#betrothal

[konpiii]

POV: Your childhood goblin friend wants your hand in marriage...whether you like it or not...

[dope-trope-105]

Brightflame

Aerion Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Lyonel's sister, Lianna Baratheon, gets bethrothed to Aerion Brightflame. The reader hides a small obsession with dragons; Aerion, once he sees this, realises that there is one in the world who may indulge his madness rather than tolerate it.

Word count: 7.5k Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

ONE

Voices reached your bedchamber before the morning sun did. By the time Amara had finished fastening your gown, Lord Baratheon's temper had carried from the dining hall into the corridors. 

"Your father bids you come at once, my lady."

By the moment you arrived, your father and both older brothers sat arguing. 

More so Lyonel and your father, Gowen sat in silence. 

“Very well. Ask Lianna, she’ll side with me. Come little sister,” Lyonel yelled the moment his eyes found you. 

“What is the matter?” you asked, rolling your eyes as you took your place besides Gowen. 

Your father huffed in annoyance as Lyonel passed you the scroll. 

You gently grabbed the paper, unrolling it to find the invitation to Lord Asford’s tourney, in the name of his daughter becoming a woman of one and three. 

“To Ashford? That is more than a week’s ride from Storm’s End.’ you said, turning to your father. 

“We will not be travelling at all. Half the realm will be there. Princes. Hedge knights. Men looking to win glory. Crowds. And crowds breed trouble.” your father stated, making your brother slap the hard wood of the dining table. 

“That is an insult to Lord Ashford.”

“Only to you, as I understand your goal is to take part in the tourney.” your father replied to your brother calmly. 

“I wish to go as well,” you said, making all three heads turn to you. Lyonel smiled. 

“It has been some time since I’ve witnessed a tourney.”

“It has been ten and nine years since you have last seen war, must I wager one if it is blood you wish to see for entertainment?” your father asked. 

You may have offered only a pout in response, but even that would’ve been too much for your dear father, for your silence itself melted his heart. 

“Do you really wish to go?” he asked sweetly. 

Lyonel only offered you a proud smirk in response. 

You nodded, and your father sighed. 

“Lyonel, it is in your hands that I leave the preparations. You may begin your journey on the morrow,” he paused, eyeing him, “I’m putting your sister’s safety in your hands more than any men I send with you.”

And then it was decided. 

Gowen helped you in preparation more than Amara did. He advised you to keep safe from the night, to not wander from your tents in the darkness, where stags and dragons and knights of unnamed realms howled like dogs. He asked you to keep away from Lyonel’s drinks, and the men he chose to drink as he poured the two of you some wine. He threatened you in the case you believed cheap ale could tough your lips. Till supper you were warned and told and threatened, and at supper your father took Gowen’s place with the same set of warnings and same words of advice. 

It was only Lyonel atop his horse the next day who had no words to scare you. Only a fist in the air as he asked how excited you were to see him joust as you made your way to the carriage. You offered him no more but a small smile. As you had always requested, your carriage was empty save for the minstrel Lyonel had gifted you on your sixth name day, and every name day since, he gifted you with four new barrels. You sat with your minstrel in front of you, a pouch containing innumerable barrels, each barrel with more than twenty ballads.

Your dress had word down from nothing but the cushions of your carriage when you reached Ashford, heads turning to the sounds of a minstrel coming from a carriage behind the Laughing Storm. While your brother chose to dismount his horse to greet those around him even at the late hour of your arrival, you followed Amara to your tents for a bath. You took Gowen’s threats to mind as you dressed into your gowns for the night, only there was no reason but one keeping you awake. 

You’d sweetly asked Amara to risk her life and steal one of the many boxes of reeds your brother had surely brought with him to bring back to you. You had given her the name of the man Lyonel trusted with them, knowing how not one member of Lyonel’s party was without drink as the sunset, it was an easy enough practice. Amara did not do as you told her. She all but gathered your soiled clothes to clean and ran from your tent. And hence, you’d found yourself slipping out of your tent, hair undone, nothing but a thick black cloak failing to cover the delicate of your nightgowns.

The reeds had become the sort of habit to you that you seemed to wander about in the dark for many-a-times. You’d known if your father ever caught you with one, he’d unleash a sort of anger unknown to the world previously on you. It was not very womanly of course. It was made for men who needed a release after a tough battle, or for the men who drank and needed the smoke. It was fire in the mouth. And no women but the whores at the inns touched them, no lady of a noble house, certainly. 

And yet, you snuck out of your tent, snuck into one of Lyonel’s tents despite the sleeping guard standing aside it, and snuck back into your tent with nothing but the agitation of the fire within your own mouth. You lit the reed with one of the candles before shedding the thick cloak off, the embroidered golden stag on the cloak gleaming in the low light of your tent. The orange ember cast a warm glow in your face as you sat on the wooden chair, admiring how the smoke circled your form, moving about like a ghost across the dark of your hair. The smell of the reed mixed with that of the vanilla you always asked for in your baths. You had heard how women shared a distaste for the smell of reed, it did not bother you much, though you knew it mayhaps be more of your dependency on it that seemed to erase that distaste. 

The morrow came with a loud horn that shook you from your bed rather than the soft voice of Amara as was your every morning. “Good morrow, my lady,” said Amara, already preparing your gown. She’d arranged the box under a few books on the desk where you’d left it open before bed.  

Your dress lay beside the bath, a dark, stone-grey gown, silver embroidery across it. Beside it, the box of your silver jewellery. 

“I thought my brother would insist on the black and gold,” you said, leaving your bed as you made your way to the box of reeds. Amara instantly left the bath preparations to close the tent and light the scented candles. As you lit your reed, you rolled your eyes at the look on Amara’s face. 

“Just put more vanilla in the bath,” you said as she came up behind you to tie your hair up. 

“The smell of reed is strong, my lady,” she said, stepping back as you began to open the ties of your nightgown. 

“Do not fret, it will fade,” you said, the reed still dangling in your fingers as you stepped into the warm water, the smell of vanilla stronger than usual. 

You left your tent with Amara as you made your way to your brother’s tents. 

Lyonel was standing on a table, the helm with the antlers resting atop his messy hair as he spoke to his men. None had broken their fast, all stood with their cups of ale raised. 

“Little Storm is here,” Lyonel cheered as you approached him. 

“Better cheer for the Laughing Storm on this morrow, little sister,” he said, raising his cup of ale as the men around you erupted. 

“It has been a good night’s sleep for you then?” you asked, another horn erupting behind you. 

Lyonel went silent as you turned towards the open tent, watching men scramble outside. 

“The king has arrived I believe,” he said, dismounting the table. 

“I better take my place in the stands then,” you said, moving before your brother could answer. 

“I wish you luck, brother,” you said as you left the tent. 

Amara led you to your place, the central stands had arranged a seat for the baratheon lady. You wished lady Ashord of her name day as you took your seat. Knights filled with excitement already stood with their angst horses at the barracks. You looked for gold and black among them. 

Another horn. 

The men began organising. Your heartbeat quickened. It was about to begin. 

“Your brother had enlisted as well, has he not, my lady?” came the voice of Gwin Ashford. 

“I believe yes, he has been speaking on unhorsing one of your champions.” you said, offering her a glance and a small smile before turning back. 

It was within moments that Ser Tybolt Lannister was announced against Ser Androw Ashford. As the joust began, you sat up straighter, peering from the seats. The first tilt went by unbothersome. The second almost hit Ser Ashford. You shifted further in your seat. And the Lannister emerged victorious at the sixth tilt. 

The next announcement was your brother against Ser Robert Ashford. You shifted almost off your seat with each tilt. The baratheon colours shone in the sun, bright and yellow. It was but a joust, but by the seventh tilt, you’d realised you did not wish to see your house see defeat on this day. Your fingers had reached the railing at some point, the voices of the ladies muffled in your ears. Your knuckles had turned white at the ninth tilt. And the next filled you with pride as the crowd erupted in cheers, the name of your house spreading through the voices.  

Ours is the fury indeed, you thought. A large smile over your face. 

The next two jousts went by fast, three and two tilts, a Tyrell and a Hardyng winner, neither a rough match as their challengers barely qualified. You could ride a horse better than Damon Lannister, as could a child of ten. The final joust was a Hightower against Prince Valarr Targaryen. It was almost ironic, for you had read of the dance. Had it not been for the Hightowers, prince Valarr would be jousting on a dragon. But dragon or not, it only took him two tilts. You’d cheered almost as much as you had for your brother. The hightowers had stolen creatures of magic from you, for you could’ve witnessed the magic of old had the dance not occurred.

With five champions, the tourney was dispersed for the while. You’d left your seat to go wrap your arms around your champion stag, Amara running at the tail of your gown as you all but ran towards Lyonel’s tent. 

You threw yourself into Lyonel’s arms the moment he appeared, the ale tipping from his cup as he laughed aloud. “Ours is the fury, little storm,” he said. 

“You are a champion,” you said, your eyes wild with happiness. 

“I have always been,” he said, his men erupting into cheers again. 

You ignored Gowen’s advice when Lyonel handed you the spiced ale. It tasted more of piss than it did of spices, but it was a celebration after all. You sat in your brother’s seat, red-faced with the ale, at some point the stag helm was placed atop your head. A tall knight had joined your brother in dancing atop the table. You had played a small game of chess with this knight, who’d introduced himself as Ser Duncan. 

At some hour, Amara had informed you of the jousting to start again, and had escorted you to your tent. You the ale still burned strong as a haze over your mind, your form not quite upright, your words slurred. She’d come with a cup of some strong herb, meant to push back against the ale. She rubbed the vanilla butter into your skin and face to remove the smell of ale, and with barely any sense of severance and more laugh on you than what it would be without the ale, you managed to walk upright till you took your place in your seat atop the stands once more. 

This time, you watched the jousts with less interest, instead turning a slight ear to the exchange among the ladies murmuring beside you, sitting lazily in your seat, your head still lolling to the side if not for your ironwill to keep it upright. 

At first there were some words about Beesbury. 

"...they say Lady Beesbury has gone through three ladies-in-waiting this year alone," said one.

"She dismissed the last for cutting her sleeves too short." 

"No, no, the girl ran away with a singer." 

"A singer?"

"A lute player, perhaps."

Now, one couldn’t blame a girl under Beesbury running away with a lute player, now could they, she was a snobby cunt of a woman after all, you’d spoken to her once. All that pride in a woman that thick of waist was unsuited after all. 

"Lord Damon Lannister calls that riding?" said Gwin Ashford. 

"Be kind." replied a Tyrell lady.

"I am being kind." she responded. About Damon Lannister’s riding? Kinder words had not been spoken. 

The Tarly spoke up then "Lord Swann has wagered twenty golden dragons on Prince Valarr." 

"Sensible." replied Gwin Ashford.

"I wagered on Leo Tyrell." this poor Tarly. 

"Then you have donated twenty dragons to House Targaryen." Lady Tyrell stole the words from your mind.  

The ladies erupted into muffled laughter before another horn blew. 

“Prince Aerion Brightflame.”

You turned. In your drunken gaze, you could but see the farm armour of flames atop a horse darker still. 

“Son of Prince Maekor.”

The prince turned his horse towards the champions, passed the Lannister and the Tyrell. His horse halted in front of Prince Valarr. You raised your eyebrows. There was a pause, and then, he laughed, moving his horse again. His lance struck at Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s shield. A tired Hardyng rode out on his horse in the next moments. You knew he’d been fighting all day, some would name him the champion of this day. 

As each took his place, you raised from your seat, the gossip dying down in your ears. The lances lowered, the trumpets raised, and then, the horses began charging. You sat upright, the drunken haze still atop your head until your eyes found their place on the Prince’s lance. The lance collided with the horse’s neck, punching through its neck as it came across with a spray of blood. The crown erupted in shock. The ladies turned away as the horse shook, crashing into the wooden fence separating the crowds from the riders, it was an explosion. Timbers flying, dust erupting, the horse continued to twitch and scream in agony. Before Ser Hardyng could free himself, the horse collapsed, trapping a leg under its weight. The knight screamed out in agony. It should’ve ended there. The prince lifted his helm, looking through the crowds, a coy smile on his face. It seemed that the shock on the men and the ladies pleased him. His scanning eyes paused on your brown ones, the only pair looking at him, rather than the dead horse and agonised knight. 

The next moment, the prince pulled his helm down, unsheathing his sword as he began charging against the defenseless champion of the day. Two squires held him back. 

The crowd had lost its mind. As the prince removed the squires from himself, Lord Ashford spoke. Every head in the crown turned to him. He declared Ser Humfrey Hardyng the winner, disqualifying the prince, even awarding Ser Hardyng his horse as compensation. You turned back to where the prince stood. Your eyes found his once more, an anger on his face you had not seen before on anyone, and you came from a house named for its fury. 

You had to pull yourself out of his gaze, as if, suddenly, it was as if you came to your senses with what you had witnessed, and whose eyes you were looking into. “Amara,” you called out, your voice rougher around the edges before tearing your eyes from his gaze. 

“Let us return,” you said, standing up. Suddenly the ale seemed to sit wrong inside you. 

“I do not feel well,” you said, your feet moving before Amara registered your command. 

“My lady,” she nodded, hurrying behind you. 

As you returned to your tent, Amara knew by your form that you were reaching for the reeds as she closed the tent. 

“I feel I need another bath,” you said, suddenly your dress feeling too tight on you. 

“Are you alright, my lady?” Amara asked as she began preparing your bath. You inhaled the smoke from the reed. “Help me out of my dress first.” 

Amara was beside you in no time, pulling at the strings. It was as if breath returned to you as the corset loosened. It was only when you relaxed into the warm water that you felt a sense of calm. 

“What did you think of the bout?” you asked her. 

When she did not respond, you glanced up at her, the ember of the reed glowing as you inhaled once more. 

“It is not my place to say, my lady.” she said. 

“It is my tent, is it not? Speak as you wish,” you said.

Amara hesitated. 

“I believe… the prince was… judged rightfully so.” she said. 

“For killing a horse?” you asked. 

“It is not a joust of horses, they are innocent. It is between knights.” she said. 

“Horses die in war. A bad horse pulls a good knight with it, they are as a part of the joust as they are of their men.” you said. 

“If perhaps the lance slipped…”

“But it did not.” you said. 

“Yes, My lady, the prince meant to kill the horse.” she said. 

“And he charged ad Hardyng,” you added, “but, I do not know.” 

“My lady, does Lord Ashford’s judgement not align with yours?” she asked. 

“Mm,” you thought. Did it? A joust has rules, but then again, all is fair in a joust. But again, the rules stand. 

“I do not know.” you said, the picture of the prince’s angry eyes forming in your head once more.  

Once dressed in your nightgown, you again put on your black cloak, the gold stag gleaming behind you as you approached Lyonel’s tent once more, expecting more fun, but you arrived in an atmosphere far more tense than it was at the bout. You approached Lyonel with your eyebrows threaded. 

“What is the matter, brother?” you asked, taking a seat beside him. The helm lay in front of him, a cup of ale in his hands. Reed filled the tent. 

“Brightflame found a puppeteer,” said Lyonel.

“The prince?” you asked. 

“Yes, A Dornish girl.” he said. 

“I hardly think a prince finding a puppeteer should depress your tent in this manner.” you said, taking the cup of ale from his hands. 

“My little storm,” he sighed, turning to you, “he maimed the girl, and now I've sworn for a Hedge knight.”

“What?” you exclaimed, the ale burning down your throne long forgotten.  

“Dunk punched the prince. By law he should die,” the man sitting in front of you began. 

You turned to him, eyes wide. 

“The Prince invoked a trial of seven, and Baratheon here swore for him.” he finished. 

Your head whipped back to Lyonel, back to the man. 

“You cannot say you are fighting against the Targaryens for a hedge knight you met yesterday.” you said, almost frantic. “Arthur, you see reason in this? He’s a good man, he is not worth my brother’s life.”

Arthur, the man who told you of this disaster, sighed. 

“I will not lose, sister.” Lyonel said. 

“Oh yes, you will simply be the Lord who fought against the Targaryens. Our house will be shamed, our father-”

“Do not speak to me of our father, Lianna.” Lyonel said. 

You stopped speaking, emptying the cup of ale. 

“You are being irrevocably wrong of judgement.” you scowled, standing up. 

“I am choosing to be right.” he said.

You scoffed storming out of the tent. As you entered your tent, you reached for another reed, taking it to bed with you. You forced sleep, but sleep did not come to you. You tossed and turned, thinking of all the problems your house would be under following tomorrow. You had only come to see your brother win, and now he had made a decision that might make the throne wrong with your house. 

When Amara came to wake you up, you had half a heart to not leave your tent. You did not want to see your brother die, or in the case he left with his life, make your house an enemy to the throne. But, you were not dutiless. Your reed burned as you slipped into your bath, the black dress with no embroidery but a silver stag lay beside the bath, high collar, sharp sleeves. You wished you could wear armour of that manner across your mind as well. You let Amara do your hair and put on whatever jewellery she wished before leaving the tent. She had tied your hair away from your face, gathered it all into a dark cloth and arranged a silver stag atop it. 

As trumpets bellowed, you found yourself back in the central stands. Your stomach lurched at the site of your brother atop his horse. He had knighted two men in the moments you had found your seat. Prince Aerion, prince Daeron, prince Maekor, and four men stood at the other end. Only six men stood where your brother was. 

You watched as the poor hedge knight rode out in front of the stands, asking for another man to be as stupid as your brother had been. Only one man stood, not for Duncan, but to humiliate him. You turned to that man, eyes burning daggers into the back of his balding head. 

It was as if the gods wished for his defeat when Prince Baelor, the heir to the throne, rode out, swearing for the hedge knight. At this, you sat so far into your seat you could’ve fallen off. 

With the heir fighting with your brother, maybe your house wasn’t making an enemy of itself to the throne. 

As the charge began, your eyes remained on your brother for quite the while before you realised his life was not in danger. So little by little, glance by glance, your eyes began to wander. The Fossoway brothers fought against one another. Prince Daeron was nowhere to be seen. Half the people were covered so far in mud, that if not for your brother’s helm, it would’ve been quite difficult for you to find him. 

But the two you easily could find were the tall knight and the man in an armour of flames. Prince Aerion was brutalising the hedge knight. He was sheerly skilled, with sword and with mace. Duncan had no advantage but his name, Duncan the tall, for he was not fighting back. All his attempts were easily blocked, and defense seemed to be the last thing on his mind. You wondered if he even was a knight, but you did not wonder one thing, for you were sure he would not survive prince Aerion. 

When he fell to the ground, you assumed he was dead. The prince savagely yelled that it was over, the fighting should cease, for the knight was dead. But a little voice screamed for them to wait. The little prince Aegon. But as the horn was about to be blown, the hedge knight opened his eyes. It was the sheer intervention of gods, you thought. For a man could not live through what the prince had done to him. But he rose. It was worse after that. He cut the prince on his thigh, at which prince Maekor ran towards him, held back by none but your brother. Duncan beat the helm from the prince with his own shield, and then hit his face till there was no skin, but blood. 

Duncan stopped, and dragged the prince to the central stand. Prince Aerion scanned through the eyes once more, watching again to see them, and once more, his eyes locked onto your brown ones. His mouth moved, it was almost as if he spoke to you. Duncan shook him, and his eyes returned to Lord Ashford. 

“I yield.”

If the bouts of problems had ended there as you had thought. You had thought wrong. You had only returned to your room for another reed, glad your brother was alive when Amara came running to your tent. 

“My lady, the unforgivable has happened,” she spoke, frantic. 

You stood at once, eyes wide, ready to see what your brother had done. 

“The heir is dead.” 

You looked at her. For the longest hour, you looked at her, and then you fell back into your bed, almost defeated. The heir to the iron throne was dead. He was fighting for the hedge knight, and he died for a hedge knight. The heir. For a hedge knight. 

Your minstrel remained silent as in your carriage, you travelled with nothing but all the problems that would occur once your father heard of everything that occurred. You refused to speak to Lyonel. Lyonel, apparently, refused to speak. And for what? The hedge knight did not join him. It baffled you how your brother was sour-faced about losing the man the heir died for. As if having him around would not make the iron throne burn your house down with wildfire. 

Your return to Storm’s End was naught but tiresome. And when you arrived at supper, you only asked Amara to read a bath and the bed, you had no wish to see more problems before sleeping Ashford off.

When you made your way to break your fast, father sat silent. Your brothers sat silent. And you knew, the storm was brewing. You took your place beside Gowen once more, wordless as a puppet. 

“King Daeron requests us at the heir’s mourning.” said your father. You stilled. 

“I wonder when we became so close with the Targaryens,” he said. 

No one dared respond to him. 

“For what other reason might there be, it is not that we are at dispute with the throne.”

You looked at Lyonel as your father said so, knowing very well that your house was being summoned for some political arrangement or the other. 

“Preparations will happen today, we ride on the morrow.” 

Your fork clattered as you slumped back into your chair. 

The clutter of your fork was followed not late by the sound of a goblet flinging across the floor. You jumped in your seat, head whipping to where your father now stood, breathing hard. 

“She is just tired, father,” Gowen said. 

“And I am not?” he screamed. 

“Return to your bedchamber, prepare for the morrow,” Gowen said to you. 

“She is but a child,” he said again. You were already hurrying out of your chair. 

“And what of it? It is not as if the years give your brother any sense. I raised a son. The gods returned me a tourney champion.” he yelled. “Oh for fuck’s sake, I was doing what the gods deemed moral” Lyonel stood up. You had already left the dining hall, knowing Gowen would be the sense in a senseless argument between Lyonel and your father. 

The day was spent with you resting in your bedchamber as Amara, once more, prepared for your journey. You refused to do anything but lay in bed and stare at the skies above. There had been no peace in your life for the last few days, and there would be none in the coming as well. So you let yourself be grateful for the still bed on stone as you prepared for more carriages and inns that reeked of shit for the next few days once more. When the morrow came, you asked Amara for nothing but soft fabrics for the travel. And once more with your minstrel and some stolen boxes of reed, you sat alone in your carriage. 

Your arrival at Kings Landing immediately felt that the city mourned. Baelor was known to be one of the best, a great man, the kind who would have been a great king. You dismounted your carriage as the maids escorted you to your appointed chambers. You would be given a few hours before making your presence at supper. And you let yourself have a good rest, asking Amara to prepare a bath to wash off the carriage so you could rest for some time. 

When she woke you again, you prepared for supper. Amara dressed you in light blue, tying your hair up once more with a silver stag. 

As you made your way to supper, you wondered what your father would be arranging with the king for the moment. You were not prepared for a curt smile from the king, one that offers politeness, and the silence in your family like they’ve been told there’s no ale.

You made your way to the empty seat beside Gowen. The Targaryens at supper were sparse. Prince Aerion was not here. You believed he was still recovering. 

As you sat, Gowen instantly clasped your hand. You looked at him, confused. He looked back as if he was apologising. 

“What is it?” you asked. 

“Eat.” 

You looked at your father who held his goblet of wine too tight, and at Lyonel who was looking down at his hands. You began eating. 

“It has long been my wish,” King Daeron said, setting aside his cup, “that the friendship between the Crown and Storm's End be strengthened.”

Your father inclined his head. “It honours my house, Your Grace,” he paused, glancing at you for a moment before turning back to the king, “The realm has suffered enough division.”

“It has. So let us spare another generation for such things.” the king responded. 

You looked at Gowen again. Then at Lyonel, who still looked downwards. You’d never seen him look defeated. What did the king propose that saddened him this deeply, you could not muster. 

“My lady,” the king turned to you. 

“Your grace,” you bowed your head instantly.

“I trust you have found King's Landing comfortable.” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” you said, almost scared. What did you have that the king had to speak about to you?

“I fear I must ask a greater kindness of you than enduring its streets.” he said. 

You offered him a small smile. “I am but your servant, your grace.”

“House Targaryen would be honoured to join itself with House Baratheon.”

Silence. Your eyes drifted towards your father. He did not look at you.

“They have accepted.” the king said. Accepted? Accepted what? You looked at Lyonel. At Gowen. Suddenly your hand found its way under the table back in Gowen’s hand, you squeezed as though pouring all your nerves through it. 

“Prince Aerion shall take Lady Lianna Baratheon to wife.” said the king. It was as if the hall disappeared. You heard nothing after that. Not your own breathing. Not the scrape of chairs. Not the congratulations. You only had one thing in life, your brother’s hand. A lifeline. You looked at him with eyes begging him to drag you out of whatever this was. To save you as he always did, from everything. 

But Gowen looked at you with nothing but sympathy. 

In another wing of the castle, the prince sat by the window, one leg stretched before him. Fresh linen wrapped his thigh where Duncan's sword had bitten him. The bruising along his jaw had darkened to a deep violet beneath the salve. A silver goblet rested in one hand. He watched the rain when the door opened. He did not turn.

“I heard the Baratheons mourn with us.”

Prince Maekar closed the door behind him. “They do so.”

Aerion nodded once. Silence settled between them, he drank.

“You have healed,” Maekor said. A chair scraped. His father had only come to see him once since Ashford. 

“It seems so.”

“You lost.” Maekor said.

Aerion turned to look at his father. “I noticed.” 

“Your uncle has not.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened. He turned away once more. 

“I buried my brother,” silence.

“I watched the realm bury its heir,” silence.

“I have spent ten days wondering whether I lost one brother… or a child with him.”

Aerion had nothing to say. His father was simply telling him things he already knew. 

“You will marry.”

“What?” Aerion’s head snapped back.

“And you will go to Dragonstone, as the king has commanded,” he said. 

“What for?” he asked. 

“You will remain there,” his father simply continued, as if a response was not deemed necessary. “For how long?” Aerion asked.

“As long as it takes,” he said, taking a long breath, “you will wed Lady Lianna Baratheon, and must leave after the celebrations.”

“I do not wish to wed a Baratheon. I am the blood of Old Valyria. You would have me put Baratheon blood upon the line of the dragon,” Aerion said, but Maekor had already set his goblet down, and made his way to the door.

“And I did not wish to bury my brother,” Maekor said as he took his leave. 

The chamber door shut. For a long while, Aerion did not move. The Baratheon in silver crossed his mind momentarily. Then, for the first time since Ashford, he emptied the goblet.

The servants cleared the last of the trenchers. You had not left Gowen’s hand since the moment you had found out about your betrothal. King Daeron dabbed at his mouth with a cloth before setting it aside. “My lady.”

“Your Grace,” You bowed your head once more. 

“You may visit Prince Aerion's chambers, as he is still injured and cannot make his presence at supper.”

You looked at Gowen again. 

“I imagine it is only fitting that those who are to wed should become acquainted,” said the king. Your father remained silent. Gowen squeezed your hand once beneath the table.

You bowed your head. “As you command, Your Grace.”

One of the Kingsguard led you down the halls. Each servant and guard you crossed looked at you with a look that screamed, “We know; we offer nought but pity.” 

The guard stopped in front of a door and stepped aside. You waited. He didn’t move. You looked up at him, but he only looked straight ahead. You waited some more. It seemed you’d have to knock yourself too.

Your knuckles rapped at the door once. Silence. You waited, giving the guard another glance, then you knocked once again. 

“Come.”

You looked at the guard one final time, then slowly opened the door, taking only one step forward. 

Prince Aerion watched the rain still. 

You cleared your throat, “My prince.”

He turned. You looked at him, the same eyes you’d seen at the tourney looked back at you. 

You slowly turned to shut the door behind you. 

You returned to facing him as you began to speak. “The king, he umm… his grace asked of me to visit you as your injuries...” The words died in your mouth. You stood far from him, yet you couldn't stop yourself from looking at the scars on his face. Yellowed edges beneath his eyes, bruises still healing. Thin cuts crossed his brow and cheek, some already faded to pale pink. Without the black armour chased with flames, he looked younger. Your age, perhaps. Not the prince who had smiled over a dying horse.

 Aerion watched you over the rim of his goblet. 

“You may come closer,” he said, taking another slow drink of wine. “I do not bite.”

 You hesitated. “I can hear perfectly well from here.” 

“Can you?” His pale eyes settled on you, unblinking. 

“Because I cannot see you.” His voice was even, almost conversational, yet it carried the unmistakable expectation of obedience. You took two cautious steps forward. “Closer.” 

You stopped again. “My prince...” 

“If we are to marry, I should at least know the face of the woman.” You swallowed whatever protest had risen in your throat and crossed the remaining distance, stopping several paces from where he sat upon the window ledge. He said nothing. He simply looked. Not in your eyes. At your hair, gathered neatly with the silver stag. The embroidery at your collar. Your sleeves. The rings you did not wear. It was not the look of a man admiring a woman. It was the look of someone inspecting a horse before purchase. 

The silence stretched long enough to make your shoulders stiffen. “Turn.” 

You frowned. “My prince?” 

“Turn.” The word came no louder than before. You obeyed, slowly. The rain filled the silence as you turned once beneath his gaze. “Hm.” That was all he offered. 

You turned back to face him. “Are you satisfied?” Aerion rested his goblet upon his knee. 

“No.” Another silence. “But I am informed that satisfaction is not required.”

Aerion placed the goblet upon the stone beside him. He regarded you for another long moment before lifting two fingers. “Come.” You hesitated. 

His hand remained where it was. “Must I repeat myself?” 

The words were spoken without impatience. That somehow made them harder to refuse. You crossed the remaining distance until you stood scarcely an arm's length away. “Closer.” 

Your brows knit. “My prince, I...” 

“You stand as though I carry the plague.” 

You glanced briefly at the bandages beneath his tunic. “You carry a sword wound.” 

Something almost amused flickered across his face. “Fortunately for you, it is no longer contagious.” 

Against your better judgement, you stepped close enough that you could smell the wine upon his breath and the sharp scent of the salve rubbed into the healing cuts along his jaw. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Sit.” He tapped the broad stone ledge beside him. 

You looked from the window to him. “Here?” 

“Unless you know of another ledge in my chambers.” 

You gathered your skirts carefully and sat, leaving what you considered a respectable distance between the two of you. Aerion looked at the space. “That appears to be room for another person.” 

Heat rose to your face. You shifted an inch closer. He let the silence linger, his pale eyes moving over your face with an intensity that made you wish he would simply say whatever it was he was looking for. Then, without warning, he reached forward. His fingers caught the chain at your throat, drawing the silver stag away from the skin beneath your collarbone. The cool metal swung gently between the two of you. 

“Baratheon,” he murmured, turning the pendant once between his fingers. 

“Black and gold.” 

You looked down at his hand before looking back at him. “Yes.”

“Yet you wear silver.” 

He released the pendant. It settled softly against your chest. “I have never seen you in gold.”

Your brow furrowed. “I gather we have not met so often as to make you think I never wear gold.”

“When a lady of gold wears silver as she stands for her house, whilst her brother fights for the knight dishonouring the dragon, it does not go by unnoticed.” 

You stared at him. 

“I remember most things.” he spoke so matter-of-factly that you could not tell whether it was arrogance or truth. “Silver,” he repeated, his gaze dropping once more to the stag. “Most women prefer gold.”

You glanced down at the pendant. “Gold has always seemed... too flashy.” 

One of his brows lifted. “Flashy?” 

“As though one were announcing their wealth before they had spoken.” You shrugged lightly. 

“Silver has always seemed... prettier.”

 Aerion's fingers, wrapped once more around the stem of his goblet, became still. “Prettier,” he repeated. 

“Yes.” 

His eyes lingered on you for another moment. “Curious.”

You waited for him to elaborate. He did not. 

“Was there something else His Grace wished you to tell me?”

“No, my prince.”

“Then I believe we have become acquainted.”

The words landed with the finality of a dismissal. You rose from the window ledge, smoothing the creases from your skirts. “Good evening, my prince.” You had nearly reached the door when his voice stopped you. 

“Lady Baratheon.”

Your hand paused upon the latch. “Yes?”

“Wear gold tomorrow.”

You turned back slowly. “...Gold?”

“Yes.”

You frowned. “I dislike gold.”

“I am aware.” You stared at him. “...Then why?” Aerion swirled the wine in his goblet, watching the crimson catch the fading light from the window. “Humour me.”

“It would not suit me.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I have seen it.”

His eyes lifted to yours again. “I have not.” You sighed quietly. “No.”

“No?”

“I shall not wear gold.” You reached for the latch once more. 

“Lady Baratheon.”

Your shoulders stiffened. “...Yes, my prince?”

“Come here.”

You turned slowly. “I believe we have already become acquainted.”

“We have.” His gaze remained fixed on you. “...come here.” There was the silence that persisted after each command of his that filled the room again. Against every instinct urging you otherwise, you crossed the chamber once more until you stood before him. Aerion looked up at you. “Sit.”

You looked at the narrow stretch of stone beside him. “...Again?”

“You ask many questions.”

You exhaled quietly through your nose before sitting once more, this time closer than before. The cool stone pressed through the layers of your skirts. Aerion did not speak immediately. His eyes settled on your face, searching it with the same unnerving patience he had shown at the tourney. 

“I am to be your husband.”

You nodded once. “So His Grace has decreed.” 

“Then if it pleases me that you wear gold…” His fingers were still set the stem of the goblet, slowly moving them to swirl the liquid inside. “...it shall be your duty as a wife to do what pleases me.”

You frowned. “...But you would not like it.”

Aerion's brow furrowed. “I have just said I would.”

You shook your head. “No.”

 “No?”

“Gold looks dreadful on me.” He stared at you. 

“It washes me out.” You gestured vaguely towards your gown. “Silver suits me far better.” Silence. 

“If my duty is to please you…” You met his gaze with complete sincerity. “...then surely I ought to wear what looks prettier.”

“You presume to know what pleases me?”

“No.” You answered almost immediately. “I presume you have eyes.”

Aerion regarded you in silence. Then, almost absently, his hand lifted once more, turning the silver stag absentmindedly between his thumb and forefinger. The polished silver caught the last of the evening light. 

“You are very fond of this.”

You glanced down. “It was my mother's.” His hand paused for the briefest moment before releasing it. The pendant settled softly against your chest once more. 

“Regardless,” he said, his voice returning to that calm certainty that somehow sounded more commanding than anger ever could, “I wish for you to wear gold on the morrow.”

You sighed. “My prince…”

“It is a command.”

You frowned. “I would rather not.”

“No.”

You blinked. “...No?”

Silence settled between you. His pale eyes did not leave yours. “You will wear gold.”

You felt your jaw tighten. “I dislike being told what to wear.”

“And I dislike being refused.” The room seemed smaller. The rain beyond the window suddenly louder. You searched his face for some trace of jest. There was none. Only certainty. You looked away first. “Very well...I shall wear gold.” Aerion inclined his head once, his back once more finding the cool stone of the ledge. 

At this, you found yourself with nothing to say. Your mood had already soured at the thought of wearing gold upon the morrow. You busied your fingers with the hem of your sleeve, smoothing a crease that was not there. Your lips pushed into a small pout before you realised it, the unconscious expression of a girl who had spent nineteen years being indulged by her father and brothers in her home, men who rarely let her remain upset for long.

“You wear your thoughts upon your face,” Aerion said after a few moments of silence, watching you intently. 

“Hmm,” you nodded, not even listening. Aerion regarded you for a long moment. The way you sulked upon the prospect of wearing gold amused him, there was something unexpectedly... childish about the expression.

Silence stretched between you two.

“If that is all, my prince,” you said, still not looking up. 

“Hm,” was the only response you got. You waited a beat, then two, then hopped off the ledge once more, smoothening your dress. 

“Good evening,” you said, heading for the door. Aerion watched your dark, gathered hair swing across your back as you exited his chambers, yet another silver stag, a glimmer in the dim light of his chambers. 

[the-modern-typewriter]

I think I saw that one of your fav authors is VE Schwab. I actually found your blog while I'm waiting for one of her books at the library. I love how you both do power dynamics and flow! I 💕 your blog!!!

I would love to see a possessive king who has to keep recovering a prince that's betrothed to him but keeps running.

Thanks for giving me my fix while I try to last the months long wait at the library! 😂

"You're clever enough to keep escaping despite all odds," the king murmured. "Why aren't you clever enough to realise that will never end where you want it to?"

The prince glared at him.

The king helped himself to another sip of tea, before he finally deigned to glance up from his breakfast table. Implacable. So seemingly genteel among the fine trays and silver, as if he were not a thing of avarice and dominion made flesh.

"Even should you make it all the way back to your kingdom," the king said, "they'll send you straight back. They gave you to me, remember? You are my betrothed by right."

"They don't know you. If they'd known who was truly asking-" The prince bit himself off, his fists curling.

The king hummed.

"And you think telling them of my true nature will spare you it. That they'd fight for you?"

"Of course they would."

"And would they fight for you like I would?"

The prince stared.

The king smiled, pleasantly, and slid a plate of hot bread rolls across the table towards him. An indication to sit.

The prince did not, though his legs felt jellied with the exhaustion of running. He said nothing.

"I'd fight for you like a holy war," the king said, voice too soft for such dark eyes. "Like laying siege to paradise. I'd fight for you in a thousand year campaign. I'd reduce your kingdom to a citadel of bones and ash before I let them keep you from me. I'd begrudge you no amount of bloodshed, no horror, because you are mine." His head tilted. "How would your former people fight for you?"

"Honourably," the prince snapped, mouth dry. "Kindly. I am their prince!"

"Perhaps." The king shrugged. "Or perhaps they'd begrudge. Resent the ordinary lives wasted and the livelihoods ruined by their pretty little princeling who thought he had the right to marry for love. As if he were just a man."

Bile burned up the prince's throat, at that.

"Merely something to think about," the king said.

"Maybe I won't go home then! But even five minutes away from this place, away from you, is a blessing."

The king did not seem offended or bothered by that, any more than he had the prince's glare or numerous defiances. It made the prince want to shake him until his teeth rattled.

"Do you not care that I do not love you?" the prince demanded. "That I do not wish to be yours?"

The pleasant smile flickered off the king's face for the very first time and what was left was terrible.

The prince took an automatic step back, though he did not consider himself a coward.

The king rose from his chair, rounding the table. The prince looked around at the guards but they were the king's guards, no matter their official job title, and they only stared ahead unmoving. No doubt, they would stare even if he started screaming. Crying. Pleading.

The prince backed up another step before forcing himself to hold his ground. His shoulders squared as the king came to a stop in front of him. He braced for - he wasn't sure what.

"I will say this once, and only once, my clever prince." The king stroked the backs of his knuckles gently down along the prince's jaw, nudging his gaze back when it tried to slide away. The prince's breath hitched. "If I did not care, I could keep you with broken legs in a straight jacket, blind and dumb and mute until I felt you'd learned your proper place here. I could marry you tomorrow without care for your own customs, rituals or comfort. Do you understand?"

The prince felt a little dizzy.

"There a worse fates in the world than being mine," the king said. "The sooner you understand that, the sooner you might make a home in this place that you are not so eager to run from."

"So I should thank you?" It came out hoarse.

"I do not expect you to thank me. I know who and what I asked for when I asked for you."

The king's hand dropped and, for the first time, the prince felt strangely bereft of its heat. Its grounding presence. He swallowed.

"Get some rest," the king said, his pleasant smile back, "if you will not join me for breakfast. You have had a difficult night, from what I've heard, and I'm sure your next attempt to flee this place will be no less gruelling. You'll need your strength, love."

The prince let himself be led back to his chambers in a daze.

[m1santhropicc]

Can someone PLEASE write a Valarr Targareyan X y/n story in which it's basically the plot of "Queen Charlotte" (the bridgerton spinoff) except maybe with the writers own personal changes in mind. But it ESPECIALLY needs to have some sort of concept the same/similar to the scenes of when George and Charlotte became acquainted, he told her his title is "just George" to her instead of "My king" inviting a sense of comfort between them but later on, after the wedding ceremony when he tried to quickly hurry off to some where else & she kept questioning him as to why he was leaving, how they would consummate the marriage (even though she had no true grasp of what that meant) , & if they were meant to live their marriage separately. Which caused him to raise his voice telling her he does not need to explain himself because he is "Her king" resulting in her falling back (and lowkey serving petty queen) apologizing and telling him she thought he was "Just George."

Someone out there who has both watched "Queen Charlotte" and AKOTSK should absolutely do this and make it a multiple part series, i would be SOLDD.

It should have

angst, miscommunication, drama, yearning,

jealousy(and some smut) + more. . .

i have more to say about this but i'll leave it here for now cs i'm yapping.

[rosiel-leclerc04]

Can you write one with a marriage pact? Like when they were kids they promised to get married to each other by a certain age (preferably Charles but idc)

Hello my star! Thank you for the request! My first ever request hehe. I hope you like it!

Open for Request and Asks!!! request open for any F1 drivers, can do F2, F3, Indy, Motogp but I need to check them out before doing them so I actually know them. No smut cause I can't write smut to save my life.

Pathetically Yours

Charles Leclerc x Reader

-Where the monagasque man is betrothed to his mother's bestfriend's daughter whom he never actually met because of they left monaco before he even had time to really remember anyone, he never liked this arranged marriage but when he saw who his future wife is? Head empty, Pretty Lady.

From the time you were barely old enough to understand the world beyond your toys and bedtime stories, there had been a silent thread tying you to Charles Leclerc. He had known about it even as a boy, the whispers of adults and the knowing glances exchanged over dinner tables making the arrangement impossible to ignore.

For Charles, the knowledge had never been something sweet or comforting. He was two years older than you, old enough to catch on to the subtle comments adults made, yet too young to grasp why they were deciding his future for him. At eight years old, he would overhear your mothers speaking in hushed but cheerful tones about how perfect the two of you would be together one day. He remembered sitting on the floor with his toy cars, hands suddenly still, the words sinking in like stones at the bottom of his chest.

It was not you he disliked-never you but the lack of choice. The thought of being tied to someone because of a decision made over coffee and laughter felt like a rope tightening around his shoulders. Every time Pascale mentioned “the girl you will marry someday” in that warm, knowing tone, he would force a small smile, but his mind would drift to the idea of running away to somewhere no one could tell him who he was meant to love.

What he never knew in detail was that this arrangement had been Pascale’s idea from the very beginning. Your mother, her closest friend, had laughed at first when Pascale suggested it, their children, so close in age, growing up together, would make the perfect pair. It sounded romantic to them, almost like a modern fairytale. But to you and Charles, it was an invisible wall, separating your childhood from the freedom to choose who you might become to each other.

Your life had taken a turn far from Monaco’s golden coastline when you were still a child. Your father’s work had pulled your family across continents, settling in South Korea where his ambitions took root. Years passed, and those ambitions flourished into a powerhouse, a technology manufacturing company that became one of the most influential names in the industry. It was a life of innovation and progress, filled with meetings in skyscrapers and conversations about markets you barely understood at the time.

In the background of it all, the old arrangement still lingered. It was never spoken about openly, but it remained like a bookmark in a story neither you nor Charles had chosen to write. You grew older, surrounded by a different culture, a different rhythm of life, while Charles lived his years in the relentless light of the Formula One world. The two of you became names in each other’s households rather than faces, the connection reduced to the occasional mention in a conversation you were not meant to hear.

Then, in 2025, your parents decided the waiting was over. Charles was twenty-seven now, and you were twenty-five, both of you long past the days of childhood hesitations. To them, it was the perfect time for the meeting that had been delayed for over two decades.

Your father, ever the strategist, found the perfect excuse to make the encounter happen. In a move that made headlines in the motorsport and business worlds alike, he announced his company would become a major sponsor for Scuderia Ferrari. The partnership meant more than just logos on a car, it meant obligations, appearances, and visits that would conveniently place you in Monaco, right where Charles lived.

For your father, it was business. For your mother, it was destiny finally aligning. For you, it was the reopening of a chapter you thought might never be written.

Charles had been grumpy about the entire ordeal from the moment his mother mentioned it. The idea of meeting you after all these years felt like walking into a play where everyone already knew their lines except him. To make matters worse, he had never met you in person. How was he supposed to greet a stranger as though they were the missing piece in his life simply because their parents had decided it so?

All week, his mood had been a quiet storm. He went about his training sessions, sponsor commitments, and simulator work with a stiffness in his shoulders that even his team noticed. Every time someone from Ferrari mentioned your father’s company joining as a sponsor, he forced a polite smile, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He imagined an awkward dinner filled with forced conversation and his mother’s expectant glances.

When the evening finally arrived, he was already seated at the long, candlelit table in the private dining room of a restaurant overlooking Monaco’s harbor. The low hum of conversation and the faint clinking of cutlery filled the air as he nursed a glass of wine, eyes fixed on the doorway only out of impatience.

Then you stepped in.

It was as though the entire room paused for a heartbeat. The soft golden light caught the curve of your face, the gentle movement of your hair as you looked around, and the confidence in the way you carried yourself. You were no longer the shadow of a childhood arrangement, you were real, breathtakingly so, and nothing like the vague image he had conjured in his mind over the years.

For a moment, Charles forgot every reason he had been irritated. His chest tightened, not from discomfort this time, but from something far more unsettling, awe. The stranger he had been dreading to meet had just become the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

For the rest of the evening, Charles was not himself. The man who could handle the world’s press with calm precision suddenly found himself stumbling over his words, his sentences trailing off whenever you tilted your head or smiled at him. He kept stealing glances, each one making his ears a little warmer, his cheeks a little redder.

You spoke with an ease that left him struggling to keep up, your laughter spilling into the air like music, pulling him in without effort. Between sips of wine and shared plates, he kept finding excuses to ask about your life in Korea, your work, your travels, anything that would keep you talking so he could keep memorising the way your eyes lit up.

When dinner came to an end, the night air outside carried the faint scent of the sea. The street was quiet, the glow of the restaurant’s lanterns casting a soft halo over the cobblestones. You turned to him just before stepping toward your car, leaning in close enough for him to catch the faint trace of your perfume.

“Had a nice time, darling. Hope to get to know you,” you purred, your voice low and warm right in his sensitive ears.

Charles froze, the word darling echoing in his mind like the roar of an engine. He felt heat rush to his face so quickly he could barely manage a coherent response. Behind him, Arthur’s muffled laugh broke through the moment, his younger brother clearly enjoying the sight of Charles reduced to such obvious fluster.

But then you delivered the final blow. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes catching his in the dim light, a playful smile curling at your lips.

“He’s lucky I like my men a little pathetic,” you said, giving him a deliberate wink before slipping into the driver seat of your car.

The door closed, and the sleek vehicle pulled away, leaving Charles standing on the curb with his mind in complete disarray. Arthur’s laughter rang out beside him, but all Charles could do was stand there, utterly short-circuited, replaying every second of your parting words until he was certain he would not be able to sleep that night.

My first ask i love you anon

Also my fuckass forgot to put tags smh

[touchofhemlocktea]

DP PROMPT

Ghost Kings Consort

So Danny dodges the attempts to get him to pick a consort for a solid year. He's only 15 when he becomes King for Ancients sake.

Well, technically Crown Prince, but magically, he's considered king even without the official coronation.

Clockwork calls Danny and lets him know that if he doesn't have someone betrothed as his consort within the next year, the council will pick an appropriate consort.

Now Dan has been fully reformed and has taken up the hero identity of Phantom now that Danny's stepped back...

Danny also remembers the rumors that he and Phantom were dating...

The observant hate Dan...

The observants are the ones pushing him politically in an attempt to control the throne...

He thinks he has a pretty smart solution.

Time to Marry himself!

[vixenya1]

Vowbound

I. Steel

Baelor Targaryen × OC/fem

Summary: A Lady of Starfall is promised to a Targaryen prince, but not all blades are meant to remain sheathed. One encounter changes the course of her future-and catches the attention of a man who says nothing at all.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: Arranged betrothal, verbal harassment, threats of violence, drawn weapons, attempted intimidation, canon-typical misogyny, court politics, and mild physical confrontation. Aerion being an evil labubu as usual.

A/N: So this is my first time ever writing anything so i'm kinda nervous and English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes. And it's gonna be a long story with slow burn and smut just hold on tight.

The Dornish sun had always been starkly different in comparison to King’s Landing — less suffocating somehow. Salt instead of smoke. Sun-warmed stone instead of damp red walls. Dorne breathed where the capital merely endured.

Voices echoed through the hall below as servants rushed to prepare for the royal arrival. Her brothers had been unbearable for days, arguing over hunts and races and whether Prince Valarr would join them in the cliffs beyond the Torrentine. They had always been fond of prince Valarr.

But she had heard only one name.

Even now, years later, it lingered in her mind strangely.

Not because she knew him well. She did not.

Only fragments remained: a tall figure in black and red bending to speak to her when she was small, a steady voice in the gardens of the Red Keep, two deep colored eyes that always seemed to notice more than they should and it always made her uneasy to be seen that much, almost like he can see through anyone.

Her mother, Princess Daenerys: the only daughter of king Daeron the good. She always likes to call him the best of the five of them.

She sat there as her maids were finishing braiding her hair and putting violet gems in her hair matching her flowy dress. she had been lost in thought forgetting about time and about everything else…

She kept rethinking the talk she had with her parents about the betrothal between her: Lady Rosaelia of house Dayne and Prince Aerion of House Targaryen. Her cousin through her mother’s side. But she loathed him, he has always been cruel, inadequate and evil to say the least about. Both houses had postponed the alliance enough and it was finally getting to a head.

Rosaelia hated Aerion since childhood, not able to comprehend that she would ever be betrothed to such a person! A person who is apathetic. She kept thinking how she would get married to someone who threw Aegon’s cat from the wall. She had gifted Aegon that cat as a present for his fifth nameday.

Besides the malicious things he used to torture her with just for being younger than him. She kept telling herself ’perhaps he has changed!’ or ‘maybe he has grown?’.

But wasn’t the only reason he stopped tormenting her was because she threatened to hex him if he didn’t stop. And it isn’t a secret that Rosaelia is fond of her great aunt Shiera and always spent time with her when she visited kingslanding, Rumors of her practicing magic has already been whispered countless times.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by the horns sounded from the yard below.

“They’ve arrived,” one of the ladies breathed. She took one last look at her reflection in the mirror before she left.

By the time she descended, House Targaryen had already flooded Starfall. Knights, banners, white cloaks gleaming beneath the sun. Prince Maekar stood near the center speaking sharply to Aerion lounged nearby with that familiar cruel amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. Even from across the courtyard she disliked the sight of him.

She stood next to her parents as Prince Baelor approached, her eyes landed on him as he spoke to her father, Lord Olyver.

He stood apart without trying to. Taller than the others, broader, dressed plainly for a Prince — dark velvet, no unnecessary jewels. Time had changed him less than it should have. Until his eyes looked at her.

The memory she carried of him had not prepared her for that gaze as a woman.

Gods.

It was not improper. Not even close. Prince Baelor was too disciplined for that. But his eyes settled on her with unmistakable recognition, and for one long moment her breath hitches. The intensity of it nearly made her look away first.

Then he crossed the courtyard toward her as the conversation around seemed to dim despite the noise.

He gave that same kind smile “My Lady” he said, inclining his head. His voice had deepened with age — calm, measured, impossible to fluster. She suddenly remembered being fourteen and unable to speak more than two coherent words to him during a feast in King’s Landing.

“Your grace” she calmly replied with a practiced bow.

“You have grown, I see” He said with his usually kind tone.

“Well, it has been long since I have visited. How’s the King? I hope he’s in good health?” She shyly replied.

“A few grey hairs here and there, but he’s still the same. he would have loved to see how much you’ve grown” He said as his eyes lingered for a second.

“We will be visiting soon enough, my prince.” She kindly spoke, they both knew what it meant. She was soon enough be Aerion’s bride.

Before he could answer they were suddenly cut by the rest of the family, her mother: Princess Daenerys has finally finished dotting on Rhae and Aegon and came to chat with her older brother. She excused herself and went to welcome her cousins that stood in a distance with her siblings.

The great hall of Starfall was deafening, a cacophony of scraping silverware, spilling wine, and the heavy talk of politics. At the head sat the elders. Her mother, Princess Daenerys, looking every bit the Targaryen regal beauty as she conversed with Prince Baelor, while her father, Lord Olyvar, tried to keep pace with Prince Maekar’s stern, demanding talk of politics.

Further down, the hall felt lighter. Her older brother and sisters, Myles, Nora and Helaine were laughing with Prince Valarr and his wife, completely charmed by the golden heir to the Iron Throne. Next to them sat Daeron who was drunk already and Aerion who was listening to his father’s conversation with her father.

Her eyes drifted to the far end of the table where the children sat. Egg, Rhae and both her nephew and niece, Sylas and Faeryda were eagerly listening to her brother Vaemond and their cousin Matarys as they were speaking of their swords training.

“You aren’t eating, cousin.”

The voice cut through her warmth like frost.

Rosaelia stiffened, her gaze snapping across the table.

Aerion was lounging back, a chalice of arbor gold dangling loosely from his fingers. His older brother, Daeron, sat beside him, already half-drunk and staring blankly into his soup. But Aerion was entirely sober, his bright, lilac eyes locked onto her.

“I have eaten, Prince Aerion.” She replied before pointing at his dish with a look.

“You don’t seem to have enjoyed the Dornish spices,” Rosaelia added, keeping her voice smoothly polite, though her skin crawled. “I recall it can be overwhelming for those not born to them”

“Oh, I find I rather like the heat,” Aerion murmured, his smile widening into something sharp and predatory. “I look forward to taming it.”

The implicit threat of their unspoken betrothal hung heavily in the air between them. Rosaelia felt the urge to probably strangle him. She lowered her eyes, looking anywhere else-and found herself meeting the gaze of Baelor from across the table.

Baelor had paused mid-sentence with her mother. His dark eyes shifted from Aerion’s smirk to Rosaelia’s rigid shoulders. He didn’t say a word, but the sudden narrowing of his brow told her everything. He had noticed.

Overwhelmed by the heat of the room, the noise of Valarr’s laughter, and the weight of Aerion’s eyes, Rosaelia quietly excused herself before the final course was even served. She needed air.

She wandered around freely for a long while before retiring to her solar, it had gotten late already. A few maids passing by and guards around when she heard noises and clashing near the courtyard as she passed by on her way back inside. She followed the sounds and happened to walk on Aerion holding a knife against Vaemond’s throat, threatening him with something she didn’t quite comprehend from surprise. She froze in place for a second.

Before she could even think she has burst in and pushed Aerion away as she yelled from the top of her lungs.

“What is wrong with you, get your filthy hands off of my brother!”

Aerion staggered back from her push—staring coldly at her. For all his cruelty, Aerion had never been challenged by anyone but her in their younger years. And she knew the look in his eyes, he’d assumed she would cower behind silk gowns and courtly manners now that Rosaelia has become a Lady and he is a Prince. But luckily enough they were not betrothed, not yet.

Vaemond stumbled back, pale and wide-eyed—still clutching his throat where the knife had grazed, his face bloodied.

“You dare lay hands on my brother?!” Her voice cracked through the night air sharp enough to cut steel.

Aerion sneered at her and raised the knife again.

“Get out of my way,” he growled. “This is between me and this little coward.”

The guards had ran inside, but no one moved to stop him. They wouldn’t dare touch him and Aerion knew it well enough.

Aerion lunged forward, she stepped back until her back hit the wall. Her hand scrambled against the stone wall, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of a decorative training sword resting in the courtyard rack. With a harsh scrape of steel, she unsheathed it, thrusting the blade forward just as Aerion closed the distance.

The tip of the steel stopped mere inches from his throat. Aerion froze as she heavily breathed.

“You impudent little rat,” he hissed. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Step back,” she warned. Her voice shook, but the blade held steady.

A smirk curled his lips. He took a slow step forward, the steel almost brushing his skin. “Put it down, darling. This isn’t a maiden’s courtly play.”

Rosaelia lunged. A gasp rippled through the growing crowd: guards frozen at the edges; Maekar pushing forward along with the rest of both families.

The flat of her blade slammed into his chest, throwing him back against the wall. The knife clattered from his grip. Before he could recover, the edge of her sword kissed the soft skin beneath his jaw.

“If you ever lay a finger on my family, Aerion. I will have your filthy hands for it. And I do not care if they will excute me for it so I might as well cut your throat off too!” she shouted at him.

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Guards stepped forward now; knights moved in formation.

“Rosaelia, let him go”, her father broke the silence but was stopped by Baelor with a hand gesture.

“You fucking dared to put a knife against my brother’s neck, I ought to have your throat for it, eh?” She pressed the blade against his throat.

No one had ever done this to him. Aerion didn’t flinch. Only she could see his pulse jump as he stared down at her.

Maekar reached them first.

“Enough!” He barked.

In one swift motion, he grabbed Aerion’s wrist—and wrenched it aside and with his other hand, Maekar seized her shoulder.

The thin red line on Aerion’s throat marked the moment the alliance was broken.

He touched it with his fingers. Just a graze. And yet… no one shouted for her arrest.

Maekar studied her—and then glanced at Vaemond—then back at Aerion.

“You..” She breathed as she pointed the sword to Maekar’s face. A loud gasp came from the gathered crowd. The king’s guard stepped closer ready for a word to interfere, perhaps seize her…

[7pleiades7]

Lucy Ebberton (c. 1745-50), (detail), by George Knapton (1698-1778), oil on canvas, 76.5 x 64.1 cm, Dulwich Picture Gallery, Dulwich