#got fandom

[chic-beyond-the-wall]

More medieval dyes for y'all!

[boyloveisnteasy]

CAN YOU PLAY KEN?

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 EPILOGUE

synopsis : To Aerion Targaryen, a seat on the board had always been more than a goal – it was his birthright. But when Maekar, tired of his irresponsible behavior and reckless lifestyle, took that future away from him, Aerion realized that this time his father wasn't bluffing. And what better way to prove his own competence than a relationship with the smartest and most principled girl at the university? Exactly.

⸺ warnings MDNI, fake dating, family conflicts, class difference, obsessive aerion, jealousy, gentle reader, ooc aerion; additional tags to be added. p in v, oral sex (f receiving), praise kink, overstimulation, possessive sex, aftercare.

If someone had told you a few months ago that you’d be sitting in some overpriced restaurant with Tanselle and her boyfriend – the same people who’d tried to talk you out of dating Aerion Targaryen – you would’ve politely offered them a psychiatrist’s number. And maybe a good green tea.

But there you were, listening to your friend and her awkward boyfriend sitting across from you with faces like you’d just said you wear socks with sandals.

"You don't get how serious this is," Tanselle said for the hundredth time, after you’d spent the last twenty minutes reassuring her you were fine.

"I do get it," you said calmly.

"Then why did you choose him? You’re the best thing a guy could ask for, and there are so many better options out there. God, you could’ve picked anyone at this university!" Her voice was desperate, like she was trying to save something that was already doomed. "You don't realize he’s just using you and –"

"I do."

Actually, that was the only reason this whole thing had even started.

"And he’s trying to –" Tanselle suddenly froze, looking at you like you’d just punched her. "You what?"

You just shrugged, as if the conversation was on the same level as discussing Robert’s Rebellion with a history professor.

She frowned, then suddenly slammed her fist so hard that Duncan had to look around and quietly apologize for the noise. "If that asshole is threatening you..."

You just slowly shook your head. You truly appreciated their concern, but you weren’t going to sit there and listen to them insult the one person who treated you better than anyone.

"I appreciate your concern," you murmured, your gaze drifting softly from Tanselle to Duncan. Regardless of the mess you were in, it was nice to know there were people who actually cared, who didn't want to see you get burned. "But everything is under control, I promise."

Duncan, who’d spent the whole time just nodding and backing up his girlfriend’s words, let out a quiet sigh and looked at you. "I don’t know you well. But if you matter to her," he turned his head and gave Tanzelle a soft smile, "then you matter to me too. And you don’t deserve what’s definitely going to happen to you in the end, once whatever this is to you is over."

To you. Not to Aerion. He’d made that much clear.

You just tilted your head slightly and looked at him. This was the first time you’d seen the man your friend always talked about with such love in her voice.

When she first told you she had a boyfriend, you’d pictured some billionaire running an oil company or real estate. Maybe even an older guy. You were so surprised when you showed up today and saw just an average working guy with a kind face and an awkward smile. He wasn’t wearing a fancy suit like people usually do in places like this – just dark jeans and a plain t-shirt.

Your first thought had been that they made sense together. The way she looked at him with stars in her eyes, the way she constantly reached for him as if touching him was as natural as breathing. The second thing you caught was his tension. He loved her – it was written all over his face, in the way he looked at her like she was his entire world. But he was tightly wound; even as he tried to hide it, he kept scanning the room, his hands resting stiffly on his knees. He was a good man, and he sincerely didn't want to see you shattered.

"You think you’re going to outplay Aerion Targaryen. You think you’ll make him lose at his own game and show him what it feels like," he said, taking Tanselle’s hand and softly stroking it, looking at you like an older brother trying to protect his little sister from trouble. "But that’s impossible. You can never win against a player who was placed there by the creator of the game himself. Trust me, plenty of people have tried."

You wanted to tell them there was no reason to worry – you didn't want to lie when they cared so much. But you weren't sure if that was part of Aerion's plan; you hadn't discussed what to tell the people close to you. So, until you cleared it with him, you couldn't say much. But you didn't want to lie either. You chose the truth, even if it wasn't the whole story.

"I know exactly what’s going on between us," you said softly, smiling as you took Tanselle’s other hand in yours and gave it a squeeze. "And people are capable of changing. Even if it’s not right now, at some point he’d have to think about being serious."

Duncan rubbed his chin with one hand, humming thoughtfully. "I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him having a girlfriend. Like, at all. He made it clear to everyone that he doesn't do that. Love. Every girl who tried to change that ended up in the exact same spot."

Tanselle sighed and leaned in closer. "I had a friend who thought she was 'the one.' I don’t remember Aerion giving her any special attention; I think she was just seeing what she wanted to see after a one-night stand at some party. She thought she’d change him, that she’d be the one he’d settle down with and say sweet things to." She swallowed and looked straight at you. "But as you’ve probably guessed, it didn't happen. She said the sex was totally emotionless – he didn't even look at her face, just did his business and walked away without looking back. And when she went up to him at the next party, he asked her what her name was."

Tanselle gently pulled her hand away from Duncan's and wrapped her fingers around yours, giving them a squeeze. "I just don’t want the same thing to happen to you."

Then, as if realizing she’d gotten a bit too emotional, she quickly pulled her hands back and looked at you with a sweet smile. "You have no idea what kind of collection Miu Miu just put out..."

The days went by one after another, and Aerion Targaryen became a permanent part of your daily routine. He’d pick you up for classes, sit next to you in the library while you studied, and listen as you tried to explain that the Dance of the Dragons was a major historical event. (He just said they were his ancestors, so he knew better).

You noticed he couldn’t stop kissing you. Your lips, cheeks, forehead, temple, sometimes even your jawline – it felt like he didn't even realize he was doing it. Whenever you pointed out that there was no audience to perform for, he’d simply murmur that eyes were everywhere.

You often had dinner with him, or rather, he practically forced you; almost every day, he’d sit with his laptop in the cafe where you worked, doing his own thing and waiting for your shift to end so he could drive you home. He shared updates, saying his father and uncle trusted him a lot more now, sometimes even asking for his advice on management. He hadn't fully earned his spot yet, but things were moving fast.

You just smiled, knowing your plan was working. He was always talking excitedly about his work while holding your hand like it was the most normal thing ever. One night, when it was already dark out and you were the only ones left in the library, you were explaining the basics of political history to him – after all, those exams weren't going to pass themselves. Surprisingly, he listened patiently, nodding when he got the main points and asking questions when he didn't. As you explained another topic, he easily interlaced your fingers and kissed the back of your hand. Neither of you reacted, just kept on discussing the subject.

One evening, as he was driving you both home from your late shift, his hand rested on your leg while your fingers played with his or traced his forearm. His gaze drifted over to you – soft and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. "I heard you were talking to Tanselle."

You didn't stop what you were doing, just tilted your head slightly. "I was."

His jaw set tight, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel harder than usual. "Whatever she said about me, I’m certain she blew it a hundred times out of proportion. She’s far too dramatic for her own good."

You simply smoothed your hand over his, a tender squeeze that forced his grip to slacken. You caught his eye with a soft smile. "You don't even know what she said."

He rolled his eyes, but there was no mockery or irritation in the gesture. "Right, because she definitely called you over to tell you that unicorns crap everywhere I go and my house is filled with pink princess glitter."

You just laughed but didn't rush to answer. For a moment, a comfortable silence filled the car while you turned to study his profile. "She didn't tell me anything I hadn't already heard from everyone else," you said after a while, your voice calm and blending into the atmosphere.

He let out a short laugh, then interlaced his fingers with yours like he was holding onto an anchor. "Yeah. Because to everyone, I’m just the asshole who makes grown women cry and run away from the university I only recently started showing up to." His eyes drifted shut in annoyance, his hand squeezing yours tightly while you rubbed his skin with your thumb, noticing how he relaxed under your touch. Aerion pulled over and stopped the car, then slowly turned to look at you. "Do you think that too?"

"Well, based on what the other students think..."

"I couldn't care less what other people believe," he cut in, his voice low. "I care if you believe it."

Your expression softened as you looked at his expectant face. The fact that he cared about your opinion – that he was worried you might see him that way – warmed your heart.

You had no intention of lying to him. You were well aware that he didn't break hearts by playing the part of a hypocritical romantic, but you were also sure there were times when he’d been blunt and harsh instead of giving a polite "no."

You reached out with your free hand and ran your fingers through his hair, and he leaned into your touch. "I haven't seen enough to believe all those rumors, but I’ve seen enough to understand why they started in the first place," you said softly.

He didn't take his eyes off yours, his gaze full of things he couldn't put into words. Then he took a deep breath and ran his hands through his already messy hair. "I never gave anyone false hope. Everyone knew exactly what I was after, and I was honest about it." He didn't blink, needing you to truly hear him. "I didn't feed them sweet lines. Hell, I didn't even kiss them or bother to remember their faces, because I had zero interest in all that intimate bullshit."

Then his grip on your hand tightened, his gaze softening into something more vulnerable than you had ever witnessed. "At least, I didn't back then."

You just tilted your head and gave him a soft smile, and he’d never admit how much a single smile like that could completely melt him.

"I warned them. I told them I wanted nothing more than a quick release, and they agreed to it." A flash of disdain crossed his features. "Then they started imagining they were some damn Cinderellas, acting like I’d promised them a honeymoon in Athens, a wedding, and ten kids."

His shoulders were tense, and he looked like he found the whole conversation pointless – like it was something that should’ve been obvious to everyone. "I’m not responsible for other people's feelings. I didn't play the part of some sappy Romeo. They created expectations in their own heads that I never gave them and am not obligated to meet. If anyone broke their hearts, they did it to themselves."

His hands gripped yours so tightly, as if he was afraid you’d open the door and walk away right then. "I just wanted you to know that."

"I believe you," your voice was gentle. You didn't try to pull your hand away – instead, you kept tracing invisible patterns on his skin.

You knew the feeling all too well – when people expected something from you that they’d made up themselves, and then got disappointed when you didn't live up to it.

The tension in his shoulders faded. He started the car, then brought your intertwined fingers to his lips and gave them a soft kiss. "Good."

He kept your hands pressed against his cheek for the rest of the drive.

It was a Sunday when Aerion decided it was time to start getting ready for the gala. He took you to some – as you were sure, insanely expensive – shopping center so you could look for dresses. You’d refused at first, but he’d just said he couldn't afford to bring a girl who looked like a math teacher.

"I really think we could’ve found a nice dress in simpler stores." You were surrounded by all these brands you didn’t even know existed.

He walked beside you, hands in his pockets, watching your reaction to everything. He didn't want you feeling out of place over something he could easily buy for you. "Then change your mind. Just pick anything you like the look of, don’t worry about the rest. If we don’t find anything here, we’ll go somewhere else."

And just like that, you walked into another boutique with a huge, glittering butterfly covered in rare stones out front. Inside, the dresses were displayed in special glass domes, hanging perfectly on mannequins.

You just took the dresses a nice assistant offered you, not even having time to fully look around the shop.

You opened the dressing room door and locked eyes with him. He was sitting in a leather chair right across from you, his right ankle resting on his left knee, studying you closely.

"Looks good."

"You said the same thing about the last ten dresses, Aerion. That doesn’t help at all," you said, rolling your eyes. You had no idea what kind of dresses women wore to those things, let alone the women who went there with a Targaryen.

He traced the line of his jaw thoughtfully before a smirk pulled at his lips. "Forgive me, sinner that I am, for not giving a damn about dresses designed by a man who shares a name with a red car from a Disney movie."

Technically, it wasn't a lie. He really had no interest in the fashion world. But he would have died before admitting that the reason he couldn't settle on a single dress was because you looked breathtaking in every single one of them.

Maybe it wasn't the dresses after all. He refused to let his mind go there.

With a fake sigh, he got up from the chair and looked around to distract himself from any thoughts of what you’d look like without those dresses on. His gaze stopped, and he froze when he saw a dress right in the center – it was highlighted by special lighting and stood higher than all the others.

He couldn't stop looking at it and thinking of you in it. It felt like it had been made specifically for you.

The way it would highlight your pink cheeks when you blushed, how those stones would make you shine and outshine everyone else in the room, how it would hug your hips...

He cleared his throat and walked over to get a closer look, and then he realized one thing.

He was going to buy you that dress, even if you didn't like it. Even if you didn't wear it to the gala, he didn't care. He just wanted you to have it.

Aerion signaled the assistant to take the gown to your fitting room, all while trying to fight off the mental images that were only making his situation worse.

He waited outside, blaming only himself. He could’ve just given you his card so you could try everything on alone, but he’d had this unexplainable urge to go with you.

But there was something about watching you choose clothes, hearing you ask for his opinion on one thing or another – it felt domestic. And he wanted to feel that.

When the fitting room door opened and you didn't come out, he frowned slightly and walked toward you. Opening the door, he felt as if all the air had been forced out of his lungs.

You stood before the mirror, oblivious to his stunned silence, as you traced the delicate edges of the gown. "What do you think?"

He didn't answer; he just walked inside, shoving both hands into his pockets. He stepped closer until you could feel his presence right behind you, and then he rested his chin on your right shoulder. The muscles in his arms tightened, as if he was struggling not to touch you – not to put his hands on your waist and pull you closer.

His eyes drifted to the hem of the dress, then slowly traveled higher and higher until they met yours in the mirror. "Perfect."

You looked back at him; he was too close, and his gaze was filled with a hunger that bordered on indecent.

"Do you like it?"

"It’s the best out of everything we’ve seen," you said softly, noticing the patterns that reached all the way to the floor. "I like them all, but..."

"Then we’ll take them all."

You shook your head; you didn't even have that many places to wear dresses like these. "There’s no need. This one is enough for me."

He nodded, then straightened up and walked out.

The rest of the day went by as you picked out shoes and jewelry – which you tried to refuse, by the way, but Aerion was stubborn. By the end of it, you were so tired that you couldn't help thinking even your work shifts felt easier than this.

You turned down the gaudy necklaces, the earrings with massive diamonds, and bracelets that looked way too heavy for your wrist. After a long argument, you finally let him give you a necklace.

With a dragon. His family crest. His mark.

It wasn't huge; a small diamond dragon rested just below your collarbones. You hadn't seen him buy it here. He must have gotten it much earlier.

Once all your bags were tucked away in the backseat, you let out a sigh of relief. Now, all that was left was to get through the main event. Shopping had taken more out of you than you’d expected. So it wasn't a surprise when you fell asleep on the way to yet another elite restaurant where Aerion was going to make you have dinner.

When you woke up, the first thing you felt was a blanket tucked over you. You hadn't even known he kept one in the car. The second thing – you were alone. Aerion wasn't in his seat, but his phone was still on the dock, so he couldn't have gone far.

You stretched sleepily and looked around. No VIP parking, no chauffeurs waiting for orders. Where were you?

Those thoughts were quickly cut off when you heard a ringtone. Confused, you turned your head and saw Aerion’s phone ringing. It had to be one of his clients. You just leaned over and muted the sound, which felt way too loud in the silence. You were about to drift back to sleep as the call ended, but then something caught your eye. Your heart skipped a beat.

A photo of you. On his wallpaper.

It was you in your work uniform and apron, crouching down to pet a stray puppy that had wandered over, smelling food from the cafe. You had a soft smile on your face, your hair was tied back in a ponytail, and you were just watching him.

You remembered that day. You hadn't even known he was outside at the time.

You didn't have time to fully process it in your sleepy state before the screen locked and you heard the car door open.

Aerion slid into the seat, a bag in his hand, his eyes finding yours immediately. "You’re awake."

You gave a small nod, glancing around and rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand. "I didn't realize you kept a blanket in here."

He only watched you for a beat before leaning in, tilting your chin up with his thumb and forefinger to press a brief kiss to your lips. "You need to eat," he said, sliding a paper bag into your lap.

You took it and opened it, expecting that he’d probably bought you something with black caviar or oysters, but you froze when you saw what was inside.

A chicken burger, french fries, and orange juice.

Your favorite comfort food. The very thing he’d once mocked as "not even real food."

He had remembered.

You looked up and gave him a soft smile. "I thought you said this wasn't real food."

A flicker of a smile appeared on his lips – he was barely holding himself back from grinning. "I still think so. But a certain someone told me that serious food gets exhausting."

You just rolled your eyes gently, but the smile stayed on your face.

Aerion 🐹 I’ll pick you up at seven. Do you still have your dress, or did you sacrifice it to save some elves and ponies?

You rolled your eyes at the message. You were standing in front of the mirror, completely ready to go. The pale pink floor-length dress hugged you like a second skin, creating a sleek silhouette that flowed into a train. Lines of diamonds and sequins shimmered across the fabric like raindrops. The neckline was open enough to leave something to the imagination, but not enough to cause a scandal in high society.

A delicate veil, encrusted with crystalline threads, draped from your sleeves like a sheer waterfall that nearly touched the floor. Your hair was styled in soft, cascading waves, the front sections pinned back with a butterfly clip that sparkled with stones matching the dress.

You’d kept your makeup light, using soft pink and peach tones to match the dress.

You understood why people chased wealth. You didn't think you’d ever looked this magical. It wasn't that you didn’t like how you looked normally, but there was a certain charm in dressing up like this once in a while and waiting for your prince on a horse.

Well, not exactly a prince. And not exactly on a horse.

You You know a suspicious amount about unicorns, considering you said you hate happy stuff. I’m starting to think My Little Pony was your favorite cartoon as a kid.

Aerion 🐹 Cute. A little more detail would have been appreciated. And I was a fan of Final Destination. I’m pretty sure the plotlines are practically identical.

You clicked your tongue and put your phone down, sitting on the edge of the sofa. You couldn't help thinking about how just a few months ago, your only worry was finishing a report for a research conference – and now, here you were, waiting for Aerion Targaryen to take you to a high-society event as his girlfriend.

A knock at the door cut your thoughts short, and you headed over to open it. When you did, a figure appeared in a black tuxedo and… a soft pink tie. You looked up and met his eyes.

Aerion looked at you, and his breath hitched. He’d seen this dress on you just recently; he shouldn't have been reacting this dramatically, but he couldn't help it.

You looked exactly the way he’d imagined.

A rush of unwanted thoughts flooded his mind. If he were a more romantic man, he would have confessed that you were the most breathtaking thing his eyes had ever seen. But he wasn't built that way, so he simply cleared his throat and extended his hand. "Cute."

You just laughed softly and took his hand.

Aerion had no idea that his eyes were giving him away more than any word he spoke.

The drive took over forty minutes, and when you arrived, you didn't see the "ordinary country house" Aerion had mentioned, but a whole damn mansion.

As he parked in his specially assigned spot – with his initials engraved right there – he looked at you. "My family can be a bit... overbearing. So if you need a break, just tell me, okay?"

You just nodded, and he got out of the car, opening your door and resting his hand on the roof above your seat as usual. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer to him. He turned your face toward his. "Relax. All they care about is how much money they can pocket today by kissing my family's ass."

That actually calmed you down. He made sure your tension had faded before leading you inside. You walked up the stairs, your dress flowing like a princess’s from a historical movie, his firm hand never leaving you as he guided you up. You saw a massive set of open doors as you walked down a long hallway. You were just about to enter when you noticed his tie had slipped slightly to the left. "Wait."

You stopped him, and as he looked at you with a raised eyebrow, you reached for his collar. You felt his gaze on your face while you adjusted the tie and smoothed out his shirt, which had crinkled slightly from your movements. "There."

When you finally met his eyes, his gaze was burning with such raw intensity that it made your breath hitch. He leaned down, pressing his lips to your temple in a kiss that lingered far past the point of casual.

Neither of you noticed Maekar standing in the shadows, taking in the entire intimate display and reaching his own silent conclusions.

You should’ve expected that nights like these were full of small talk, live classical music from an orchestra, and expensive wine and champagne.

Aerion never left your side once. Even when men demanded a private word, he kept a firm grip on your waist and told them there were no "extra" people here.

When three men – all looking completely different – approached and introduced themselves as his brothers (well, one called himself a cousin, saying he’d rather die than be called Aerion’s brother), you quickly realized they were all total opposites.

"Let me know if he threatened you or forced you here at gunpoint," one of them said playfully, reaching out for a handshake.

Aerion’s grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. "Fuck off, Daeron," he muttered, though he still reached out to give his brother a quick hug.

The young man, who you now knew was named Daeron, just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. Even while they were trading insults, you could tell they had a warm relationship. Then, you felt something poke you in the stomach.

"Your diamonds are way cooler than mine! I have a few stones, but father says I have to study math if I want a watch like his. Can you imagine? Math!" a little bald boy said, then smiled before looking at Aerion and frowning. "She’s so pretty, what is she doing with you?"

And just like that, you met Aegon and Valarr Targaryen too.

The only time Aerion left your side was when his father called him for a talk. He’d insisted you come along, but you didn't want to intrude on a moment between father and son. Nothing was going to happen to you alone in a massive mansion filled with security.

When Maekar had approached you both, he hadn't made any dramatic remarks; he was much more polite than you’d expected. You saw his long, analytical gaze linger on you before he gave a slight nod. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet the person changing my son," he’d said, half with approval and half with gratitude. Then his gaze shifted to Aerion, and you noticed a small, proud smile touch his face. "I’d like you two to come for a family dinner. Introduce us properly, son."

Aerion hadn't returned from his father’s office yet, so you were standing by the buffet table with your hands tucked behind your back. Suddenly, a shadow fell to your right, stopping beside you.

"I haven’t seen such a charming lady in this house before," a velvet voice said. You turned your head to see him.

A handsome young man about your age stood there, with dark curly hair reaching his shoulders. He was dressed in a black suit with a bright red bowtie at his neck.

You tilted your head. "Good evening."

He smiled, hands in his pockets, and you couldn't shake the feeling that he reminded you of someone.

"I assume this is your first year. Your partner hasn’t the slightest clue just how lucky he truly is."

You offered a polite smile. "Yes, it’s my first time here, thank you."

He let out a little chuckle, then reached out his hand to you.

"You’re charming. What’s your name?"

You told him your name and reached out to shake his hand. "Nice to meet you. How about your name?"

He just smirked, his grip on your hand tightening slightly.

"Jacaerys."

Aerion stepped out of his father’s office, for once not feeling disappointed or angry like he usually did.

No, he felt satisfied. And no, it wasn’t just because Maekar had said you were a good match for him.

His father had finally started to see his potential; he considered him worthy to keep by his side. And he knew his uncle felt the same way.

He walked down the stairs, his eyes automatically searching for you in the crowd like magnets constantly pulling him back to you. And he found you – standing near the chocolate fountain, talking to...

What the fuck?

He saw his damn relative standing way too close to you, smiling too wide and staring so intently that Aerion wanted to gouge his eyes out. He marched toward you, overhearing his attempts to make you laugh.

"I could steal you away from your partner," he said, tilting his head. "Since he’s stupid enough to leave such a beau—"

"You can't." Aerion appeared beside you so suddenly that you jumped slightly. His tone promised nothing but trouble.

He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you firmly against him – his touch was surprisingly gentle, which didn't match his mood at all.

Jacaerys looked up at him, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Hey, cousin. I’ve never seen you bring anyone along before."

"Now you have. Get the hell out of here," Aerion said, his hands never letting go for a second, wrapping around your waist in a protective gesture.

The other man just raised his hands in surrender, smirking. "Relax, I just decided to talk to a lady. A lovely lady you dared to leave alone for far too long." The soft voice he had used with you was gone; now it was cold and calculated. He leaned closer toward you, but looked directly at the man behind you. "Among all these wolves."

Then he straightened up and smiled as if nothing had happened. "Come on, man, let’s go out for a smoke. I’m sure we have plenty to catch up on."

Aerion just scoffed. "I don’t smoke."

Jacaerys froze. He raised an eyebrow, glancing back and forth between you and Aerion, a smirk playing on his lips in either disbelief or surprise. "Oh."

They stared each other down, and something told you that even the watchful high-society crowd and the media wouldn't stop them from tearing each other’s throats out.

You were the first to snap out of the tension. Aerion had only just started earning his father’s trust; you couldn't let everything fall apart over a stupid clash of male egos.

You turned and looked at him, one hand moving to his chest to smooth out his shirt. "I think I’ve had enough for one day. My feet hurt from these shoes. Can we leave?"

He tore his gaze away from the curly-haired man and looked at you. His eyes softened. "Fine. I’ll have them bring the car around."

You nodded, then slowly turned to Jacaerys and gave him a polite smile. "It was nice meeting you."

He looked at you and licked his lips, then gave a quiet laugh and reached out his hand. "I can’t wait to see you again. I hope this isn't the last time we meet."

You didn't want to be rude, so you started to reach back, but before you could, Aerion’s firm hand left your waist and shook his hand instead.

"Good seeing you, brother. I don’t think you’d want to find out the consequences if you try to see her again," he said with a smile, but there wasn't a hint of humor in it.

Jacaerys just gave a bright grin.

When you reached the stairs, Aerion leaned down and reached for your legs.

"What are you doing?" you asked, stopping him halfway.

He blinked. "You said your feet hurt."

You looked at him, and something inside you warmed at the thought that he was actually going to carry you just because you’d complained about the pain.

You stood on your tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth. "You two looked like you were about to kill each other back there. I had to step in."

He frowned at first, but then the corner of his mouth lifted as he realized what you'd done. "I should’ve guessed."

You tilted your head slightly. "But I really am tired. How do you even stand this every time?"

"Let's just say it was more bearable this year." His eyes didn't leave yours as he reached out, nodding toward the exit. "Come on. I’m not done with you yet."

He took you to his place. You hadn't even known he lived alone until he pulled into the parking lot of a residential complex and you headed up to the top floor.

He let you go in first, and you stepped inside, looking around.

For some reason, his home perfectly mirrored his personality. Dark walls, pristine furniture, and rooms that felt unlived in – as if he only came here to sleep or take care of basic needs.

You walked into the kitchen, which had all the high-end appliances you could imagine, but no actual dishes – just a single paper coffee cup.

"Is it a requirement to live like a funeral just happened in your house?" you asked, used to homes that actually felt alive.

A low chuckle escaped him. "And what exactly makes you say that?"

You let out a soft hum of disapproval. "You don’t have a single picture on the walls, the tables, or anywhere at all. The walls are far too dark, and the decor looks like it was delivered yesterday. Seriously, Aerion, are you a haunting?"

"All right, then. What would you change?" His voice was calm, but you could hear the amusement in it.

You turned around; he was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, wearing a smirk.

You looked back at the empty space and shrugged. "At the very least, I’d repaint these grim walls something lighter. Beige, perhaps, or a soft white. And I’d definitely fill the rooms with pictures of the people I care about."

You walked out of the kitchen and headed down the long hallway toward his bedroom, with him trailing slowly behind you. "I’d find a use for those shelves, too – I’d keep all my books there. And of course, I’d need a little friend so I wouldn't go crazy and..." You stopped abruptly in the middle of his bedroom, freezing at the sight.

Right in front of you was a panoramic window overlooking the night city. Thousands of lights burned in the dark, lighting up the skyline and casting a deep blue glow into the room.

You heard his quiet footsteps and felt his presence behind you – heavy and burning. His arms wrapped around your waist as he leaned in, grazing your neck with his nose, breathing in your scent. "Do you like the view?"

His palms gently brushed over your stomach through the dress, while his lips left damp trails along your jaw, moving down to your shoulder.

"Aerion, how much did you drink?" you asked softly with a sigh. The last thing you wanted was for him to do something he’d regret tomorrow.

A low vibration of laughter rumbled against your skin, sending a spark of electricity straight to your fingertips. "I had a single sip of wine – and a mediocre one, at that. The truth is," he whispered, gently sweeping your hair over one shoulder. "I couldn't take my eyes off you. I haven't been able to for a long time."

He unzipped the dress – slowly, agonizingly so, kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed. Even though he was barely holding back from tearing the fabric, Aerion knew how much you liked this dress and how much it meant to you.

When he reached the small of your back, he pressed his lips there and slowly trailed kisses up your spine. A quiet moan escaped you. Aerion gripped you tighter, holding you in place before his mouth found your ear. He lightly bit your earlobe, making your knees go weak.

"What is it you're doing to me?" he breathed, turning you to face him.

His eyes were dark, filled with hunger and reverence; you didn't think anyone had ever looked at you like that before.

You thought about how this was all supposed to be a farce – a temporary game to help him secure his place in high society and clear his reputation. But right now, as he looked at you like you were the only thing worth living for, the only thing worthy of his attention, you realized the lines had blurred so much that there was no turning back.

So instead of pulling away and asking him to take you home, you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him.

That tiny movement was all Aerion needed.

Before you could even brush against his lips, he crashed into your mouth with crushing force and a guttural groan. The kiss was deep and greedy, stealing the very air from your lungs. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck as he suddenly hooked his hands under your thighs and hoisted you up.

You let out a small gasp and locked your legs around him. He didn't break the kiss, even when your lungs started to burn. He carried you to the bed and lowered you gently onto the sheets, immediately pinning you down with his body. His lips moved to your cheek, your cheekbone, and back to that sensitive spot beneath your ear. He gave it a sharp bite, making you flinch, before immediately soothing the sting with his tongue.

His hands wandered over your body, the fabric of the dress getting in the way of him feeling your skin, and he let out a frustrated growl as he pulled back.

"Forget what I said about this damn dress. I’m going to fucking die if I don't touch you right now."

You laughed softly, helping him out. He tossed the dress somewhere into the darkness and froze, staring hungrily at your bare body. His hand landed on your stomach, fingers splaying wide as he stroked your skin possessively.

Aerion went still, his gaze darkening when he saw the final barrier – the delicate lace of your lingerie, which seemed like a taunt against his impatience. He didn't take his eyes off you; in the dim light, his pupils were so blown that his irises were just thin, bright rings.

"Fuck," he said in a raspy voice, his hand resting on your stomach, fingers splaying out as he stroked your skin. "Exactly as I pictured it."

"You’ve been picturing me?"

Aerion just shook his head in disbelief, hovering over you and taking up every inch of space. "You haven't the slightest clue how many times."

His gaze burned into you as his hand, which had been resting on your stomach, slowly slid higher. Too slowly. His fingers barely brushed your skin, pulling all of your attention to his touch, making every cell in your body tremble in anticipation.

Aerion leaned down further, his lips finding that sensitive spot on your neck. He didn't just kiss you – he hungrily breathed in your scent, as if trying to get his fill of you before sharply nipping at your skin. Not enough to draw blood, but hard enough to force a sharp, jagged breath from your chest and send an icy shiver down your spine. His hot tongue immediately licked the bite mark, and his hands, which had slid up to your collarbones, tightened possessively, pinning you to the silk sheets.

God, he's possessive, you realized, the thought swirling through your mind.

He slowly moved lower, and every kiss on your ribs felt like a promise. When he reached your stomach, his hot breath scorched your skin, making your muscles contract involuntarily. He took his time, clearly enjoying your reaction, feeling your rhythm break as you tangled your fingers in his hair – either trying to pull him closer or just trying to hold onto reality.

His palms gripped your thighs even tighter, fingers digging into your soft skin almost painfully, pinning you down and leaving you no chance to pull away. Aerion leaned lower, and now all you could feel was his hot, ragged breath against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

His hand, broad and warm, slowly slid down from your stomach. He hooked his fingers on the edge of the fabric but didn't rush to strip it off. Instead, he trailed his knuckles along your thigh, making you gasp. You felt the cold metal of his rings sting against the heat of his palm.

He leaned forward, pressing his face against you right through the thin fabric. You felt him take a deep, lung-shaking breath of your scent – mixed with the smell of expensive lace and your own arousal. That breath sounded almost like a groan of possession. His jaw was tight, and you felt him freeze for a second, soaking in your warmth with every inch of his face.

Aerion pulled back for just a moment, and in the dim light, you could see his chest heaving. His gaze, usually sharp and calculating, now seemed clouded by a dark, primal hunger. He slowly lowered his hand to your hip, and his fingers – hot and trembling slightly from the tension – caught the edge of the lace.

He pulled the lingerie off in a smooth, almost ritual-like motion. No rush, just an agonizing delay that made you freeze and look straight into his dark eyes. When the fabric finally vanished, tossed aside somewhere, Aerion went still.

He looked you over from head to toe — from your hair scattered across the pillow to the tips of your toes — and you felt exposed not just physically, but emotionally.

"Fuck..." he breathed out, and that raspy, broken sound did something unbearable to you. "Absolutely perfect."

He slowly moved lower, and his palms, broad and warm, gently slid over your knees, parting them just enough so he could settle between them.

Now that there was nothing left between him and your skin, Aerion froze just a millimeter away from you. You felt his ragged, scorching breath concentrate on your inner thighs, making your muscles twitch involuntarily. He didn't rush. Instead, he trailed the tip of his nose along your soft, sensitive skin, slowly moving up toward your lower abdomen, soaking in your scent without any barriers.

A quiet, tender sigh escaped your chest, and you instinctively rested your hand on the back of his head, softly running your fingers through his short hair. For a moment, he pressed his cheek against your inner thigh and closed his eyes.

Then, he stopped teasing — he practically dove into you, pressing his face so close that you felt the heat of his entire being. His first deep, lingering stroke of his tongue made you gasp out his name and press the back of your head into the pillow.

You cried out, your voice breaking into a soft, drawn-out moan that filled the silence of the bedroom. You didn't fight him; you melted under his pressure, letting his hunger consume you.

He froze for just a second to let out a low, guttural growl right against your skin. The vibration of his voice pierced through you, mixing with the searing wetness of his tongue.

He moved confidently and deeply, exploring every inch while you tossed on the pillow, unable to hold back quiet sounds of pleasure. Every breath, every choked moan pushed him further.

His palms dug into your thighs, pinning you to the silk sheets. You felt the cold of his rings and the unbearable heat of his lips.

"I fucking knew you’d be this sweet," he gasped, pulling back for a second to catch his breath, his voice sounding like he’d walked through fire. "I’ve been wondering if you’d let me taste you since that day in the library."

His palm, which had been resting on your thigh, slid higher. He teased you with one finger – slowly, carefully, as if testing your reaction, feeling how trustingly you opened up to his warmth.

A quiet, melodic moan escaped you as he began to move inside you in rhythm with his tongue.

He worked his finger smoothly, exploring you with the same reverence he usually had when he looked at you. Then, feeling your soft readiness, he added a second finger, stretching you a little more, filling you. Your eyes involuntarily rolled back, and you pressed the back of your head harder into the pillow, letting out a series of short, tender gasps. The contrast between the wet work of his tongue outside and the steady rhythm of his fingers inside stripped away whatever restraint you had left.

"So good…" you whispered, gripping his hair a bit tighter, guiding him. You didn't fight it; you just surrendered to the flow of pleasure, meeting his hunger with your own endless softness.

His tongue – wet and unbearably hot – found your sweet spot with frightening precision. He didn't just touch it; he enveloped it, teasing with soft, circular motions before pressing closer.

He felt you start to melt. He covered you with his lips, lightly tugging at the sensitive skin, while simultaneously his fingers inside gave a sharp, deep thrust, hitting the exact spot that made sparks fly behind your eyes.

A jagged cry escaped your chest, and you instinctively curled your fingers in his hair, pulling his face even closer to you.

You felt everything inside pull tight, like a white-hot wire. Every stroke of his tongue sent a powerful jolt to the pit of your stomach, making your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

"My girl wants to come? Do it for me," he rasped against your skin, feeling your muscles start to squeeze involuntarily around his fingers.

And when that wire finally snapped, washing over you in a soft, blinding wave, Aerion didn't pull away.

He kept persistently pleasuring you with his lips, catching your long, exhausted moan until you completely lost touch with reality, drowning in that searing bliss.

Aerion felt your last tremor fade into a blissful weakness, but he was in no hurry to move. He left a few soft, soothing kisses on the inside of your thighs, where the skin was still burning and twitching. His lips weren't greedy anymore – just tender.

Then he rose slowly, agonizingly smoothly, propping himself up on his elbows and hovering over you.

In the semi-darkness of the bedroom, his face looked frighteningly beautiful. His hair was slightly disheveled from your fingers, his cheekbones sharply defined, and his lips and chin were wet and glistening, red and swollen. But the main thing was his eyes. There was no cold calculation in them anymore; right now, a dark, satisfied triumph was swimming there. He looked at you with such a smug, devilish smile that a new wave of goosebumps ran down your spine.

He leaned down to your face, closing the distance to just millimeters. When his lips covered yours, you froze. The kiss was deep and lingering, and you could distinctly feel the taste of your own pleasure on your lips, mixed with his hot breath.

Aerion pulled back just an inch, so the tip of his nose brushed against yours. His voice sounded so low and raspy that the vibration echoed in your chest. "Next time, you’re sitting on my face."

Before you could say anything in response, Aerion leaned slightly forward. His lips, still wet and hot, covered yours again, but this time he didn't deepen the kiss. Instead, he gently, almost lazily, caught your lower lip and slowly, with lingering persistence, sucked it in, tasting it.

You felt him suckle the tender skin, making you pulse with a new surge of tenderness and heat. He did it slowly, savoring every moment, until you finally relaxed under his weight, feeling him literally drink in your breath.

Aerion only pulled away when your lip was swollen and wet. He looked at the result of his work with that same smug expression, and a promise was readable in his eyes that this night was far from over for both of you.

Your palm slid lower, toward his belt, wanting to return the same sharp caress, but Aerion sharply intercepted your wrist. His fingers tightened masterfully, pinning your hand to the pillow above your head.

He was breathing hard, and you saw that in the meantime, he’d already carelessly tossed his tuxedo jacket and shirt aside – they were lying somewhere on the floor next to your dress.

"No," he breathed right against your lips, his voice sounding dangerous and raspy. "Not tonight."

He hovered over you, panting, and you could see a vein pulsing wildly in his neck. There was such a fire of impatience in his eyes that it felt like he might just burn up on the spot.

A silent question. This wasn't just a one-time thing for you either, was it?

You studied him – disheveled, utterly consumed by you, that wicked smirk masking a raw, almost primal need to claim you. You tilted your head toward him, the tip of your nose ghosting over his cheek as you inhaled his scent.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice a tender, lulling caress.

You freed your other hand and gently ran your fingertips along his cheek, tracing his jawline before tenderly pressing your palm to his hot neck, feeling his pulse thumping frantically under his skin. That simple, trusting gesture made him freeze for a second and close his eyes, as if you’d just given him much more than just consent.

Aerion exhaled sharply, burying his forehead in your shoulder, and you felt his tension shift into a new, even more powerful wave of resolve. "You have no idea the effect you have on me."

Aerion kept his face hidden in the curve of your shoulder for a moment longer, soaking in your scent and the warmth of your agreement. His ragged breathing gradually leveled out, but the heat radiating from his body only became more intense. He slowly pulled back, lifting his head, and in his gaze — clouded with desire – everything he wasn't saying flickered by.

Without breaking eye contact, he pushed himself up slightly to finally get rid of his trousers. They slid to the floor along with the rest of his things, and in that same second, you noticed him pulling a packet out of his pocket.

You arched a playful brow at his foresight. Despite the crushing intimacy of the moment, a soft, knowing smile ghosted over your lips.

"I did specify that I was a gentleman. And we are always prepared," he quipped, meeting your gaze head-on.

"You couldn’t possibly have been certain that we’d end up in this bed tonight," you countered softly, a thread of gentle mockery in your tone.

"Oh, I knew," he stated with that unstoppable self-confidence. "I knew it would happen the exact second I saw you in that dress."

Suddenly, he pulled you even tighter, though you hadn't thought that was possible. His strong arms hooked under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifted you up like you weighed nothing at all.

You let out a small gasp of surprise, but Aerion didn't let you fall, confidently settling you onto him, straddling his lap. Now you were sitting on him, your legs wrapping around his torso, as he leaned back against the soft headboard of the bed.

This position left you wide open under his direct, appraising stare. You felt a flush flood your face, neck, and chest. Instinctively, you tried to press your knees together and lower your hands to cover up even a little bit, but Aerion wouldn't let you.

His palms settled on your thighs, gently but firmly keeping them open. He looked up at you from below, savoring every breath you took, every movement, and every sign of your shyness.

He slowly moved his hands higher, sliding his palms along your ribs until his fingers found the clasp of your bra. You froze, holding your breath, as you heard the quiet click and the fabric covering your chest slipped down.

His breath hitched for a second, and you saw his pupils blow wide, flooding his irises with dark, thick delight. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply.

Aerion leaned forward, and his lips captured your nipple. At first, it was a tender, fluttering touch, but a moment later he began to hungrily suckle the sensitive skin, making you gasp and grip his shoulders almost painfully. He didn't stop: his teeth carefully, on the verge of pain, nipped at the soft skin, sending a wave of sharp, electric current through you.

A jagged, high-pitched moan escaped your chest. Aerion moved to the other breast, teasing it with the same frantic passion — alternating between stroking it with his tongue and sucking the skin so hard you felt everything inside tighten into a knot.

He pulled away for just a second to look at your flushed face and clouded eyes. His lips were glistening, and his face wore such predatory, deep satisfaction that you had no doubt: he wouldn't stop until he’d drained you dry.

Aerion pulled back slightly from your chest, breathing hard, his gaze dark with desire meeting yours. He took the condom out of the packet and placed it right into your palm. His fingers lingered on yours for a second, hot and trembling slightly.

"Put it on me," he rasped.

You froze, feeling a fresh blush flood your face. You’d had experience before; you knew what to do, but you had never felt a man so sharply or so closely. Now, sitting on his lap, you felt his hardness against your thighs, and it made you shake.

You slowly lowered your hand. Aerion didn’t help you; he just leaned back against the headboard, forcing you to be the one to touch him. When your fingers first cautiously brushed against his hot, pulsing skin, Aerion sucked in a sharp, frantic breath through his teeth. A loud, raspy hiss escaped his chest, and he threw his head back for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, while his fingers gripped your thighs until his knuckles turned white.

Trying not to look him in the eye, you focused on slowly sliding the latex on, feeling your fingertips glide over him. The silence in the room felt deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing.

When you finally finished and shyly looked up, you saw a bright, open smile on his face. It was so sincere and full of triumph that your embarrassment faded for a moment, replaced by a surge of warmth. He looked almost happy.

Aerion leaned forward, catching your hands in his and pulling you flush against him so your heated body pressed into his bare chest. He made you wrap your arms around his neck, closing every bit of distance between you. His lips were right at your ear, and you felt his hot breath scorch your skin.

His voice was so low and raspy that the vibration echoed through your whole body. "Come here, baby."

Aerion gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin possessively but carefully, helping you lift yourself up. He guided your every move as you held your breath and began to lower yourself onto him, agonizingly slow and smooth.

The moment you froze, feeling his pressure, Aerion didn’t rush you. On the contrary, his palms on your thighs softened, holding you in that suspended, incredibly sharp state. He leaned forward so the tip of his nose brushed yours, and you saw his gaze — which had just been burning with predatory fire — turn serious and deep.

"Easy now, there’s no hurry," he whispered, his voice a velvet caress that urged you to find your ease. "You’re the one in control here, all right?"

He took a deep, heavy breath, clearly holding back his own frenzy for your comfort. His eyes never left yours, watching your every expression.

"Tell me if it becomes too much," he added, his lips a mere hair's breadth from yours. "I’ll stop the second you ask. Agreed?"

The way he looked into your eyes, searching for confirmation, showed a tenderness so uncharacteristic of him that your heart finally melted.

Finding your courage, you gripped his shoulders tighter and made the final, decisive push down, taking him in completely.

Aerion broke into a low, visceral groan and threw his head back, eyes squeezing shut from the unbearable fullness filling his entire being. His fingers dug into your thighs until his knuckles were white, pulling you against him so hard it was as if he was afraid the moment would just vanish.

A sound that was half-moan, half-gasp escaped your chest – a sound of such purity and relief that your head spun. You felt an incredible, stretching fullness that sent sparks flying through your body, from your fingertips to the base of your skull.

Aerion struggled to open his eyes, and the clouded delight in them took your breath away. He carefully framed your face with his palms, forcing you to look only at him. "You feel like goddamn heaven."

He began to rock his hips upward, slowly and agonizingly smooth. That first movement took your breath away, and you instinctively leaned back, arching your spine. Your fingers dug into his firm shoulders, your nails leaving deep red marks on his skin, but he only let out a low, satisfied growl at your reaction.

"Yes, just like that..." he whispered, catching your lips in a short, hungry kiss. "My girl. All mine."

He began to set a rhythm — heavy and deep. You felt his heat inside you become unbearable, everything tightening into a throbbing knot. Your moans grew louder, stripped of all shyness – now there was only pure, primal hunger. You buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin mixed with expensive cologne and sweat, leaving a jagged, hot trail of a kiss that turned into a bite on his shoulder.

Aerion tensed, his muscles turning to stone under your hands. He kept checking on you – searching your eyes for your "okay," kissing your eyelids, your temples, your earlobe.

"You were made for me, do you know that?" he whispered right into your ear, and his low voice sent an electric charge down your spine.

You felt his movements grow more confident as he saw you relax and start to catch his rhythm. Your body instinctively knew how to move to meet him, and this dance on the edge of tenderness and possession finally blurred the reality around you.

The tension inside you reached its limit, coiling into a single, unbearably sharp point. You felt the world start to fade, leaving only the heat of his body and this rhythm that burned away everything else. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, and you tilted your head back, barely whispering his name on the edge of a moan.

"Aerion... please..."

He froze for a fraction of a second, feeling your body start to tremble in his arms. His own self-control collapsed like a house of cards. He pulled your face to his, forcing you to look into his darkened, almost black eyes, where a real storm was raging.

"Tell me," he rasped, his voice breaking with raw desire. "What do you need? Tell me, baby. I’ll give you anything you ask for."

He started moving faster, deeper, each thrust forcing a new gasp out of you. He saw you balancing on the very edge, and his lips covered yours in a demanding, possessive kiss before he pulled back again to whisper words of praise against your mouth.

"Yes, just like that... come to me. You’re doing so well." His voice vibrated in your chest, pushing you toward the ledge.

His movements became jagged and powerful; he was barely breathing himself, lost in the sensation. Seeing your features twist with peak pleasure, he dropped to a low, guttural whisper, urging you on:

"Come on, love, come for me. Right now. I’ve got you."

And in that moment, the dam broke. You let go, your voice raspy and broken as you cried out his name, the first wave of orgasm crashing over you. You slumped weakly against his shoulder, shuddering in his arms. Your whole body went limp, turning into pure, pulsing tenderness.

Aerion reacted instantly. He slowed down immediately, almost coming to a standstill. His strong hands, which had just been possessively gripping your thighs, moved higher. His hot lips brushed your temple, your cheek, your jawline – short, weightless kisses full of tenderness.

Then, as if finally letting go of all restraint, he moved lightning-fast. In one powerful, fluid motion, he grabbed your waist and flipped you over, laying you on your back. Before you could even process the change in position, he lifted both your legs, bending them at the knees and pinning your thighs to your chest with his forearms. This position left you completely open, vulnerable, and ready to take all of him.

Aerion hovered over you, his eyes burning with a predatory, wild fire. He surged forward and, with one crushing, deep thrust, drove into you to the very limit. A loud, jagged moan escaped your chest, and your fingers dug frantically into the sheets.

He began to move in a frantic, primal rhythm. The world narrowed down to this heat, this movement, and his heavy, broken breathing in your ear.

At one point, as he pulled back slightly, his gaze fell on your neck. There, glinting in the semi-darkness, lay the thin chain with the dragon pendant – the very gift he had given you. The sight of it finally made him lose his mind.

Aerion leaned down abruptly, his hot lips covering the cold metal of the pendant. He kissed the skin over the dragon, breathing in your scent mixed with the smell of metal and passion. The touch made your heart ache with tenderness.

He straightened up again, his movements becoming jagged and powerful; he was barely breathing himself. He felt his own peak approaching fast, sweeping away the last remains of his sanity.

"Never seen anyone more beautiful than you," he rasped, his voice breaking from the sheer weight of his feelings.

His movements grew faster as he felt his own release approaching. He pressed you into the mattress, hovering over you, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. "One more, my baby, give me one more."

And in the moment he reached his peak and cried out your name, you felt a final wave of pleasure – even more powerful – crash over you right after him. You arched toward him, taking all of him, and in that second, it felt like your breath and heartbeats had become one.

You felt his weight on you – heavy and grounding. Your hands moved slowly from his shoulders to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him even closer to your neck. You could feel his racing heart thudding right against yours.

Aerion lay on top of you for a few more minutes, heavy and hot, his face buried in the curve of your neck. His breathing, jagged and scorching at first, gradually leveled out, becoming deep and steady. You felt his heart slow its frantic pace under your palms. In the silence, broken only by your breathing, there was something so intimate.

He propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze – clouded, dark, and unusually soft – searching your face. He leaned in slowly and left a long, weightless kiss on your temple.

He carefully pulled away, and you watched him as he got up to dispose of the condom and clean up. You lay on the rumpled sheets, feeling a pleasant languor in your whole body, just waiting for him to come back.

Aerion went to the wardrobe, pulled out a black T-shirt of his, and returned to the bed. You arched an eyebrow, looking at the fabric in his hands with a bit of confusion.

He helped you slide your arms into the sleeves. "It can get cold at night."

The T-shirt smelled like him – leather, expensive cologne, and that specific scent that would now always be associated with this evening. It was hopelessly big on you, covering almost your entire body, and wearing it made you feel strangely protected, as if you were wrapped in his armor.

Aerion lay down beside you and, with a possessive but gentle gesture, pulled you against his chest from behind. His hand rested authoritatively on your waist, pinning you close to his hot body, while his chin settled on the top of your head.

"Sleep," he breathed out, and you felt his fingers lazily, almost instinctively, stroking through your hair.

You closed your eyes, listening to his steady heartbeat, and under that rhythmic pace, you finally drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep.

@xitlalli2001 @darkrion @maybejuneeeeeee @universemagicreading @theoriginalwifeofhanjumin @autumnevanescence @baelorandmaekarinparis @bubble-gummy-witch @oh-miniso @witchygirl01 @asunshine15 @mommyoftwoo @pharmacistfairytale @maximuminfluencerstarlight @beforebinarysunrise @strawberryacethingz @empress-maud @sihtricswife @wolfiemarley @dramioneforevertilltheend @bloodyfawn @ae-gax @leyluna07 @x-vadon @whore-of-many-hot-men @miminist @hawk3yee @aliv0luv @moonmaiden1996 @clairesblouse @staergir1 @anthonys-viscountess @seizethemfdays @ethereal-athalia @livelaughsteak @ignoranceconnoiseur @sl-ut @bkell2929 @btsw1fe @tomyeternityml @2345perez @newjansey @dabishou @zanydruid1985 @jaggedninjamartyr

[kittyminion]

SECRET CHARM

sandor clegane x high born!reader

kinktober day eleven, oct. 17 semi-public, quiet sex

SUMMARY: hiding brings adrenaline, right? WARNINGS: semi-public, poc reader, reader has curly/coily hair, language, quiet sex, smut 18+, sweetheart, porn w/o plot, fluff, characters 18+, short and sweet

taglist: @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @thegirlulike @stargirlgrimoire @lacrimasdulces @graveyardofemotions

The alcove was small, but it gave Sandor enough space to bend beneath you, torso shoved beneath the skirt of your dress, large hand groping and massaging your ass. Your cheek was pressed against the wall, mouth agape as his tongue flicked against your cunt.

"Do you have enough space?" You muttered carelessly, peeking farther out of the alcove to check if anyone was walking down the corridor, but it was empty—thick streams of sunlight warming the space.

Sandor grunted against you, mouth pressed firmly against your cunt, the hilt of his sword tinking against the wall. "Don't worry about me." He said, and you chuckled, moaning, eyes rolling closed as you reached back, using his shoulder to support yourself.

"If they catch us, you're dead." He rolled his eyes, scarred skin brushing the back of your thigh, beard covered in your slickness. Your skin was shimmering with sweat, and you smelled entirely like man—specifically the never-ending iron-y scent that followed Sandor like a cloud.

"Nobod's killin' me, sweetheart. And you know it." You scoffed, rolling your hips, trying to produce more friction, but with one quick motion, Sandor twisted you around, shoving your back against the wall while your legs were thrown over his shoulders.

Pulling your skirts up, you watched his tongue thrust in and out of you, your chest rising and falling each time you exhaled with a moan. "Don't be so full of yourself, Ser." He chuckled against you, glancing up, hazel eyes piercing, but admiring all the same. "I've got the right to be full of myself." He pulled away to continue talking, face glistening while a thick finger pushed into your cunt, thrusting slow and deep.

"I deal with a fuckin' twat every day. This—" he nodded at you, "—is my only semblance of comfort."

"My cunt or—me?" You stuttered, out, lifting your head and staring at the ceiling, covered in cobwebs and dust alike. Just as Sandor opened his mouth to answer you, there were heavy footsteps. At least a dozen guards shot by, yelling and screaming on alert. Sandor paused his ministrations on you, grunting as he attempted to decide whether he wanted to follow or not. But eventually he just shook his head, "you, sweetheart. Think a cunt can fulfill me more than a person? You're mistaken if you think so."

You ran your hand down his face, caressing the scars, and Sandor flinched away as he usually did, mouth pulling into a frown, but you shrugged, "I've never known you to be so sentimental."

He shut you up when he flicked your clit, fingers wrapping around it gently and squeezing, adding enough pressure to have a sweet moan slipping from your lips.

"You should know better than that. I'm human above all."

[amopitaya]

flames of the north: a conqueror’s forbidden claim.

aegon the conqueror x female stark! reader.

ꫂ ၴႅၴ summary: in the frozen halls of winterfell, you, the eldest daughter of king torrhen stark, live a life bound by duty and the harsh winds of the north. but when aegon targaryen and his dragons descend upon your world, a forbidden spark ignites, one that echoes through centuries, blending fire and ice in a passion that could reshape kingdoms.

as negotiations teeter on the edge of war, secret meetings and stolen touches draw you into the dragonlord’s embrace, where desire overrides caution and love defies conquest. will you kneel to the flames, or will the wolf tame the dragon?

(explicit content, reader insert, themes of forbidden romance and power)

the chill of the north seeps into your bones like an old friend, a constant companion in the vast halls of winterfell. you are the daughter of torrhen stark, the king in the north, and your life is a tapestry woven from the harsh threads of duty, family, and the unyielding wilds beyond the castle walls. born under the shadow of the weirwood trees, with their blood-red leaves whispering secrets to the old gods, you grow up knowing the weight of your lineage.

the starks rule the north for thousands of years, and as the eldest daughter, your brothers still young and wild, you embody the strength of the wolf pack.

your days begin before dawn, wrapped in furs against the biting frost. you rise to the sound of the castle stirring: servants haul wood for the hearths, guards change shifts on the battlements, and the distant howl of direwolves echoes from the godswood.

your father, torrhen, is a stern man, broad-shouldered and battle-hardened, with a beard streaked in gray from years defending the realm against wildlings and southern skirmishes. he rules with an iron fist tempered by quiet wisdom, and your interactions with him blend reverence and subtle rebellion.

“father…” you say over breakfast in the great hall, where the long tables groan under platters of black bread, salted fish, and steaming venison stew. the air thickens with the scent of pine smoke from the massive fireplace. torrhen looks up from his maps, his blue eyes, mirrors of your own, piercing through you. “the scouts report unrest in the neck. the crannogmen whisper of omens in the swamps.”

he nods, his voice a low rumble like thunder over the mountains. “and what do you make of it? you’re not just my daughter; you’re a stark. speak your mind.”

“i think it’s more than omens,” you reply, buttering a hunk of bread with deliberate strokes. “the swamps hide dangers, perhaps wildlings probing our borders again. we should send more men to reed’s keep.”

torrhen grunts in approval, leaning back in his high-backed chair carved with direwolf motifs. “sharp as ever. but remember, the north is vast. we can’t chase every shadow.” he pauses, his gaze softening just a fraction. “you’ve your mother’s fire in you. she’d be proud.”

you smile faintly, but inside, a spark of defiance flickers. your mother passed years ago, leaving you to navigate this world of men. torrhen treats you as an advisor, not a fragile flower to wed off for alliances, but the undercurrent of expectation lingers.

“marry well.” he reminds you during quieter moments in his solar, where tapestries of ancient battles hang on the stone walls, flickering in the candlelight. “the north needs strong bloodlines. but choose with your head, not your heart. hearts lead to folly.”

“i know, father.” you say, tracing the grain of the wooden table. “but what if the heart and head align? singers tell of loves that forge empires.”

he chuckles dryly, shaking his head. “singers spin tales to warm beds, not thrones. stick to steel and strategy, girl.”

you nod, hiding the restlessness that stirs within. your heart yearns for more than a political match; stories from traveling bards speak of passion and fire, of loves that burn brighter than the northern lights. but in winterfell, life is practical. you train with the sword in secret, your lithe frame moving with the grace of a shadowcat under the watchful eye of your sworn shield, a grizzled warrior named harlan.

“keep your guard up, my lady...” harlan grunts as you spar in a secluded courtyard, snow crunching underfoot. your blade clashes against his, the ring of steel echoing off the walls.

“you’re quick, but speed won’t save you from a wildling’s axe.”

you pivot, sweeping low. “then teach me strength, harlan. i won’t be helpless.”

he parries with a laugh. “helpless? you’re a wolf, not a lamb.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹

afternoons see you riding through the wolfswood, your direwolf pup, snowfang, loping at your side, her white fur blending with the snowdrifts. the forest whispers around you: branches creak in the wind, ravens caw from skeletal trees, and the scent of pine and earth fills your lungs. you push your gray mare harder, the thrill of freedom chasing away the castle’s confines, the wind tangling your braids and stinging your cheeks as snowfang’s playful barks echo through the trees, her paws kicking up flurries of snow that sparkle in the pale sunlight.

evenings bring feasts or councils, where you sit at your father’s right hand, listening to lords bicker over land disputes or the ever-present threat from the ironborn. the great hall buzzes with voices, tankards clinking, and the roar of laughter. lord karstark argues with umber about border patrols, their beards flecked with ale foam.

“the ironborn raid our coasts like rats!” umber bellows, slamming his fist. “we need ships, not words!”

you lean in, voice cutting through the din. “ships take time, my lords. fortify the harbors first, towers with ballistae. make them pay in blood before they touch shore.”

torrhen nods. “my daughter speaks true. action over bluster.”

the north is your world: endless forests, frozen rivers, and a people as resilient as the weirwoods. you wear gowns of wool and fur, embroidered with the direwolf sigil, your dark hair braided in the northern style. but beneath it all, restlessness stirs. whispers from the south speak of dragons, myths come alive, and a conqueror named aegon targaryen, who claims the seven kingdoms as his own.

“father, have you heard the latest ravens?” you ask one evening in the solar, poring over scrolls by firelight. “this aegon, he burns castles like kindling.”

torrhen dismisses it with a wave. “tales to frighten children. dragons? bah. the south can keep its fires; we have ice.”

but you feel a pull, like the tide drawing you toward an unknown sea. dreams haunt you, flames dancing with wolves, a silver-haired man calling your name, his voice echoing through misty halls where fire meets frost in a clash of desire and destiny.

then, the dragons come. it starts with ravens, black wings cutting through gray skies, bearing messages of fire and submission. aegon targaryen, with his sisters-wives visenya and rhaenys, lands on westeros with three dragons: balerion the black dread, vhagar, and meraxes. they burn harrenhal to slag, subdue the stormlands, and now turn their gaze north.

your father calls a war council, the great hall packed with bannermen, karstarks, umbers, boltons, their faces grim under torchlight. smoke curls from the hearth, casting long shadows.

“we fight.” lord umber bellows, slamming his fist on the table.

“the north remembers!

no southern lizard will make us kneel.”

lord bolton sneers, his pale eyes cold. “fight with what? spears against fire? we’d be ash before dawn.”

torrhen’s expression is thoughtful, his fingers drumming on the arm of his throne. “fight dragons with steel? we’d melt like snow in summer.” he glances at you, and in that moment, you see the burden of kingship etch deeper lines on his face.

you speak up, your voice steady amid the chaos. “father, perhaps negotiation. send envoys. learn their terms. burning our lands benefits no one.”

murmurs ripple through the hall. lord karstark nods slowly. “the lass has sense. better to parley than perish.”

torrhen meets your eyes, pride flickering. “wise words, daughter. envoys it is. but if they come, we prepare for the worst. double the watches, stock the granaries.”

the council disperses in a clamor of boots and muttered oaths. as you leave, harlan falls in step beside you. “brave words, my lady. but dragons… gods help us.”

you square your shoulders. “the old gods watch over us, harlan. and we have wolves.”

they come sooner than expected. scouts report shadows in the sky, massive, winged beasts circling the moat cailin. the air hums with tension as alarms ring through winterfell. you stand on the battlements, wind whipping your cloak, watching the horizon. then, the army appears: thousands of men marching under the three-headed dragon banner, led by the targaryens themselves.

aegon, astride balerion, lands in a field outside winterfell, the ground trembling as the black dragon folds its wings. the beast’s scales gleam like obsidian, eyes like molten gold. smoke curls from its nostrils, melting the snow around it. visenya and rhaenys flank him, their mounts no less terrifying, vhagar’s green hide rippling, meraxes’ silver form graceful yet deadly.

your heart pounds as the gates of winterfell open for parley. your father rides out with a host of lords, you at his side on your gray mare. snow flurries like ash from a forge, sticking to your lashes. the cold bites, but adrenaline warms you.

torrhen halts the party a stone’s throw away, his hand on ice’s hilt, the ancestral valyrian steel greatsword. his voice booms. “aegon targaryen! you bring fire to the north. state your purpose.”

aegon dismounts with fluid grace, his black armor scaled like his dragon. silver-gold hair whips in the wind, violet eyes sharp as dragonglass. he’s tall, commanding, a vision of valyrian beauty that steals your breath. his sisters follow: visenya fierce in plate armor, her braid coiled like a serpent, dark sister at her hip; rhaenys radiant, a crown of winter roses woven into her hair despite the chill, her smile warm as southern sun.

aegon’s gaze sweeps the group, lingering on you for a heartbeat longer than necessary. those violet eyes seem to burn through your furs, igniting something deep within, a spark, forbidden and fierce.

“king torrhen stark,” he says, voice smooth and resonant, carrying over the wind. “i am aegon, of house targaryen. i come not as destroyer, but unifier. kneel, and the north remains yours under my banner. refuse, and join harren the black in ashes.”

torrhen stiffens. “the north kneels to no man. we’ve held these lands since the first men. what makes you think fire will break us?”

aegon steps closer, unflinching. “fire forges as well as burns. i’ve seen the realms divided, weak, prey to greater threats. united, we stand eternal.” his eyes flick to you again. “and you, lady? what say the wolves to the dragon’s call?”

you meet his stare, chin lifted. “wolves endure where flames flicker out. but wisdom sees alliance over annihilation. what terms, exactly?”

a faint smile tugs at his lips, intrigue flashing. “bold. i like that. terms: fealty, taxes, men for my armies. in return, protection, trade, peace.”

visenya snorts softly. “peace? if they bend.”

rhaenys lays a hand on her sister’s arm. “easy, visenya. let words fly before fire.”

torrhen grunts. “we’ll discuss in my hall. hospitality demands it.”

aegon nods. “lead on, king in the north.”

as you ride back, you feel his eyes on your back, a heat that defies the snow.

negotiations stretch into days. aegon’s host camps outside the walls, their fires dotting the landscape like fallen stars. tents of crimson and black silk billow in the wind, dragons roaring in the distance. your father hosts them in the great hall for feasts, a show of northern hospitality masking the tension. the air fills with the sizzle of roasting meat, the strum of lutes, and cautious laughter.

visenya is aloof, her sword dark sister at her side, speaking little but observing everything with hawk-like eyes. she spars with your guards one afternoon, her blade a blur, disarming harlan in seconds.

“impressive,” you say, approaching her after. “valyrian steel?”

she sheathes it with a nod. “forged in dragonfire. yours is ice, yes? a worthy blade.”

rhaenys is charm incarnate, regaling the lords with stories of valyria’s fall over mulled wine. “imagine cities of dragonglass, skies filled with our kin,” she says, her voice melodic. “lost now, but we carry the legacy.”

you sit beside her one night, curious. “and your dragons? do they heed only targaryens?”

she smiles, violet eyes twinkling. “blood calls to blood. meraxes knows my heart as i know hers.” she leans in. “but tell me of the north. these weirwoods, do they truly speak?”

“in whispers,” you reply. “the old gods see all.”

but aegon… aegon seeks you out. it begins subtly. during a hunt in the wolfswood, organized to ease the strain, you ride ahead, snowfang bounding through the underbrush. the forest is alive: leaves rustle, deer tracks mark the snow, the scent of damp earth heavy.

a stag crashes through the trees, antlers like branched lightning. you nock an arrow to your bow, drawing back with steady breath. the string sings as you loose, it flies true, embedding in the beast’s flank. it staggers and falls.

“well shot.” a voice says from behind.

you turn, heart skipping. aegon emerges on foot, his own bow slung over his shoulder. up close, he’s even more striking, high cheekbones, full lips, a scent of smoke and leather clinging to him.

“the north teaches precision” you say, dismounting to approach the kill. snowfang growls low but stays at your heel. “waste an arrow, and you starve.”

he smiles faintly, a rare crack in his stoic facade. violet eyes trace your form. “and what else does the north teach, daughter of torrhen?”

“endurance...” you reply, kneeling to check the stag. blood steams in the cold air. “loyalty. to kin, to land. and you? what lessons from dragonstone?”

“ambition.” he says, stepping closer. “vision. dreams of a realm unbroken.” his hand brushes yours as he helps lift the carcass onto your horse, accidental, or not? heat blooms at the touch.

“dreams can deceive.” you murmur, meeting his gaze. “like mirages in the desert.”

“or guide.” he counters softly.

the moment stretches, charged. snowfang whines, breaking it. you mount up.

“come. the others wait.”

but as you ride back, side by side, conversation flows. he asks of the wall, you of valyria. a fascination ignites.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹

that evening, in the godswood, you seek solitude under the heart tree. red leaves fall like blood drops, the carved face weeping sap. you kneel, praying for guidance.

footsteps crunch snow. aegon appears, cloaked in black. “am i intruding?”

you rise, brushing off your knees. “the godswood is for all who respect the old gods.”

he approaches the tree, hand hovering over the bark. “strange, these faces. in valyria, we had fourteen flames, gods of fire.”

“fire consumes,” you say. “wood endures.”

he turns to you, eyes intense. “yet fire warms. tell me, why do you advise your father so boldly? most ladies hide behind septas and embroidery.”

you laugh softly. “i’m no southern flower. starks lead, man or woman. and you? why seek me out?”

a pause. “you intrigue me. fierce as visenya, warm as rhaenys, but with a wildness all your own. like a wolf in dragon’s shadow.”

heat rises in your cheeks. “flattery from a conqueror?”

“truth.” he says, stepping closer. the air between you crackles.

from that moment, the fascination grows. aegon finds reasons to speak with you, discussing strategy in the godswood, or walking the battlements at dusk, the aurora dancing overhead like green flames.

“the lights...” he says one evening, leaning against the stone parapet beside you. wind tugs at your cloak, his hair. “we have nothing like them in the south.”

“they’re the old gods’ veil.” you explain, breath fogging. “hiding secrets from the stars.”

he turns, hand brushing yours, deliberate this time. “and what secrets do you hide?”

your pulse quickens. “why conquer?” you deflect. “the north stands alone for millennia.”

“because division breeds weakness,” he replies, fingers lingering. “i’ve seen it in dreams, flames consuming all if we fracture. but with you… i see alliance. fire and ice.”

his touch sends sparks through you, a heat foreign to your icy world. and in his eyes, you see echoes of forbidden tales: a conqueror ensnared by northern spirit, a union that could reshape realms.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹

visenya notices, her disapproval sharp. “brother,” she says one day in the hall, voice low as you pass. “the wolf pup distracts you. remember our purpose.”

rhaenys is amused, whispering to you during a feast. “my brother sees fire in you, wolf-girl. beware, it consumes. but oh, the warmth…”

your father notices too. in his solar, maps of the trident spread before him, he corners you. “the dragon’s eyes follow you. tread carefully, daughter. his interest could be a ploy to weaken us.”

“it’s no ploy,” you insist, though doubt nips. “he’s… different. visionary.”

torrhen sighs. “visionaries build on ashes. guard your heart.”

but caution fades as tension builds, electric as a storm. nights blur into secret meetings. aegon slips into winterfell under cover of darkness, cloaked like a commoner, meeting you in hidden alcoves or the crypts below, where stark kings slumber in stone silence.

in the crypts one night, torchlight flickers on ancient statues. “tell me of your dreams.” you whisper, backs against a tomb.

he pulls you close, hands on your waist. “i dream of thrones, of peace. and lately… of you.” his lips brush your ear. “defiant, beautiful. a queen for a new age.”

you shiver. “i’m no queen. just a stark.”

“more,” he murmurs. “like a song from the bards, a northern beauty captivating a dragon lord.”

“and your wives?” you ask, though your body presses against his.

“duty, desire.” he says, fingers tilting your chin. “you are love.”

then he kisses you, fierce and claiming. his lips taste of smoke and spice, tongue delving deep as his hands roam over your curves with a possessiveness that sends shivers racing down your spine, your body awakening in ways you’ve only dreamed of in the quiet nights of winterfell. you melt against him, your fingers fisting in his tunic, pulling him closer as the cool stone of the tomb presses into your back, a stark contrast to the heat building between you;

your nipples harden beneath the layers of wool and fur, aching for his touch, while a warm flush spreads across your chest and a slick wetness gathers between your thighs, your pulse thundering in your ears like the distant roar of dragons. the crypts, with their ancient silence broken only by your shared breaths and soft moans, feel like a sacred forbidden chamber where the old gods themselves might be watching, judging, or perhaps blessing this union of fire and ice that defies the boundaries of duty and conquest.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹

the relationship deepens swiftly, passion overriding caution. aegon summons you to his tent outside the walls, guards turned away. there, amid silks and dragon banners, you talk until dawn, but soon words give way to touches, his fingers tracing your collarbone, your hands exploring the hard planes of his chest under his tunic.

“tell me of the wall.” he says one night, lounging on furs, you beside him with wine.

“it’s endless ice...” you describe, tracing patterns on his chest. “guarded by black brothers against what lies beyond, wildlings, worse.”

he captures your hand, kissing knuckles. “and you’d face it?”

“with you?” you tease. “perhaps.”

laughter turns to heat. his kisses trail down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin, making you gasp as goosebumps rise along your arms. he unlaces your gown slowly, exposing your breasts to the cool air, nipples pebbling instantly. aegon groans appreciatively, cupping them in his warm hands, thumbs circling the peaks until you arch into him, a soft moan escaping. “so responsive...” he murmurs, lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, his tongue flicking and swirling. the sensation shoots straight to your core, your thighs clenching as wetness slicks your folds.

you thread fingers through his silver hair, pulling him closer, your body trembling with need.

not content with one, he switches to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, teeth grazing lightly to draw out whimpers from you. his free hand slides down, bunching your skirts, fingers finding your slick heat. he teases your clit with feather-light strokes, making your hips buck involuntarily, a flush spreading across your chest and neck.

your father grows suspicious, but negotiations drag, buying time. envoys go back and forth, terms haggled: fealty for autonomy, dragons for defense.

“they’re stalling.” torrhen mutters in council. “but why?”

oh but you know why, aegon delays for you. and the passion escalates. you steal moments in varied places... once in the stables during a late-night check on the horses, the scent of hay and leather thick around you. aegon presses you against a stall wall, his mouth on yours, hands roaming freely. he lifts your skirts, fingers delving inside you, pumping slowly as you bite his shoulder to muffle cries. your body clenches around him, walls fluttering, a small orgasm rippling through you from his skilled touch alone.

another time, in the godswood under cover of night, snow falling softly. he spreads his cloak on the ground before the heart tree, pulling you down. “let the old gods witness.” he whispers, undressing you layer by layer. his mouth travels lower, kissing down your stomach, parting your thighs. his tongue laps at your folds, tasting you with hungry groans, circling your clit until your legs shake, back arching off the cloak as pleasure builds and crashes, your cries echoing faintly in the sacred grove.

finally, the full heat ignites one stormy night in his pavilion. thunder rolls as you sneak in, rain lashing the canvas. aegon waits, shirtless by the brazier, his sculpted torso glowing in the firelight, broad shoulders, defined abs, scars mapping his conquests.

“you came...” he says, voice rough with desire, pulling you close.

“how could i not?” you breathe, your wet gown clinging, nipples visible through the fabric.

he kisses you deeply, tongue tangling with yours, hands roaming your back. the kiss is messy, urgent, teeth clashing, breaths heaving. he peels off your gown, exposing your flushed skin, goosebumps rising from the contrast of cold rain and his hot touch. your breasts heave with each pant, and he captures them again, sucking one nipple while rolling the other between fingers, making them ache deliciously. your body reacts viscerally: pulse racing, core throbbing, wetness dripping down your thighs.

“i’ve dreamed of this.” he growls, nipping your collarbone. “you, writhing under me.”

“show me.” you challenge, hands freeing his cock, thick, veined, tip glistening. you stroke him root to tip, feeling him twitch in your grasp, a bead of pre-cum smearing your palm. he hisses, hips thrusting into your hand, muscles tensing along his abdomen.

emboldened, you drop to your knees on the rugs, taking him into your mouth. his length fills you, salty and hot; you suck, tongue swirling the underside, cheeks hollowing. aegon’s fingers tangle in your hair, guiding you deeper, his breaths ragged, thighs quivering as he fights control. “seven hells… your mouth…”

he pulls you up before he finishes, laying you on the bed. parting your legs, he settles between, fingers tracing your slick folds. “so ready...” he murmurs, sliding two in, scissoring to stretch you. your walls clench, hips rocking, a flush creeping up your body.

he adds his mouth, tongue lapping at your clit while fingers curl inside, hitting that spot repeatedly. pleasure coils tight, your toes curl, breaths come in gasps, muscles tightening until you shatter, back arching, a gush of wetness coating his hand as you cry out.

still trembling, you pull him up. “inside me. now.”

he positions himself, thrusting in slowly, your body yields, stretching around his girth, a delicious burn. he fills you completely, pausing as you both groan, your nails digging into his back, drawing red lines. his cock throbs inside you, your walls pulsing in response.

he starts with deep, slow thrusts, grinding against your clit each time, making sparks fly. your legs wrap around him, heels urging deeper. “harder!” you beg, and he complies, pace quickening, skin slapping, sweat slicking your bodies. he switches positions, rolling you atop him. you straddle, sinking down, controlling the rhythm: rolling your hips, grinding down as he thrusts up. his hands grip your breasts, pinching nipples, sending jolts through you.

“gods, you feel incredible,” he pants, sitting up to suck your breasts again, teeth grazing as you ride him faster. your body reacts wildly, clit rubbing against his pelvis, pleasure building anew.

you push him back, turning to face away, his cock hits new angles, brushing your depths. he slaps your ass lightly, the sting heightening sensation, your skin flushing red. finally, he flips you to all fours, entering from behind, deep and animalistic. one hand reaches around to rub your clit, the other pulling your hair gently.

thrusts turn erratic, your walls fluttering, orgasm crashing, vision whites out, body convulsing, milking him.

he follows, spilling deep inside with a guttural roar, cock pulsing, hot seed filling you. you collapse together, bodies heaving, sweat cooling.

this becomes routine: trysts in tents, crypts, even once atop balerion’s saddle in a secluded clearing, the dragon’s heat mirroring yours as aegon takes you against the scales, your cries lost in the wind.

weeks turn to tense standoffs. negotiations falter, armies muster at the trident, northern banners facing dragonfire. scouts return pale, describing balerion’s shadow blotting the sun, fields scorched in demonstrations. torrhen paces his tent, maps strewn, lords arguing late into night.

“fight and die heroes!” lord umber urges.

“or kneel and live.” you counter softly, voice steady. torrhen meets your eyes, weighing the cost, thousands of lives, the north’s ancient pride.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹

dawn breaks clear. armies arrayed across the river, the trident’s waters rushing between. aegon waits on the southern bank, dragons coiled like storms ready to unleash. torrhen rides forward alone, ice sheathed, his face etched with resolve born of wisdom, not defeat.

he dismounts before aegon, the silence heavy as winter’s first snow. slowly, he kneels, laying ice at the conqueror’s feet. “the north yields.” he declares, voice carrying over the ranks. banners dip in submission, a ripple of bows from his men. no cheers rise, only the river’s murmur and distant dragon rumbles.

aegon nods solemnly, raising torrhen. “rise, warden of the north. your lands endure under my crown, your people protected.” relief washes through the hosts; weapons lower, blood averted. lords murmur in mixed awe and resentment, but the realm bends without breaking.

back in camp, torrhen pulls you aside, his grip firm on your shoulder. “this secures our future, daughter. pride feeds no one; peace does.” his eyes search yours, sensing the undercurrents. “and the dragon… he asks for you, to seal the bond.”

you nod, heart soaring amid the bittersweet. “it feels right, father. fire and ice, united.”

aegon approaches later in a riverside tent, away from prying eyes, his armor shed for simpler garb. “your father’s kneel honors us both,” he says softly, taking your hands. “but you, will you join me? as wife, as queen, binding north and south in blood and heart?”

the question hangs, laden with promise and peril. visenya objects in hurried council, her voice sharp: “valyrian blood runs pure; a third wife dilutes it.” rhaenys counters with a knowing smile: “it strengthens us, sister. a northern bride roots our throne deep.”

torrhen, resigned but proud, consents if you will it. “i do.” you declare, the words sealing fates. the union shocks the realms, a stark as targaryen consort, wolf amid dragons. whispers spread: ploy or passion? but in aegon’s violet gaze, you see truth.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹

the wedding unfolds swiftly at the trident’s banks, a blend of traditions under weirwood and septon. the heart tree’s red leaves fall like blessings as vows echo: “with this kiss, i pledge my love.” aegon murmurs, slipping a ring of dragonglass banded in iron onto your finger. a feast unites the hosts, northern ale flows with southern wines, songs mingle old gods’ chants with valyrian hymns. laughter rings tentative at first, then genuine, as former foes toast the new era.

that night, in aegon’s grand tent overlooking the river, passion reignites gently. he undresses you by candlelight, kisses tracing battle scars and soft curves alike, his touch reverent. “my queen.” he breathes, laying you on silks. bodies join in slow, deep rhythm, your gasps mingling with the trident’s flow, climaxes soft waves under the stars.

months blur into southward travel, from winterfell’s farewell, snowfang howling as you depart, to building king’s landing from aegonfort’s humble stones. masons raise walls, dragons circle protectively overhead. you adapt to the warmer climes: silk gowns edged in fur, councils where your northern pragmatism tempers southern ambition. aegon’s sisters warm gradually, visenya teaches you swordplay in the yard, her strikes testing but fair; rhaenys invites dragon flights on meraxes, wind whipping as you soar over budding city spires.

in private chambers one evening, amid half-built halls scented with fresh mortar and sea air, you place aegon’s hand on your swelling belly. “a child grows...” you whisper, the words heavy with joy.

his violet eyes light with fierce delight, kneeling to press lips to the curve. “our child, blood of dragon and wolf, forged in conquest’s fire.” he whispers promises to the unborn: realms to rule, skies to claim, a legacy unbreakable.

that night, on jasmine-scented sheets in the royal bedchamber, he worships your changing form. lips trail over fuller breasts, sucking tenderly until beads of early milk tease his tongue, drawing moans as your body arches, sensitive peaks sending jolts to your core. he enters you sideways, thrusts measured and deep, mindful of the babe, his hand splayed protectively over your belly.

pleasure builds gradually, your breaths syncing. positions shift carefully, you straddle him, grinding slowly as he guides your hips, violet eyes locked on yours; then spooned close, his fingers circling your clit with expert pressure. climaxes crest in soft, intense waves, your walls fluttering around him, his seed spilling warm and claiming. holding you through the aftershocks, bodies entwined as the future pulses within.

years weave intricate legacies: children born with silver-streaked hair and stark-blue resolve, riding dragons while honoring weirwoods; a throne forged from swords, ruling a united westeros where north and south blend in uneasy harmony. songs echo your tale, wolf maiden and dragon king, passion that bent knees without blood.

[ . . . ]

centuries hence, at harrenhal’s grand tourney under banners fluttering like ghosts of old conquests, a young targaryen prince with melancholic violet eyes glimpses a northern maiden amid the cheering crowds, her dark hair flowing wild, spirit fierce as winter’s bite, laughter ringing clear over jousts and revels.

as he crowns her queen of love and beauty with a garland of blue winter roses, petals falling like forgotten snow, whispers stir through the stands: an ancient flame rekindled, the eternal dance of wolf and dragon swirling once more in destiny’s shadowed waltz, where forbidden glances ignite wars yet unborn, begging the saga to unfold anew under watchful stars…

© amopitaya, 2026.

[etherealily]

ɴᴏʀᴛʜʙᴏᴜɴᴅ — ᴊᴏɴ ꜱɴᴏᴡ

Jon Snow + fem!reader.

based on this ask ; Queued + not proofread

Desc. : Mysteries and moonlight.

There's little that irks Jon.

He considers himself quite an agreeable man. It doesn't irk him when Samwell asks him about girls as though he's the resident expert. It doesn't irk him when his socks go missing — he's sure the others nick them because they don't have enough of their own for warmth. It doesn't irk him when new recruits come in, each less voluntarily present than the last, only to be bullied by order of Thorne.

But there is something. One minor thing. It is how everyone else around him has not yet questioned your presence. The logical thing would be to send you to King's Landing, to save you from the fate of the Rangers of the Watch — death by freezing. But you have not said a word since you came — again, to Jon, this is no reason not to get you back to civilization — and the rest of them said that until you spoke and explained why you were even this far North, there's no need for them to send you to the King. "What if it's an assassination attempt? What if this is a ruse to get escorted into the kingdom?" The logic is both sound as well as absent.

"If you think yourself King, boy, then I will have to remind you of the oath you are going to take. If you presume to escort her to King's Landing, we will not stop you. But you will be branded a deserter. And you know what we do to deserters."

And so, Jon had to sit there and watch you take your dinner with them. A separate table, of course, because they all claimed to be gentlemen. He doesn't blame them. They haven't seen a woman in ages. He understands why they do not want to let you go free so quickly. Sam himself, cannot tear his eyes away from you, and he'd once claimed to have thrown up in fear after making eye contact with a woman.

"She's wearin' too much, eh?"

He's not sure who says it ─ safe bet it's Pyp ─ but all he can think about is that it's the opposite. You're not wearing enough. It's too cold for a delicate woman, whose hands were so unblemished, it was clear she couldn't even be fit for begging. However, he doesn't do much about this, besides leave one of his coats hanging on the latch of your door — a modified storage room that was overrun with rats, but still the only room fit for a lady.

The next morning, the coat was gone, and none of his brothers of the Watch were wearing it, so he considered it a mission accomplished. But Jon had never been an observer, not since leaving Winterfell. Everyone there thought he had been, and they'd been partially right. He'd observed the wrath of Lady Cat when he passed. He'd observed Arya's love for the sword. He'd even observed the turmoil in his father's face when the King had come to ask him to be Hand. But he had changed, since being out here. So, he knocks at the storage room — your chambers, if this had been a true castle — once. Twice. No response. You do not leave, as far as he's observed, so he presumes you are in there. "May I come in?" He's not sure if he should add a 'my Lady' after that. He decides if he had to, then you would tell him.

You do not respond, so he goes against all of his upbringing and presses two fingers against the door until there's a creak. "Are you decent?" It's idiotic, but he feels as though he has to ask. Again, no response. You could be dead. You could be unconscious. He opens the door further. You're alive and awake, and across the room, huddled in a corner with his coat. That's a bloody relief. "Are you deaf?", he asks, gently shutting the door behind him. He doesn't mean it to sound insulting. He's just realised you haven't spoken to anyone since you were found fainted out in the snow a couple days ago, and you might very well be. Perhaps that is why no one was getting anything out of you. Not that they wanted to, anyway. They seemed to quite enjoy having a lady unaccounted for in their midst. Gave them something to ogle at.

You shake your head.

"So you can understand the common tongue."

You nod.

"Are you mute?"

He spots the way you hesitate. It's a tell. He kneels down on one knee before you — from where he stands. He doesn't want to move closer and have you scared of him. "If you are present enough to calculate whether it is wise to speak or not, then you have the presence of mind to give me your name, at the very least, if not your story and why you seemed to have resigned yourself to letting the wolves get to you, that day."

There's a moment where you clutch his coat tighter around you, your eyes on the dusty floor. Then you give him your name. Only your first name, the one those closest to you may be deigned to use. You do not look up. He picks up on the frostbitten hoarseness of your voice.

"Common or Titled?", is his next question.

You do not answer. He huffs, grunting a bit as he settles down opposite you, elbow resting on his knee as he looks you over. You stick out like a sore thumb in the harsh Northern cold. "Were you prepared to die that day Samwell found you?"

Once again, you do not answer. He keeps zooming out of his area of specificity of questioning, trying to get vaguer and vaguer, finding something that you will answer, but he is running out of significant queries. So, he settles on something else. "Do you know who I am?"

He doesn't expect a response to this, but appreciates you having the decency to shift your eyes from the rat nibbling on something in the corner back to his own. You shake your head.

"I am Jon Snow.", he informs, extending his hand out to you, some snow falling from his gloves.

You look at his hand long enough for his muscles to heavy, but not enough for him to retract it, before you take it. As he observed. No blemishes on your hand. No jewellery. No— gods! No anything.

He pulls back swiftly enough to startle you, before using his teeth to tug at the tops of one of the fingers of his gloves, pulling it off before pulling off the other ones. "Here. We are starved of gear here, as ironic as it may sound. It is what each man has brought with him, I'm afraid. These are men's gloves, so they are thicker. They will warm you.", he tells you, placing them in your hand.

You accept them, and he watches you put them on with rapt attention. These are clues to your identity, these are more tells, these are—

"Thank you, Jon Snow."

So you had not only come from civilization, you were well-mannered. His mind did not leap to nobility, yet, but it was quite possible you'd grown up in their midst. Perhaps a servant girl. But your hands...

"As I was saying. I am Jon Snow. I am related to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Do you know of the Starks? Of Winterfell?"

"How?" Of all the questions.

"How am I related? I...", he trails off, taking a much-needed long breath. Even strange women who may not even be from the Seven Kingdoms inadvertently have to make him remember his place in this world. "Am his son."

A slight furrow to your brow, and then your freshly-gloved finger points at him. "Jon Stark." Ouch. But this is good, this means you know how titles work. More clues to this puzzle of you.

"Jon Snow. I am illegitimate."

Your head tilts at that. Okay, he was getting further and further away from the nobility hypothesis. Though, the word illegitimate is not as common as the word bastard. "I'm not his. I mean, I am his. I am not his... legit— I... I am his bastard.", he explains, rather agitatedly, though he attempts not to show it to you. He didn't have a particular hate for the term, in itself. He was shrewd enough to know that sometimes a word is just a word, but gods did it hurt like hell to get out of his unyielding throat. "If you know of Winterfell and the House Stark, then you must know where you are."

"The Wall."

"Correct. And we are the Night's Watch. We protect the realm, and all those in it. Of the Seven Kingdoms. With me? Or do you already know all of this?"

You nod.

"So I will skip the history lesson.", he says, with a tiny laugh. "You are part of the realm, yes? We were right in protecting you?"

Once more, you nod. He is getting tired of this, honestly. He reaches for a gnawed-through and empty sack of grain, picking at its frays. "You know, the Wall is no place for a lady. Especially one as... unacquainted with the harshness of the North as you are."

"I am Northern."

He looks up, then. You do not seem to be cursing at yourself internally for divulging this information, so it seems it has not simply slipped out. "Winterfell?"

"No." He's glad you had the good sense not to simply shake your head at him again. "You are not a wildling, and you are not from Winterfell, but you're Northern. Dreadfort?"

"Does it matter that much?"

He genuinely does not have an answer to that. "We need to get you home, my lady. Safe and warm in your own bed."

"What of my needs? 'Protect the realm and all those in it'. What of the wishes of those in it? Do you discard those?"

That is the most he has heard you say in the past two days and he regrets that this tone of yours is directed at him. He briefly thinks no one else would have so humbly received such a bathing in goodwill as this little scoff of yours. You're lucky it's him you're snapping at.

"You do not mean to tell me you wish to stay at the Wall?", he asks, with a little snicker of derision, but it's entirely dark. "What, and join the Night's Watch? Or do you just want to stay and be our maid?"

"Watch yourself."

"Are you higher in station than I am, to command me?", he bites back, as he narrows his eyes at your face. It's usually in times like these that someone's pride kicks in and they expose what treatment they think they should be getting for their title. You do no such thing. "Doesn't matter. Here, we are all stationless, and titleless. So I will ask again. Do you just want to stay and be our maid, or will you tell me why you do not want to go home?"

You do not, safe to say. He tosses the destroyed sack onto the floor as he storms out, slamming the already-rickety door behind him. He can only breathe properly once he's out, and breathe he does, exhaling slowly, quickly, and then all at once. He didn't remember women being this stubborn, opaque, this... disagreeable. His half-sisters were lovely. His father's wife, maybe not so much, but she had her reasons. You, did not. No matter what reasons you had for being here, you had no reason to speak to him in the way you just had. No one else here had tried to speak with you without using the words 'darling' or 'sweet pea' or other things that Jon considered condescending and unbefitting for a lady.

That night at dinner, he makes a decision. A very Stark decision, actually, for all the Snow he keeps saying he is. This decision did not come all at once, it built, the entire afternoon and evening after this interaction, and he realized your game quite quickly. It was the game he'd play, had he been a lady all but trapped in a fortification of this size, surrounded by burly men (and Sam) most of whom were thieves, outlaws, and even rapists. And hence, came the decision. At dinner, he stands, not with finality, not with pomp, or with intent to make others see what he was doing, but simply, quietly, as subtle as the sun outshining the stars to indicate morning, and grabs his plate, his bread, his stew. And he begins to walk.

When he sits by you, the entire room quietens. You stiffen. He sucks at his teeth, eyes on his stew as he hands you his bread offhandedly, as though you'd been fast friends to whom this bread-sharing was a childhood ritual. You gingerly accept. Well, not accept, but take. Which, for now, is enough. He watches you sidelong as you place his bread next to yours. You nod in gratitude. He feigns a struggle to reach the drink on the other side of you so that his mouth is shielded by his exaggeratedly outstretched arm as he speaks to you. "What will they do if they find out you spoke with me? You do not want all the men here crowding you in order to try talking to you, do you?"

He actually does take the foul-smelling ale away from you, lest you drink that and vomit like one of the richer lords — more sheltered than him, but less adaptable — had the first night he had arrived at the Wall.

Jon watches your face for a reaction. Your chewing slows, and you meet his eyes, followed by a subtle nod. The corners of his mouth curl downwards, as he replicates your nod, stuffing his mouth with bacon so that no one can tell whether he is talking or chewing. "I will come back tonight."

You do not have to nod, then. You've got no choice.

"You dare!"

He's honestly got no time for this nonsense. The crowding of men he'd threatened you with seemed to have come to torture him, now.

"You dare to act all humble about your looks and your prowess when even the deaf and mute have fallen for you?"

"Samwell—"

"No, no, he's right, isn't he? You sat by her like you was a married couple, sharin' bread and all that! What are you playin' at?", scoffs Pyp, shoving his shoulder.

"Listen, all of you, I—"

"What did she say? What does she sound like?"

"She's deaf and mute, Pyp!", corrects Samwell.

"Didn't mean her voice."

"I was being polite! Alright? I was raised that way! That ale was not meant for a lady to digest, and one slice of black bread is not enough for a lady, either!", he cries, hoping it will get into their thick skulls that he is one of them, but not in this matter.

"Let's hope one man is not enough, either."

The raucous laughter that follows is one more thing he'll add to the short list of things that irk him. He shakes his head as he shoulders past the rest of them, drowning out questions and insinuations as he leaves, choosing instead to sit out at a post so he can stare out at the white of the North.

Once he's sure all the lads are asleep, he creeps down to the store-room with a lamp in hand. He doesn't knock. You're staring out the window. He closes the door. "Ready to talk?"

"That was cruel."

"I know all of these men. They won't lay a finger on you."

"It was cruel."

His jaw clenches, and he looks down. He can faintly make out the outline of the sack he'd thrown in a fit of rage earlier. "I know."

"No apology?"

"Not yet, no. Not until we speak. Properly, not in the breadcrumbs of information you have been giving me."

"Why can I not just stay? I am not bothering anyone."

Jon huffs out a laugh. "What benefit would we have from keeping a woman here? You are simply an extra mouth to feed. Every man out there will have a purpose. Steward, Ranger, or Builder. What are you? Why are you here?", he asks, slowly moving to lean against the wall right next to the window, so that he may see your face dully illuminated by the moonlight.

"I wanted to go beyond the Wall."

He's not sure if you can make it out in the moonlight, but his eyes widen, and he places the lantern down. "You're a wildling?"

"No. I'm a Northerner." Yes, you told him this.

"Right, but you wanted to go beyond the Wall. Where the wildlings will tear you up and behead you. In that order."

"I have my reasons."

"I'd love to know what they are."

You hesitate, once more, and he decides that's enough prying for now.

"I have training in the morning."

"That's not healed."

"Beg pardon?"

You nod over at his elbow, covered up in layers and layers of insulation — opaque insulation, so he hasn't the foggiest what you're talking about. "That. I can tell by how you hold it. If you have clean cloth and boiling water, I can dress it."

"You're a liar and a healer, then, how exciting."

Your face softens for a split second, and then turns harder than he's ever seen it before. "Or you can let it infect and you can die a horrible, painful death as it eats you up from the inside. It is, after all, your decision.", you declare, turning back to the window.

"For someone desperate to get out of the Seven Kingdoms, you keep looking quite a bit in their direction.", he comments, but he doesn't wait for your reaction, or for your retort, instead stumbling around in the dark for the infirmary stores of clean(ish) cloth, kept —for space purposes — right here next to the food.

He sheds his layers one by one, watching for the injury as soon as he sheds the last one. "Will I be able to swing my sword?"

"I thought you were from Winterfell. Do those at House Stark not teach basic combat treatments?"

"They do, but I did not know simpler methods than herbs existed to dress a wound. I thought ointments and pastes were needed.", he responds, gruff and annoyed.

"Do you even know what an infection is?"

"Yes. I do." Though he knows this is not the case now, as a child he used to picture it as a conniving little creature that crawls into wounds and then creates havoc in every organ in the body.

"Then you should be more terrified of walking around with an open wound like that.", you scoff, yanking his hand to you as you dip the cloth into boiling water he's found from the kitchens.

"Were you a healer, then? In the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Something like that."

"You have to say something. It does not have to be rational, just the truth. Was it a bet? Were you suicidal because the one you love loves another? Were you simply curious?", he presses, his eyes on yours as yours run over his wound.

"How will it help? I hear you all talking. I will be sent right back to the Capital so they can identify me, so how will—"

"I can make sure it doesn't happen. A valid reason can help me give you anonymous asylum at Winterfell, but for that, I need to trust you!", he cries, gripping your shoulders so you look at him, and see how serious he is.

"I don't want asylum! I want to leave the Seven Kingdoms! I don't belong here!"

"And you belong beyond the Wall? With wildlings and wolves and gods know what?"

"There are kingdoms out there, I've heard tell! And besides, anything that isn't in this realm, I will be happy with!"

He stares at you for a good long while after that, the furrow in your brow, the determination in your eyes, the set of your mouth. "You will put your faith, place all your trust in whispers of a possible civilization beyond the Wall, but not one drop of that trust in me, a tangible, honourable man right before you?"

"Do not move enough to shift it too much. Use this arm less.", you mutter, gently pushing away from him as you stand to clean your hands.

He looks down at the bandage, shaking his head in sheer exasperation as he stands abruptly, shutting the door behind him with force that causes it to echo through the dark halls of Castle Black.

You're alone a moment, before his head pops in through the gap of the door. "Thank you.", he mumbles, eyes on the floor before he leaves once more. You smile despite yourself.

He returns the next night and torments you some more in attempts to piece together the life you had before you had decided the snow could engulf you. You, in disobedience, ask about his. He tells you about his father. His half-siblings. He tells you about Arya and her prowess. He tells you about Bran's climbing. He tells you about his Uncle Benjen. He tells you about Theon. You do not tell him anything back. He hands you another pair of gloves (after noticing that these ones have been bitten through by these freakishly strong-toothed rats) and leaves.

The night after that, he sits across from you as you speak of the kingdoms you have heard that exist beyond the Wall, upon his request. He pictures them, in his mind's eye, overrun with wealth and prosperity and true joy, and knows of them to be stuff of fiction. Kingdoms, he thinks, cannot benefit everyone in them. According to what you have heard, there is a kingdom where dragons still do exist, and coexist with the people. He's sure Bran would love this for before his sleep. "And what would your role be in these kingdoms? Queen?", he asks, smiling in the night.

"That is the beauty of being lost, is it not? You can create new roles, instead of fitting into whatever has been passed down from generations. You can be what you wish to, not what others tell you you are.", you whisper, the sound of your voice nearly floating out the window to mingle with the snow. But he catches it.

His eyes fix on your profile in the delicate glow of the lamp. "Is that what you were running from? Expectations?"

"All that I have described, and that is your take-away. It is impressive, how your minds work, the Night's Watch."

"But you were running?"

You gently roll your head toward the window once more. "Of course. No one ends up at the Wall by chance."

"Are you being hunted?"

"In a way."

"Am I allowed to know by whom? Is it someone of power? Someone I might know?"

"It is definitely someone you know."

You do not say it as though it is someone he has spoken to or met, you say it as though it is an abstract entity, a concept, rather. "The King?"

The scoff of derision you give out before sitting up is enough to make him adjust posture, as well. "His wrath? His lust? His Justice?"

"That does not exist in the Seven Kingdoms."

"I find the King's Justice to be very fair."

"We do not need to agree on everything, Jon Snow."

"Whatever you are running from, whatever has happened, I guarantee you, this is no place for a woman."

"Then what is?"

He frowns at the question, tilting his head as you run your fingers over the dressing of the wound you'd addressed three nights ago. "I suppose... her home. Or her husband's."

There is a moment of silence that he despises, because usually, it is followed by a dismissal, and he will have to resolve himself to coming the next night to scoop up more pieces of your life from these fractions of yours.

But when you look up at him, fingers back in your lap like the bandage had scorched you, he realises there is more to come.

"When men commit crimes — or at least, are accused of such — they are sent here, so that they do not die at the hands of the executioner, so that they may have a place in this world, whether they like it or not. What of women? Where do we go?"

"You were framed, you say?"

"Accused. Framed implies a crime had actually occured."

"What was it?"

He knows that would have pushed too far, and he curses at himself for asking it anyway, because it has invoked the silence you seem to constantly present him with. The one that he hates, because it implies the absence of your voice, telling him of a life foreign to him, but oh-so-familiar. "Sorry. But this... is still no place for a woman. Especially not one like you."

"One like me?"

"You are of a soft life. Your hands tell me as such.", he begins, gently taking your hands in his. Normally, he wouldn't. Normally, you'd have slapped him. But these were not normal circumstances. "Adaptability is a skill, and one you clearly possess, but adaptation without cause is simply unnecessary."

"I have not harmed anyone. Emotionally or physically. Directly or indirectly."

"I believe you."

Your lips part. In disbelief at being believed? Perhaps. In the retention of unsaid words? Possible. In surrender to your exhaustion? Likely.

"I will be back tomorrow."

And so he was. It nears a week since you have been amidst the Watch, and only one night — your first — had you been alone. Only one day — your first — had you been seated alone. Jon introduces you to Samwell and Pyp and Ghost. He doesn't know what else to do. He cannot quite bring his father here, and Uncle Benjen was out being the best Ranger there ever was, but he's sure you would get along swimmingly.

The night that solidifies the week's mark of your arrival, he lays down beside you as you pick at your fingernails. His own fingers find your shoulder. Jon has become bolder. He has learnt what touch can do for someone else. He used to think touch was an action. It was something that happened, leading to either war or pregnancy. But he'd learnt that it's an experience. It can intimidate, it can mitigate, and it can elucidate intention. It can calm, it can stir, and it can console, which is a function he required, with you. So, he no longer hesitates to touch, but he is smarter than to underestimate its power and fragility.

"You know you will have to go.", he reminds you, with all the gentleness that you deserve.

"Thorne does not seem to have an issue with me being here. I am not that big of a mouth to feed."

"Thorne does not have an issue for now, because his higher-ups are not here. In three days' time, we will have to take the Black. Our oath, for which his superiors will come to witness. He will have you gone by then."

You turn to face him, arms crossed at your chest as you rest your shoulder on the stony floor below. "Why do you believe in the King's Justice so much?"

"It is present for a reason. If it was unfair, it would not prevail."

"Injustice is prevalent in the land. Me being accused of a crime I am innocent of, and being disowned by my own family is unfair."

"Yes, it is. I have no objections to that. You ran from social ruin, then?"

"I ran from being honour-killed by my family, yes."

Honour-killings. He wasn't even aware they did that anymore.

"And you ran to the Wall because you thought we'd let you through?"

"I'd hoped."

"We are sworn to protect the realm and its inhabitants. I have told you this. We would not willingly subject one of them to the brutality beyond the Wall, no matter how much they beg.", he says, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light in the room enough to form a softened — albeit vague — impression of your face right before him. "Why not Essos? Past the Narrow Sea? Why northbound?"

"I followed the star. North. Ended up here. Haven't reached the star, so I needed to get through the Wall."

"It is no place for you.", he repeats, the thousandth iteration of the same sentiment. "Such beauty", he breathes, pausing for an immeasurable moment before softly placing his knuckles on your cheek in a manner that one would think he were returning his sword to his sheath, "Such fragility, it needs preservation."

"I am not fragile.", you respond, to which he brings two of his knuckles under your chin.

"Aye. But ice is. It cracks with no effort. And if you stay out here, that is what you will become. Both figuratively and literally. Do you understand me?"

You pull away, then, looking beyond him.

"Before Thorne tries to find your identity, you will do as you wish and create a new one. The anonymous asylum in Winterfell is still being offered.", he informs, deciding that is enough touching for now. He does not want to do anything to break the already gossamer-thin trust you have for him. "Accept it. And do what I say, nothing less and nothing more."

The next morning, Castle Black is silent at mealtime, which is rare. But Jon stands with you, not sits, and it seems to shut them all up very quickly. "I have pieced together her story."

Thorne narrows his eyes, disbelief etched between the creases of his eye. "Have you, now?"

"She is of Winterfell. Wandered too far. Was chased by bandits and kept running. She did not know this was North. Did not know she was nearing the Wall, when she collapsed."

"And you speak for her, do you? Is this your way of saying she is now spoken for? Are you married? No ceremony? How romantic."

His words cause the room to be bathed in snickers and Jon wishes he could punch the audacity out of him. "She was traumatized by the incident. She has limited speech. This is why it has taken me a week to piece together what would have taken anyone else an hour."

Thorne stalks closer to you, one step at a time, intimidating, as though you have insulted his mother, before he leans down. "Is this true?"

You nod.

He straightens slowly, a scowl creeping in as he turns on his heel. "Very well. You will need a rider to accompany you to Winterfell. I will ask the Lord Commander to assign you the strongest for protection."

"Samwell.", you say.

Jon pretends to look curious, surprised, as well. He hopes he's convincing enough.

Thorne stops. Smiles. Turns. "What?"

"Samwell.", you repeat, pointing at Sam.

"The pudge? No, he offers no protection."

"Samwell."

"I said no. In good conscience."

"Samwell."

"Ser, I think her comfort is paramount—"

"And why not you, Snow, since you are such fast friends?"

"Samwell is the one that found her, she may feel safer with him."

Thorne ignores him, pointedly. "Why do you not trust him, girl? Has he misbehaved? Do you know him, from Winterfell?"

You shake your head. "Samwell."

"Why the pudge? Why not Jon Snow, from your place?"

"Samwell.", you repeat, trying your best to look distressed, confused, even, by his refusal to acquiesce to your request of Samwell's accompaniment.

Thorne once again narrows his eyes at you, as he asks Sam, "You up to it, boy?"

"Yes, Ser."

"Alright. Come with me to get the assigned leave from the Lord Commander."

Later that night, Jon knocks at your door once more, and you don't respond. However, this time, he knows that means you are at the window. "You did well.", he says, gently closing the door behind him. "You did."

"I was worried he would not approve Samwell."

"I knew he would. You were convincing."

"I wish it were you. You know Winterfell better."

Jon nods, leaning against the wall next to the window once more. "It is best this way. They could accuse me of anything, if I come with you. It would have seemed far too convenient, for a girl to be from exactly where I am from, at a time where my Uncle is not there to corroborate the declaration, and be of limited speech, as well, as you have chosen to portray.", he tells you, reaching out so that his thumb may rub little arcs on your jaw.

"They will say you did it so you could visit home?"

"Among other things, yes. It is safer this way. I trust Sam, and you should, too.", he informs you, smiling. He hasn't done that in ages, but he's also realised there are ways to foster comfort without touch, as well. This is one of them. "Who are you to ask for?"

"Robb Snow."

He grins a little wider, now, at that. "Robb Stark. The true Stark brother."

"You are Eddard's son. You are a true Stark."

"Perhaps in one of your kingdoms across the Wall.", he says, earning a small smile in return. He hands you the letter he's written. "This goes to Robb Stark directly."

"What will I do there? In Winterfell?", you ask, taking the rolled-up parchment. "What role will I have there?"

"You will learn from more experienced healers, and grow your knowledge.", he says, moving closer to you so that you are both bathed in the same moonlight. His voice lowers so that only you, him, and the stars could hear. "And as for your role, you can create a new role, instead of fitting into whatever has been passed down from generations. You can be what you wish to, not what others tell you you are.", he declares, parroting what you had said about the alleged kingdoms that you had once been desperate to run to.

You nod, and he brings his lamp up near your face, the silver of the moon and the gold of the lamp forming shadows on your features that he would ride for decades chasing.

"You will make Winterfell interesting.", he comments, his eyes dancing between yours. "I cannot wait to hear of it."

"Will you do it? Take the Black, I mean?"

"If not, I am a deserter."

"As am I. There is not much to regret deserting in the Seven Kingdom's, in my opinion."

"I will regret deserting the Night's Watch, though. These are my brothers, now."

"Noble.", you remark.

He laughs softly at that. "I try to be. Don't your people have an oath, too?"

"Healers? Yes."

"Will you take it?"

"It might not be in your best interests for me to take it. I may have to resuscitate one of your enemies.", you tell him, solemnly.

He leans closer, in mock conspiracy. "I do not have enemies. Only Ser Thornes that I may want to see slip on a banana peel for satisfaction."

He has made you laugh. He is glad. "Tell me finally. Are you from Dreadfort? Or further south, but still North?"

"I am a Northerner. That is enough. Running northbound led me here, to you, to the Wall. The North is all I need."

It is surprisingly heartfelt, this declaration. Frustrating, but heartfelt.

You look at him — really look — as though he has brought the North Star down for you with no effort at all. "Thank you, Jon Snow.", you tell him, reaching up to hold his face, just as he had been holding yours only a moment ago. "I will be forever grateful."

"Not a second thought about it.", he replies almost immediately, waving the gratitude off with a gentle glint of his eyes, one that you are not sure how exactly he controls on command.

And then, you lean up, as though finally realising that your hands are holding his face. He cannot seem to tear his gaze away from your eyes. Your lips, as well, but that will take years for him to admit. Guilt gnaws at him. "This is not why I helped you."

"I know. I know that." It is interesting, you think, that he cannot fathom that you do not think of him as an opportunist. "I know your intentions, Jon Snow."

His muscles shift just so, in his face, the subtlest hint of a nod. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, and it might be endearing, if you were also not so serious, so terrified, but so courageous either.

You do not close your eyes until the very last moment, until you can ostensibly feel that your lips have brushed his, feather-light, barely there, but real. He, however, only opens his eyes when this happens. He is not sure what happens to the lamp in his hand, not sure how it ends up safely on the windowsill, or how one his hands ends up holding a lock of your hair behind your ear and the knuckles of the other gently rub at your cheek as they did the first night he had learnt that touch could heal just as herbs do. He is not even sure how he makes it back to his own bed that night after the dizzying affair of kissing a woman, nor how he makes it up the next morning at the first spill of sunlight into the room to see you and Sam off to Winterfell.

But he does.

This not-knowing, he'll add to the list of things that irk him.

[violetumbrellalover]

Victim of war Princess Rhaenys and her Balerion 🐈‍⬛

[noveaucolors]

“if I look back, I am lost,”

Daenerys, my tragic and flawed beloved.

I’ve been re-reading the ASOIAF series this past year and it really grinds my gears that Dany was stripped of all the magical, symbolic, and mysterious elements of her story