THE CRUEL PRINCE. part I
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader
he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.
warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.
tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.
divider creds. @/feimingo
PART I. 5.5k words | masterlist
The dream was always the same: a blur of silver-gold hair and the scent of strong, spiced wine.
In the darkness of the nightmare, Aerion’s face was a masterpiece of Valyrian cruelty. He was eerily handsome, his violet eyes glowing like embers in a dying fire. You felt the suffocating weight of him, and then the sharp throb of pain that made the world tilt. Your lungs seized; you began to hyperventilate, the air in the room turning to ash.
You saw the flicker of genuine irritation cross his beautiful features. It was the look of a man interrupted during a holy ritual.
"Cease that noise," he hissed. "It is a singular honor to be touched by the Brightflame. You sound as if you are being put to the rack."
"Forgive me, my Prince," you gasped, your fingers clawing at the expensive silk around you. "I will... I will be silent..."
The pain flared again, and as your breath hitched into a broken sob, his lips curled in unease. He pulled away, the sudden absence of him inside you feeling like a slap.
"I have no desire to continue if you are going to make that noise," he grumbled, throwing his head back and cursing under the Seven. "You are… tedious."
The words began to distort, deepening into a low, rumbling roar that sounded like the ground cracking open—
You woke with a violent jolt, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The morning light was a brutal intrusion, cutting across the massive Targaryen bed. For a moment, you couldn't breathe, but it wasn't the nightmare this time. It was the air. The chamber was sweltering. It was a thick, stagnant heat that made the fine silk sheets cling to your damp skin.
You shifted, and the movement sent a sharp reminder of the night before through your hips. Turning your head, you saw it: the rusty bloom of blood on the white Myrish lace. The proof of his entry, yet the evidence of a conquest he hadn't bothered to finish.
The last thing you remembered was the cold. After he had climbed out of the bed, cursing your name and your feeble spirit, you had lain there shivering in the darkness, watching the silhouette of him at the sideboard. He had stood there for almost an hour, naked and unashamed, pouring cup after cup of Arbor gold, as if he was alone in the world.
You didn't remember falling asleep. But as you looked toward the hearth, you saw the remains of a fire that must have been a pyre. The iron grate was warped from the intensity of the heat he had stoked before leaving.
He had let you cry. He had called you tedious. He had walked out on your union. But at some point in the dead of night, he had looked at your shivering form and decided that if he wouldn't hold you, the fire would.
A rapping at the heavy oak doors shattered your thoughts. You tried to bolt upright, but a white-hot flash of pain flared in your loins, forcing a gasp from your throat as you sank back into the sweat-soaked pillows.
Before you could call out, a flutter of handmaidens rushed in. Their faces were masks of practiced neutrality, though the heat of the room made them squint. As two servants moved to hoist you up, their hands cool against your feverish skin, you saw a third woman, the eldest, begin to strip the bed efficiently.
"Wait," you rasped. "Why are you taking those?"
The servant didn't look up as she bundled the white Myrish lace, the copper-scented stain of the marriage blood folded into the center. "The court require the proof, Your Highness. The bedding must be witnessed to confirm the union is consummate."
You watched in numb disbelief as the woman walked away with the evidence of a lie. The servants lowered you into a steaming tub, the water scented with crushed mint and oils meant to soothe the bridal ache. As the heat of the water met the soreness of your body, your mind spiraled.
Could last night truly be called a union?
The memory was a jagged shard: Aerion’s weight, the sudden, intrusive thrust, and then his immediate withdrawal. He hadn't finished. He hadn't found pleasure. He had simply looked at you as if you were a goblet of soured wine and poured himself out of the bed.
You gripped the edge of the porcelain tub until your knuckles turned white. The rumors of the Brightflame had painted him as a monster. A man who delighted in the suffering of others. You had expected a beast who would feed on your pain, a man who would find your agony an aphrodisiac and force himself until his lust was spent.
But Aerion was a different kind of cruel. He was vain.
His rejection stung worse than his entry. He didn't want a victim, but a mirror that reflected his own perceived divinity. By crying, you had insulted his ego.
A cold dread settled in your gut. In the House of the Dragon, to be boring was to be disposable. If Aerion grew bored of you, you weren’t just a failed wife; you were a political liability. And Aerion was a volatile man. He could discard you, replace you, or kill you, and the world would simply call it the whim of a dragon.
The gown the maids laced you into felt less like a garment and more like a set of gilded shackles. It was a heavy, blood-red velvet with black silk embroidery. The exact shade of the robe you had seen Aerion wear before. In the mid-morning heat of Summerhall, the fabric was punishing, a sweltering weight that clung to your skin, yet you said nothing. To complain would have been to show the same weakness that had turned his stomach the night before.
You found yourself lingering in the shadowed curve of a stone hallway, pretending to admire the sun-drenched gardens through the arched windows. In reality, your mind was a chaotic mess.
Where was he?
The last image you had of your husband was a silhouette against the firelight, pouring wine while you slept. You had sent a maid to find him, not really out of wifely devotion, but out of survival. If you stumbled into Prince Maekar, his father, or the impeccably honorable Prince Baelor, what were you to say? “My husband found my pain boring and left me before the sun rose”?
The danger in this house never came for Aerion, for he was the storm, the wildfire, the source of the rot. The danger was entirely yours alone.
"Good-sister? You look as though you are a thousand leagues away."
The voice was warm, steady, and entirely unexpected. You jumped, your heart leaping into your throat, and your hand flew to the heavy velvet at your chest.
Standing there was Prince Baelor. He looked at you with a kind gaze that felt entirely out of place in this den of dragons.
"Forgive me," he said, offering a slight, courtly bow. "I did not mean to startle you. I trust the morning finds you... well?"
The question was a trap of politeness. He was looking for the glow of a new bride, but all you had was the memory of an oven-hot room and the dried blood of a half-finished night.
You forced a brittle smile, your voice steady despite the way the heavy velvet of your gown seemed to be suffocating you. "I am well, my Prince," you lied, the words tasting like copper. "The morning is peaceful."
Baelor smiled, though his eyes, which seemed far more observant than Aerion’s, searched your face. He began to speak of the festivities planned for the morrow, a social gathering where the lords and ladies of the court would expect to pay their respects.
"I should very much like for you to be there," Baelor said, his tone turning light, almost teasing. "And do see to it that you bring that stubborn nephew of mine. The people are eager to see the new couple, and Aerion has never been one to shy away from an audience."
At the mention of your husband’s name, your mask must have slipped. Perhaps your breath hitched, or perhaps the sheer exhaustion of the night finally bled into your expression. Baelor’s smile faltered.
He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Has he been treating you well? My nephew is... a difficult man, even on his best days."
"He has been everything a prince should be," you answered, the irony nearly choking you.
Just as Baelor opened his mouth again, the maid you had sent earlier hurried down the hall. The girl was out of breath, her face pale, and she skidded to a halt before you. She glanced at Baelor, her eyes wide with hesitation, then looked back at you.
"Go on," you assured, your heart beginning to thud. "Did you see him?"
The girl swallowed hard, her voice a trembling whisper that carried far too clearly in the quiet corridor. "He was sighted at the mews, m’lady. And... they say he was seen entering a house of ill-repute in the town. He has been there since dawn."
The world seemed to go very still.
It wasn't heartbreak. You didn't love Aerion enough for his infidelity to break you. It was the sheer, staggering humiliation. To be left in a bed of blood and sweat, abandoned on your wedding night, only for him to seek out a common whore before the sun had even fully risen? It was a public declaration of your inadequacy. It was his way of telling the world and his family that his new wife was so "tedious" he required professional entertainment to wash away the boredom of her.
You couldn't bring yourself to look at Baelor. You knew the pity that would be etched into his face, the judgment of a man who actually understood the meaning of honor.
The sunken feeling in your gut curdled into a poisonous rage as you realised he had just branded you a failure in front of the entire Seven Kingdoms.
The rest of the day was a long blurring exercise in avoidance. You moved through the shadows of Summerhall like a ghost, dodging the sympathetic gaze of Prince Baelor and the judgmental eyes of the court. Every whisper in the corridors felt like a serrated edge against your skin, every muffled laugh reminding you where your husband had spent his morning.
You were the bride of the Brightflame, a title that should have commanded terror and awe. Instead, after only a single day, you felt like a discarded trinket.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting shadows across the stone floors, you finally retreated to the bedchamber. You sat at the foot of the massive bed. His bed. Now, by law and by blood, it was yours and his.
What had you truly expected? You had arrived at Summerhall less than a week ago, but the stories had reached your ears long before that. They spoke of a prince who saw himself as a god among men, a man whose vanity was eclipsed only by his cruelty.
You let out a shaky sigh as the dread began to coil in your stomach again. If he returned tonight—and a part of you prayed to the Crone that he would stay in his brothels until dawn—he might decide to finish what he started. Your mind raced, replaying the agony of the previous night. You bit your lip, reminding yourself of the whispers of older women: the first time is for the man, the rest are for the wife. It was supposed to get easier. It had to.
You steeled your heart, clenching your fists in the thick fabric of your skirts. You couldn't cry tonight. No matter how much it hurt, you had to remain silent. You had to be the bride he wanted.
If Aerion deemed you useless, if he decided on a whim to nullify the marriage because you were too "tedious" to bed, the political fallout would crush your family. The Targaryens needed this alliance to steady the realm, and your father needed the crown's favor to keep his lands. You were the bridge between two powers, yet you could feel the stones crumbling beneath your feet.
Suddenly, the heavy latch of the door clicked. The sound echoed like a smith's hammer in the silent room. You sat frozen at the foot of the bed, your heart performing a traitorous skip at the sight of him. No matter how many times you braced yourself, Aerion’s beauty remained a violent assault on the senses. The spun-silver of his hair, the aristocratic lines of a face that belonged on a coin. But as the firelight caught him, the breath died in your throat.
His lip was split, a jagged crimson against his pale skin, and a deep cut at the corner of his mouth was still sluggishly weeping blood.
The anger that had been simmering in your gut for hours was momentarily eclipsed by an involuntary jolt of concern. You rose to your feet before you could stop yourself, your heart leaping into your throat.
Aerion paused, his violet eyes narrowing as they landed on you. He looked at you with a slow, dawning realization, as if he had truly forgotten that a wife was waiting for him within these four walls.
"You are still here," he murmured.
He didn't wait for a response. He began to saunter across the room, his movements fluid despite the obvious signs of a brawl. He tugged at his leather gloves, tossing them onto a side table with a careless flick of his wrist before reaching for the fastenings of his heavy robe.
"Aerion, what happened?" The name slipped past your lips unbidden. You didn't think of him as a prince in that moment, only as a man who was bleeding in your presence.
He paused, his back to you, his shoulders tensing under his tunic. He turned his head just enough for you to see the sneer curling the uninjured side of his mouth. "You will address me by my title, wife. I did not give you leave to use my name as if we were commoners in a hayloft."
You ignored the bite in his tone, despite the instinct screaming at you to stay back. "Your mouth is ruined. You need to tend to it, or the wound will fester. It looks deep."
You didn't realize how frantic you sounded, or how strange it was to be fretting over a man who had treated you like a nuisance only hours before. Perhaps he was a monster, but that made him your monster, and the sight of him damaged felt like a crack in the world's foundation.
Aerion turned fully now, his eyes darkening with a flare of genuine pique. He opened his mouth to likely bark another retort, but he stopped when he caught the look in your eyes. The genuine, wide-eyed worry that you couldn't quite mask.
A dark smile spread across his face, one that didn't reach his eyes. He probably saw your concern as a weakness to be exploited. He dropped into the chair by the hearth, leaning his head back and exposing his throat.
"Fine," he said. "Since you are so eager to play the healer, make yourself useful. Tend to it."
His mocking tone set your teeth on edge, but you clamped your jaw shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an outburst. You moved across the room stiffly, retrieving the small wooden chest of ointments and linens you had seen the servants use earlier that morning.
You pulled a low stool directly in front of his chair, invading his personal space with a clinical necessity. As you sat, your knees nearly brushing his, you dipped a clean cloth into a soothing wash and began to carefully dab away the dried crimson from his chin.
Close up, the cut was even deeper than you’d realized, and you couldn't help but frown. You wanted to demand how he had gotten it. What brawl in what gods-forsaken alleyway had led to this, but you knew the game. He would only weaponize your concern against you.
So, you stayed silent. You focused entirely on the wound, despite feeling the weight of his gaze. His violet eyes were fixed on your face, tracking the movement of your lips, the furrow of your brow. It took every ounce of your resolve to keep your eyes on the task and not meet that predatory stare.
"Look at you," Aerion suddenly drawled. "Such a doting bride you’ve become overnight. Does it please you to touch your master, my little sparrow?"
His condescending words snapped something inside you. The memory of the servant’s whisper—sighted at a house of ill-repute—flashed in your mind. The genuine concern you had felt moments ago curdled, replaced by bitterness.
You pressed the cloth a little firmer against the wound than was strictly necessary, causing his eyes to narrow.
"I am merely ensuring you are presentable, my Prince," you said, making sure to lace his title with a frost that matched the ice in your veins. You finally flicked your gaze up to his, meeting the fire in his eyes with a flat look of your own. "Prince Baelor reminded me that the court expects your presence at tomorrow’s event. It would be... unsightly... for the Brightflame to appear with a common brawler’s mark on his face."
The name Baelor acted like a douse of cold water on his vanity. Aerion’s face instantly contorted, his lip curling back in a snarl that reopened the very wound you were trying to close.
"Baelor," Aerion spat, the name curdling like sour milk in his mouth. He leaned back, a dark huff of annoyance escaping his chest. "He thinks he can manage me like a restive stallion. They all do. They think a dragon can be tethered by schedules and social niceties."
You offered no reply. You were tired of his grandstanding and his ego. You reached for a small vial of pungent, stinging spirits, the kind the Maesters used to cauterize infection before it took hold. You soaked a fresh linen and, without warning, pressed it firmly against the split in his lip.
Aerion jerked, a sharp hiss of air escaping through his teeth as he recoiled. "Seven hells, woman! What is that? Are you trying to finish what the cudgel started?"
You met his outraged glare with a blank look that masked the trembling in your knees. "It is necessary, my Prince. Unless you wish for your face to swell and fester by dawn?"
He clicked his tongue in a sharp show of irritation, but he didn't pull away again. He sat there, simmering, his brow furrowed in a deep frown as you continued your work.
The silence that followed was heavy. You became lost in the task, focusing on the jagged line of the cut. Still, you were hyper-aware of the way his chest rose and fell, and the way the firelight caught the silver threads of his hair.
When you finally finished, you pulled back to inspect your work. That was when you made the mistake of looking up.
You met his eyes, and the air seemed to vanish from the room. He hadn't been looking at the fire or the walls; he had been studying you.
Suddenly, the space between you felt electric. The "tedium" he had complained of last night was gone, replaced by a suffocating pull of a man who knew he terrified you and found it intoxicating. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and your breathing grew heavy, betraying you. You hated him, you feared him, yet in the sweltering heat of the room, your body seemed to lean toward him of its own accord.
Aerion didn't move away. He slowly, agonizingly, inched his face closer to yours. You could smell the wine, the iron of his blood, and the scent of stale smoke on his skin. It was a repulsive mixture, yet you were paralyzed all the same.
His violet gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily. He was so close that his wounded lip was almost brushing yours. You half-expected him to take you right there, to replace the memory of the night before with something equally violent but final.
But just as the tip of his nose grazed yours, his lips curled into that familiar, devastating smirk.
He retreated abruptly, the tension snapping like a frayed cord. He stood up in one fluid motion, towering over you as the heat of his presence vanished.
"Better," he drawled, his voice restored to its arrogant pitch. "At least you are good for something other than weeping."
The humiliation hit you like a physical blow. You sat there on the stool, your breath still coming in uneven gasps, while he turned his back to you and began to unlace his tunic, completely indifferent to your existence.
The banquet hall was a sea of shimmering silk and clattering gold, but the air felt thin, as if the Targaryen presence alone consumed all the oxygen. You sat stiffly in your chair, the heavy velvet of your gown a stifling reminder of your new station. Beside you, Aerion was a study in brooding elegance. In his dark red velvet, he looked every bit the prince of the blood.
To a stranger, he might have looked like a solemn lord deep in thought. You knew better. You watched the way his jaw remained tight and how his fingers drummed a restless, erratic rhythm against the table. Aerion was bored.
The warnings you had received before arriving at Summerhall echoed in your mind: A bored Targayen is a dangerous one. When the Brightflame lacked amusement, he became a predator searching for a spark to ignite.
One by one, noblemen stepped forward to present gifts for the new union. They offered finely balanced daggers and ornate shields to Aerion, and rare silks to you.
"May these silks find their way into a gown that matches your radiance, Princess," one lord remarked, bowing low.
You felt Aerion’s head turn slightly toward you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the smirk. The one that always felt like a private joke at your expense. Surely, this wasn't a look of pride in his wife. No, you knew that look: it was the look of a man admiring a well-dressed hound.
The atmosphere shifted when a minor lord from the Reach stepped forward. He was older, perhaps too emboldened by the wine, and his congratulations took a turn into the intimate.
"A fine match, truly," the lord boomed. "We all look forward to the fruit of this union. A house is only as strong as its legacy, and a son of the Brightflame would be a terror to the realm's enemies."
The table fell into an expectant silence. You felt a cold weight sink into your stomach as every eye in the hall drifted to you, searching your face for the first sign of a royal heir.
You thought of the dried blood on the sheets and the cold rejection of the night before, and your face burned with a shame they couldn't possibly understand.
Beside you, Aerion went perfectly still. He looked down at the nobleman, his violet eyes darkening until they looked like bruised plums.
"A son," Aerion repeated.
"Indeed, my Prince!" the lord laughed nervously, unaware of the precipice he was standing on. "It should not be long now, with a bride so fair—"
"You dare?"
The words cut through the hall like a whip. Aerion leaned forward, his face contorting into a mask of unadulterated rage.
"You dare stand in my hall and command me when to father a child?" Aerion’s voice rose, vibrating with a volatile energy that made the wine in your glass tremble. "As if the dragon’s blood answers to the whims of a common lordling?"
The lord’s face drained of color, his mouth hanging open in shock. The entire hall froze. It was a reaction so disproportionate, so violently uncalled for, that it felt as though the air itself had caught fire.
"Scourge him," Aerion commanded, as he pointed at the trembling lord. "Let his back bleed for every word that crossed his wretched tongue."
You looked toward the high table in a panic. Prince Baelor had his face buried in his hand, a gesture of profound exhaustion, while Prince Maekar looked at his son in utter disbelief.
"What is this nonsense you are spitting now, Son?" Maekar’s voice boomed. "The man offered a blessing, nothing more."
"He offered an insult, Father," Aerion snapped, his eyes flashing with wildfire light as he turned on his father. "I do not like being disrespected in my own hall. Nor do I care for commoners counting the moons of my wife's blood."
Maekar’s lip curled in a sneer of pure frustration. "If you have no stomach to father a child, then so be it. If the girl does not inspire the blood of the dragon in you, we shall find another use for the match. But stop this theater."
The words struck you. If the girl does not inspire the blood.
The insinuation hung in the air, toxic and heavy. Maekar wasn't just blaming Aerion, he was suggesting that you were the failure. You were the inadequate bride, the woman so "tedious" or plain that a prince of the blood couldn't even bring himself to bed her. You felt the eyes of the other lords and ladies turn toward you. Some weary, some pitying, all confirming your worst fears.
Behind you, Aerion was still barking orders at the guards, his voice a distant roar over the ringing in your ears. The humiliation of the morning, the heat of the night before, and the shame of this public rejection converged into a single blinding point of pain.
You had reached your limit. You didn't care about the political fallout. You didn't care about the King’s peace. You didn't even care if Aerion dragged you back by your hair.
You stood up abruptly, the heavy screech of your chair cutting through Aerion’s tirade. Every head in the hall snapped toward you. Without a word, without a bow, and without looking at the monster you had married, you turned and walked off the dais.
The velvet of your gown felt like a leaden shroud as you strode toward the exit. You knew that walking out on the royal family was a crime that could be met with a cell or worse, but as you pushed through the heavy doors and into the dark night, you realized you were too far gone to care anymore.
The cool night air hit your skin like a mercy, but it couldn't reach the feverish hum of humiliation beneath your ribs. You stumbled toward the edge of a stone fountain in a secluded corner of the gardens, the scent of night-blooming jasmine cloying and thick. You waited for the sound of iron, for the guards to come and drag you back to face Aerion’s wrath, or perhaps for the Prince himself to find you and make you pay for your public defiance.
Instead, the sound that reached you was the uneven, heavy crunch of boots on gravel.
You spun around, only to see Prince Daeron swaying slightly as he approached. In the moonlight, his silver-gold hair made him look like a ghost of his younger brother, but the resemblance ended there. His eyes were bleary, and his posture lacked the predatory tension that defined Aerion.
He pulled a small, dark flagon from the pocket of his tunic and offered a lopsided smile. "Do you mind? It’s far too loud in there, and the wine is better out here where I don't have to watch my father’s face turn purple."
You nodded silently, shifting to give him space on the stone bench. You felt a heavy weight in your chest; you were the catalyst for that noise, the bride who had broken the royal protocol.
As Daeron sat, the smell of sour wine and old sweat followed him. He was the Drunkard Prince, Aerion’s elder brother. The one who preferred to hide in a bottle rather than play the games of the dragon. You studied his profile, marveling at how two men born of the same blood could be so jarringly different. Daeron was soft, gentle in a way that felt like a bruised fruit; Aerion was a jagged piece of obsidian, beautiful and meant to cut.
"Did he hurt you?" Daeron asked suddenly.
You pursed your lips, the question echoing Prince Baelor’s from the day before. It seemed to be the only thing anyone ever asked about the wife of the Brightflame. Did he hurt you?
You thought of the wedding night. Aside from the singular violation of your virginity, Aerion hadn't laid a violent hand on you. When you had sobbed in agony, he hadn't forced you. He hadn't been the beastly rapist you had feared; he had simply been... revolted.
"No, my Lord," you whispered, the words brittle and hollow.
You and Daeron lapsed into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the wet sound of him swallowing more wine. The garden air was cool, but it couldn't wash away the stagnant heat of the banquet hall that still seemed to cling to your skin.
Daeron let out a long, ragged sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He fought it, you know. My brother. He was quite nearly feral when Father first spoke of an arranged match. He raved about dragons and purity, about how no mortal line was fit to mix with his." He gave a humorless chuckle. "It got so bad they were ready to foist the duty onto me. They almost made me the one to stand at that altar with you, Sister."
The statement strike you, making your chest ache with a fresh wave of inadequacy. You felt sunken, a pawn that neither brother truly wanted, a burden that had been tossed back and forth between a drunkard and a madman. You looked down at your hands, the red velvet of your skirts looking like a pool of blood in the moonlight.
Suddenly, Daeron turned his head, his bleary eyes catching yours with a strange lucidity.
"But then he saw you," Daeron murmured. "The moment Aerion laid eyes on you when you arrived at the gates... he changed. He became strangely obedient. He stopped his raving and simply... agreed."
You nearly laughed aloud at the sheer absurdity of it. The idea of the Brightflame being obedient or moved by a single glance was a fairytale that didn't fit the man who had called you “tedious” and left you alone on your wedding night. You didn't believe a word of it. In your mind, Aerion had simply found a new toy to break, a new audience for his vanity.
You remained silent as Daeron continued to ramble, his voice growing thicker as the wine took hold. You realized he was trying to make you sympathize with a brother he likely feared as much as he loved.
And yet, despite the scars of the last three days, a small, treacherous part of you felt a flicker of something. Not quite sympathy, but perhaps a devastating curiosity. You knew Aerion was a monster, a volatile storm of ego and cruelty that you should never pity. Your instincts screamed at you to run and keep your heart behind iron bars. But as you sat there in the dark, you couldn't help but wonder if the fire he had built in your room that first night hadn't been an act of cruelty, but the only way he knew how to say he was watching you.
< part I ends >
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