stirred, lifting his heavy head slightly, his violet eyes lazy, unfocused, and heavily glazed with the afterglow of a powerful climax. He looked down at her with a soft, vulnerable docility—a submissive tenderness he would never show another living soul in the Seven Kingdoms.
”You think you took me by force, Aerion,“ she whispered, her voice a soft, velvet purr that made a sudden shiver run straight down his spine.
”I am the Dragon,“ he mumbled, his voice thick, though the fierce fire had completely left his tone.
”I take what I want. I took you.“
She smiled, a dark, chilling expression that did not reach the cold depths of her amethyst eyes.
Her fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, stopping just beneath his chin, tilting his face up slightly as though she examined a new piece of jewelry for her collection.
”My husband thought so, too,“ she said softly, her voice entirely calm.
Aerion blinked, his brow furrowing as the thick fog of lust and exhaustion began to slowly clear from his brain. He felt a sudden, inexplicable drop in the temperature of the room.
”What?“
”Everyone in Altsass, and everyone at court, thinks the young Lord Hightower died of a sudden, tragic failure of his organs,“ she continued, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper, her eyes locking onto his with an absolute, terrifying clarity that banished the last remnants of his lethargy.
”They wept for him. They praised his piety. But do you want to know a secret, little Prince? Altsass is the city of the Maesters. It is the home of the Citadel... the place where all the world’s secrets and poisons are kept behind locked doors.“
Aerion held his breath, completely paralyzed by the sudden, freezing aura of pure malice that seemed to radiate from the beautiful woman lying beneath him. The Prince who feared nothing felt a cold knot of dread form in his stomach—but the awe, the awe was the worst. Never had he felt such strong, twisting admiration.
”It is remarkably easy to steal from old men who think a Princess is too pure to notice their keys,“ she whispered, her lips curling into a beautiful, breathtakingly malicious grin.
”I fed him three drops of the Tears of Lys in his wine every evening for a moon. I watched him wither, watched him choke, while his own personal Maesters poked and prodded him, completely baffled, concluding it was a natural sickness. I sat beside his deathbed, pretending to worry about my poor husband. I watched the life leave his eyes, Aerion, and I did not blink once.“
ft: baelor, maekar, valarr, daeron, aerion, ser duncan the tall, ser raymun fossoway, tanselle too tall, rowan fossoway
cw: fluffy fluff, f!reader
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𑣲baelor؛༊
he invites you to his study for a ‘talk’, but you know it’s just an excuse for spending time with you. baelor will get everything perfectly arranged: a low, warm fire, candles dimly lighting the room, your favourite wine and fruits "by chance" left on the table. baelor will ask you to sit down, pulling out the chair for you, and start with something serious and mundane, telling you about important political matters and slowly drifting to asking you personal questions. he is a very good listener, though it's hard for you to focus, because of how intensely his mismatched eyes are watching you.
𑣲maekar؛༊
he will walk with you in the gardens, not just because he is old fashionedly proper, but because he thinks it’s the most comfortable way for both of you to talk freely. it is also an easy way to steal glances at you without being obvious. maekar is usually very stoic, but when you are alone, he lets his guard down, fully focusing on you, enjoying your time with him. with maekar conversations are always natural and playful, filled with light teasing and yet unsaid words. you can't help but notice that the royal gardens are unusually full with freshly planted flowers of your favoured kind, even though you mentioned it to him only once.
𑣲valarr؛༊
he wants to show you his favourite books, so he asks you to walk with him and leads you to the castle library. it is spacious and dimly lit, filled with all kinda of manuscripts and old books. but it’s not the grand room that makes your breath hitch, it's the way he is looking at you with so much hope in his eyes, expecting you to like it here. you sit under the heavy oak shelf, shoulders pressed together, talking and laughing for hours. valarr will read to you aloud the poems that make him think of you and you can see that some of his favourite sentences are underlined, with your name carefully written in the corner.
𑣲daeron؛༊
he will come to your chambers late at night with two goblets and a bottle of wine that he has already started. it is improper, yes, but neither of you really cares. daeron's presence is never invasive, his tired eyes watching you with such quiet adoration that your whole body melts. you can talk with him about everything, and you do, gossiping, laughing, and smiling at each other like lovesick fools, feeling the warmth of the wine in your system. daeron temporarily forgets the torturous horrors that hunt him daily and lets himself dissolve in the moment, thinking of nothing but your bright eyes on him. he will make you laugh so hard, you can barely sit upright, your hand on his chest, your forehead almost touching his chin, smiling at him through the giggles.
𑣲aerion؛༊
let's be real, there is no date. aerion just summons you or finds you himself, but in one way or another, he makes sure only he occupies your attention. him being focused or entertained by you is his version of together quality time, even if it’s just watching you sit there with him silently or boasting about his great wins in tourneys. most likely, aerion will just pull you in his lap, putting his chin on your shoulder, tightly gripping your waist, listening to your even breathing. if you also let him talk about dragons, he is literally the happiest man in all of the seven kingdoms.
𑣲dunk؛༊
you walk in the forest together and he is showing you his favourite trees and view points. his heart flutters in his chest like crazy when you take a hold of his forearm to step over a small stream. dunk beams like a kid when you point out the family of deers in excitement. he just loves hearing you talk and being happy, your voice soothes him in a way nothing can’t, so listening to your rambling while walking in nature is his personal version of heaven. you will find a specifically large tree to sit under and dunk will carve out your initials on its trunk, saying that he wants to have a physical reminder of this day. you carve out a D, right next to your letters, adding a heart on top. dunk just stares at you bewildered, trying to suppress a big warm smile.
𑣲raymun؛༊
stargazing. you are lying on the grass, your head on his shoulder, and watch the infinite constellations sprawled on the dark sky. he asks you silly questions, making you laugh, even though he is asking for real. you talk about nonsense, and he just makes it very easy to relax and say whatever comes up in your head, grinning every time you manage to make him laugh. raymun will tell you how smart and interesting you are, how he has always dreamed of being like that with someone and how grateful he is for your company. he accidentally becomes very poetically emotional and says that every time he looks up at the sky, he thinks of you, because the sun and the stars remind him of your beautiful smile.
𑣲tanselle؛༊
she is taking you flower picking with her. tanselle is so excited to show you the special place near the forest edge, the small green field full of wild flowers. she points out the ones, that remind her of you, while you wander through the landscape. tanselle teaches you how to make flower crowns, while telling about her childhood and the warm memories she has about being happy, like she is right now. she makes a flower crowns specifically for you, choosing your favourite colours and puts it on your head herself. near the lake she finds a small heart shaped stone and promises to make it a necklace for you.
𑣲rowan؛༊
she is showing you the beauty of the nightlife, hand intertwined with yours, dragging you past loud tents, farther into the crowds of dancing people. rowan is so excited about everything, rambling nonstop about her favourite places. it is so loud and lively there, with occasional fires lighting the fields, music, and laughter all around you in the air. she will bring you to some cozy tavern, filled with people singing, dancing, or simply chattering with each other. with rowan, you feel the most alive you have ever felt in your life. every worry vanishes from your head when she looks back at you with this happy fire in her eyes.
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a/n: pick your poison, or whatever. just small thoughts. first time writing something like this, would love to hear your thoughts as well! <3 tbh im very insecure about that, bear with me pls *sighs*
I’ve seen takes from people being unhappy that 90% of akotsk x reader fanfics are with a wife reader. I get it, but like, guys - this was to be foreseen. We live in a time in which dating is complete sh*t. Manosphere is running rampant, younger and younger men and boys are adapting this blatantly misogynistic „worldview” as their own, cognitive abilities and communicative skills are dying, dating app algorithms are literally designed to make you miserable… Finding someone relatively normal, not even special, JUST normal, borders impossibility!
And then, in the midst of all that atmosphere, HBO serves us with a bunch of hot men (both older and younger) who are mostly walking greenflags, but like, in a humane way (not counting Aerion ofc, although his actor, Finn Bennett, is cute and seems to be so nice in the interviews), or are at least emotionally vulnerable (here I mostly mean Maekar the Single Mother and Daeron the Poor Tormented Thing).
Like its no surprise that most of us just fell in love lmao
a/n: in which maekar targaryen, unable to marry his firstborn daeron "the drunken" targaryen due to his scandals, strikes an unusual proposal. a marriage proposal, with lady aiana stark of winterfell , a former ward of his late wife. daeron may yet find a calm companion against the constant horrors of his dreams, and aiana may yet rid of her long line of suitors who have long sought for her hand.
warnings: drinking, depressive thoughts, alcoholism, aftermath of trial of seven, mention of scars, anxiety, self consciousness. let me know if i missed some!
READING FROM: Daeron's POV
The morning after the trial, Daeron thought it best to nurse this wound and the memory of that mess of a tourney with some wine.
Though, he does not know when "some" will be enough. His throat has never failed him and gone hoarse calling over the serving boy for ale. He carries enough coin to feel weight in his pockets, but the more he had on him, the quicker they left him.
But today was no day to be drunk. He had to have some discipline, as the tent he was being served under is a memorial service for Lord Beesbury.
Daeron figured he should show some respect by attending. His presence didn't mean anything, because he held no importance. He wasn't the Targaryen that made the crowds part in fear, nor was he the reverend Targayen that they would sing songs of praise. He burdened the Targaryen name.
He's interacted only with the serving boy, while all around he gathered the all-knowing scornful looks of both nobles and servants.
It seems as if wine was his only refuge for every entrapping corner of his life, now. You must hold true to the title, he thought bitterly to himself, while swallowing the bitterness of the drink he grew too well accustomed to.
Daeron the Drunken, people called him. His entire being was diminished into a laughingstock.
He looked the part, too. Nothing about him was princely and dashing and dragon-like. His hair was greasy and unkept. Stubble growing not for the purpose of appearing more manly, and rather, due to dismissing his own grooming. He slouches. He turned away from the discipline of martial practice and court politeness. His mind was forged and crafted with the madness passed down by his cursed family. Now, to add to the role, he's got an alarming scar to ward people off with.
He called on the serving boy again, tapping his cup against the table and fidgeting with the detailed engraved along the rim. Surely representative of House Beesbury.
Daeron's senses were not yet lulled by the wine, as he heard hurried heeled boots against the floorboard. He braced for a knight of the Kingsguard or worse, his own Father, there to drag him out by the scruff like some disobedient pup.
Instead, he caught a glimpse of long black hair approaching him from the corner of his eye.
His heart paused, and the wine was forgotten.
That sole feature of a childhood companion was quick to haunt Daeron in a way no dream of his could. While his dreams were tied to dread and paranoia, the sight of raven hair was traced back to the gentle-hearted Aiana Stark who was loud and spirited, that merely being beside her distracted him from the horrors of his dreams.
But surely, she was home in the North, and didn't witness the humiliating display he set up for himself at the Trial.
Surely-
"Daeron!" Aiana gushed in a hushed voice. She approached him like the five years they spent apart and the weeks of travel between their homes were but a mere suggestion.
She was taller, in a dress of light blue with flared sleeves that exposed her slender forearms. Her raven hair was kept down, while half was pulled back and braided.
She was just as beautiful when she were four-and-ten. Her beauty adapted to the grown woman he did not grew up to see.
Daeron's breath was caught in his throat, and his heart was long forgot its instinctive function to beat for him.
She sat down at the bench beside him, facing him eagerly. "You're alive!" She joked. Though, good-naturedly, as she looked earnestly at him. Even when her eyes landed on his new scar.
Daeron could only afford to hum in agreement. Because without the lulling of wine, he had lost control of his own senses. He couldn't hear clear of the chatter around them that worsened his headache. His fingers felt like pins and needles that trembled on the surface of table. He was certain he was already stinking bitter of wine.
A very striking comparison to Aiana, who looked at him present and waiting for a response. She was leaning forward, their interaction purely only for themselves, and not for any spectacle or politicking. She smelled of pine wood and the light and crisp sweetness of winter roses.
He knew not know what to do with her and her warmth. Many a time he imagined seeing her again. He never imagined himself stinking of wine.
Daeron swallowed thickly, laughing sheepishly at the state of himself. Gods, he felt embarrassed.
"Yes. It's a rather unfortunate thing," he joked back. He fished for the cup as soon as the servant boy finished pouring, drinking desperately to calm the intensity of nostalgia Aiana had brought.
But she was not just sentiment embodied. Daeron knew she was far more than that. She was fierce, her tongue sharp when needed be. She was kind, and adventurous, and an intellectual girl who asked questions that Septas and Maesters enjoyed her spirit.
Now, to the realm, she was the Porcelain Beauty. Now, she's off to get married, but last he's heard about her search for suitors none have succeeded. And how could anyone?
A shameful part of Daeron found relief in that. He knew he wasn't entitled to her. They haven't seen each other in years. She was of the North, where she was beloved by her people, and he rotted in the South and their politics.
But he's always wanted her. In an aching way that he could not bear to dismiss, even as years have gone by. He's ashamed to admit the amount of whores he's requested for raven hair, and how many he had lost himself to them and still found no satisfaction.
They lacked her kindness. And it came cruelly rare for a prince like him.
Another jest by the Gods to make a fool out of him.
"Unfortunate?" Aiana repeated, scoffing slightly. Her brows furrowed disapprovingly. "Don't jest. My family came to watch a tourney and my brother wished to participate, but I was hoping to see you, too. It's been so long."
Daeron hummed in agreement, the truth slipping from his already unstable grasp. "It has." He watched the red liquid swirl in his cup, before placing it back on the table.
He could not ignore her eyes searching for him. He met her, with little courage he had, but darted in retreat almost instantly. He cowered behind his hand and laughed sheepishly at himself once again.
Aiana followed his source of embarrassment, in the way her eyes casted over his cup on the table, and his fingers twitching for it.
Her shoulders and eyes suddenly grew weary. And it was that, that worried her. Not the scar with fresh and disorderly stitches on his face.
He couldn't bear it. He didn't want her to think low of him. That he was, just indeed Daeron "the Drunken," and she made the mistake of coming over and talking to him again.
He pulls his hand away from the cup, and breaking Aiana from that trance.
"Why the sudden visit to the South?" He began, already struggling to breathe. "It's only but some...young Lady's nameday."
Aiana blinked and chuckled. "Yes, uh, Rodrik and I pestered Father about a holiday. Outside of the North. It's all fog and gloom over there. And I've missed the sun."
He chuckled weakly. "Were you expecting a Trial of the Seven? And the foggy morning that was?"
She shook her head hard, chuckling herself. "No. Not at all, no. And certainly not for my brother to participate in that trial."
Daeron felt his cheeks warm at the sight of her smiling. He's glad the five years they spent apart meant nothing to her.
Aiana sighed. She reached for his hand fixated on his lap and reached for it. She gave his hand a firm squeeze. "And I've missed you. That trial was an awful display. Have you been well?"
Daeron let her have his hand. He itched to pull away, spare her from the burden of associating with a drunkard.
But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t
He long stopped caring for glances of pity and shame. Aiana didn't look at him—she searched for him, behind his darting eyes. Because she knew not Daeron the Drunken, slurring his speech and staggering about lost in the wine, but Daeron, the boy troubled by his dreams.
He smiled bitterly to himself, though, his face contorted as if in pain. "Wine does wonders for the wounds, my lady."
She squeezed his hand again, her eyes glassy. "And the mind?"
Daeron found himself at a loss for words and couldn't bare to look her in the eye anymore. It burned when he swallowed, as if his body meant to expose him.
She recalls the horror that paralyzed his spirit. Of course she did.
He was unsure whether to lie and appear collected for her, or to unburden himself once again to someone who has seen his mind shattered and never mocked him or dismissed him for it.
He wanted to walk away from her and at the same time, pull her in and collapse in her arms.
He remembers how she sat with him under the trees, and how she would ask about his dreams. By listening, by being present in his madness was she sifting through the shattered glass that was his mind.
Daeron tested, confessing to her and only to her. "...They always return. Charging at me. And it always finds me unarmed." Then, he shrugged as if to say, there is nothing that can be done.
Aiana's brows furrowed, her eyes growing somber. "Oh."
She looked down, still holding his hand. His hands were bigger than they were when they saw each other last, now even more calloused.
Still, she swept her thumb over his palm.
She looked up again, more determined. "But still, you stand. That is armory people at times forget."
There it was.
Daeron wanted to believe her. He wanted her to stay and tell him more, and dismiss the horrors plaguing his mind.
But two gruffly men bearing the Direwolf sigil of her house came into the tent searching for her.
She mumbled a groan. "I've escaped them for far longer, why must they keep me away now?"
She met Daeron's eyes again, half apologetic for such a short reunion, but half satisfied that she’s managed to visit an old friend. Even through the shutters he's drawn behind his eye.
“When do you go back? To the North?” Daeron couldn’t help but ask.
“On the morrow.” She gave a tight lipped smile. She gave his hand a last squeeze. “I’ll say goodbye before we depart once again.”
And like a sweet dream, she was slipped away from him, leaving Daeron alone again and returning to the only company awaiting him: the cups.
a/n: thank you for reading! comment to be a part of a taglist (if this story even picks up lol BUT I THOUGHT I ATE THOOOO) I have big (healing) plans for Daeron poor baby ugh💔💔 anyway meOW bc this man making me purr teehee.
FOLLOWING PARTS: Part II (Aiana's POV), Part III, Part IV (4),
Can we talk about how spot-on the men's haircuts are in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms? Every single one of them has a haircut that suits them better than they actually do (like they've reached peak hair length), including the hair color.
I post one (1) Lyonel Baratheon piece and suddenly y'all climb out of the woodwork to send in various JUICY REQUESTS for the akotsk men and I cannot believe the trust y'all are placing in my hands with reckless abandon lmfao but PLEASE KNOW I've read them all and I'm GOING TO WRITE EVERY SINGLE ONE. your prompts + character combinations are INSANE and I love that. Unhinged. Yearning. I love them. I have an excuse to bust out all my medieval vocab and references and hoarded knowledge like a scribe. it may take me a hot minute but I am so drafting them all as we speak -
