w.c.: 4k
c.c.: 5/25
ships: fem oc x daeron targaryan, fem oc x aerion targaryan, fem oc x lyonel baratheon
t.w.: canon divergence, dubcon, age gap, targcest, sexism, violence, etc. smut with plot, aerion x dru. lol
chapter five: the hole in the moon
Her hands shook, measuring out the most minimal amounts of opium resin. The wheelhouse was warm, warm enough to collect sweat at the small of her back. Dru opened a window and tried to remember Baratheon’s instructions.
She didn’t want to kill him. She’d made that clear.
But she knew the way some things worked… she couldn’t trust Lyonel to be honest about the amounts. She couldn’t afford to discount his directions completely, however. Opium resin, valerian root so his mind would get tired before his body got heavy, powdered willow bark to smooth the edges, the theatrics, when he woke. Red wine dark enough to be black; that, she had on her own.
Lyonel offered no fix if Aerion suspected her made her drink, too. Her own resolution to this was mixing the only bits she was willing to use. A pinch of resin, something small of the valerian, a smidge of willow bark. She was heating a cup of wine on the small stove next to her breakfast bench and waiting.
The maesters sometimes used charcoal to induce vomiting, though she had none, she had ginger and the coffee she’d intended to share with her uncle. Chewing ginger wouldn’t last, but it would burn long enough for her to stalk away to wherever the Gods took her when all this was done.
She knew her curved Tyroshi blade was beneath her featherbed, but she knew she wouldn’t use it. She could if she wanted, though. And though she’d hang for kinslaying, for a moment maybe using it would heal something in her.
Dru poured the contents of a spoon into the bottom of a plain silver goblet and poured boiling wine over top. Stirring, the grains, apart from the willow bark, dissolved. She strained the contents back into its original bottle, tossing the cheesecloth out the open iron window. It was round, like the upper cabins of the ship that catalyzed her return to Westeros.
The faintness she felt in her head only afforded her a set of heavy breaths, but once those passed, her eyes followed a succinct line down the whittle wood pieces gifted to her by Nymerys. Dru wouldn’t say that she and the magister bonded over much apart from faith. His was his own making, he said, his Gods were Coin and Secrets. They would sit by an open fire in the evenings after their last meal and talk about the Gods.
The faith had grown old and matured in Westeros, but it was brought by Aegon the Conqueror, whittled into something she could understand by Nymerys’s own hand.
She loved them all, though they were plain. Maiden, Mother, Crone, they all stood together on a shelf. The Warrior, the Smith, the Father sat on a smaller, lower shelf. She supposed that though she knew there would be times she would beg for the hands of any of the masculine aspects, they must’ve known the weight that would take.
All the men in her life were worthless things. At their best, it felt as if they were little puppies freshly born, eyes and ears closed, mouths only open to nuzzle the nipples of a mother that had left them behind. At their worst, that Targaryens specifically, with the exception of mayhaps Baelor and his sons, they were but thoughtless children smashing their toys together and being surprised that they break, without even the dignity of withstanding it, let alone any stroke of choice made by the Gods above. Even her father. Sometimes especially Maekar.
It was the Stranger that rested on its own pedestal, away from the grouped masculine and feminine aspects.
Magister Nymerys had spent particular time on this idol. An eerie kind of sensation passed between them when she detailed her thoughts and belief on the most shadowy figure of the Seven. Time, death, rebirth, pain, melancholy, a being whose hammer was even more absolute than that of the Warrior’s, set more lives to the blade than the Smith’s. Neither female nor male, a being that just is. She felt that sensation then, as her wheelhouse’s door opened.
The weight that had set her staring on the cloaked stranger’s figure lifted.
Aerion’s jaw was already set. Mayhaps he thought she would beg or fight, barring her own little plan which she set apart from herself as soon as she met his pale violet eyes. Something dark passed across his face, something separate from the both of them, spiritual. It was here and gone, as the Stranger comes and goes. A different weight reached into her guts and yanked, forcing her to stand.
Neither said anything as Aerion climbed the pair of stairs, the house swaying some with his weight.
Dru wrung her hands against the silky fabric across her belly. Tyroshi silk was like the silk of Pentos; though it was opaque, it left nothing to the imagination. She had no doubt the lapse in Aerion’s pitchfork tongue had more to do with the raised fabric over her nipples, the slight warping of the silk as it rested against the trimmed hair between her legs.
He tried to hide his surprise or pleasure or both, momentary flickers over his features.
“Wine, your Grace?” Dru said, her voice wobbly to her ears. There were two silver chalices on her breakfast table, and the prepared wine had cooled. The one nearest to Aerion was already filled most of the way with wine that hadn’t been affected at all, and she poured a dash of the bottled wine over top. She then filled the cup nearest to her with only the wine from the bottle. Aerion watched, his brows knitting.
He didn’t trust her.
She needed him to do exactly as she thought he would.
Dru picked up the only partially poisoned chalice and held it out to him.
“You can have that one, sister. I’ll take the other.”
She forced her face and body not to react. She put her cup to her lips and drank. “So be it.” Swallowing, she set the drink down and handed him the one he requested. “Did you have Aegon’s big knight killed?” She held his chosen cup out to him. He took it, sipping mildly.
The prince stalked toward her. The corner of her mouth lifted. He seemed to be different now. Less a dragon he so wished to be, much more a garden snake that needed stamping for its aggravation alone. “I might have, had Aegon not appeared,” he replied, the picture of severity. “But Waite and Yorkel heeded his own words before my own.” There was something damning in the thread of his breath, but Dru hardly allowed it to paint any sense. “I opted for a Trial of Seven for dawn.”
She knew saying anything might dysregulate him. So, Dru opted instead to brush her thumb against the wide bend of his cheek bone. His skin was cool to the touch, hard bone underneath. Her fingers dipped into the soft cropped hair splayed wild around his head. His hand shot to her wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Feeling you,” Dru whispered, a ghostlike voice rising from her throat. It was her own, from some far off, but ultimately true place. “I want this done with as little pain as possible. I love you.” Dru let a shudder erupt from her chest, her hands daring to wrap around Aerion’s face. “It would make it a lot easier on me if you tried to love me like I love you.” Aerion downed the rest of his cup before letting it drop to the floor. Dru jumped mildly at the tinging sound it made, metal against bare wood.
His eyes were downcast. She could feel a very real burn from them, down her jaw, down her throat, along the narrow straps of her silky gown. His jaw was still set, his tongue rolling against his teeth and cheek. The callused skin of his thumbs caught along the silk laying loose at her hips, his fingers digging into the fat of her haunches. Then his nails. She could feel the shearing of the silk underneath his fingers like talons, the pressure rising, a yelp unbidden between her teeth. “Like Daeron loves you?”
“Please, Aerion. Not my gown.” Her eyes felt hot, corners prickling already.
His tongue played at the edge of his lip, his smile rising smugly. “Then… Take it off, Drucera.”
Neither of them moved, not until Aerion lifted his chin, the violet of his eyes seeming so much stormier than average. He dropped a hand to his hip. Dru only heard the unclasping of a sheath. Aerion’s blade split a single strap of her gown, the knife’s edge pricking the upper meat of her chest unevenly. Dru’s lungs emptied on their own, a sound as sharp as the blade Aerion had unsheathed.
She loosened the other strap, letting the gown fall. Aerion’s breath warmed her clavicle, his tongue moving to soothe the wound. Drucera drew in a breath, a hot, fat tear cascading down her cheek. Her lungs burned, but if Aerion noticed, he made no note. His nose caressed her throat, rising to press his lips to her cheek, a hand rising to grip her by the throat. She felt his teeth graze her flesh, and began forcing more air into her lungs.
Dru’s arms fell like dead weight against his shoulders, forcing leverage as Aerion gave her none. She knocked her cheek against his briefly, forcing his mouth closer to his. She let their mouths crash together, a bitter mix of blood and wine.
There was no sound outside the wheelhouse. Not even crickets or other night creatures. She could scream if she wanted to. Someone would hear.
When their kiss broke, and his hands gentled, one moving into the length of her silvery hair, the other’s thumb weighted against her nipple, Dru backed toward her feather bed, her own hands beckoning Aerion by the waist of his leather chausses.
If she screamed, if someone came, someone would see the evidence of the poisoning, even if Aerion were too narcissistic to see it himself.
In Tyrosh, her maid’s name had been Dianara Niqueys. She was tall, skin showing golden in the sun, with wise, soft eyes. Her hair had been the same blue black of Magister Nymerys, mayhaps some shades lighter. She’d held a wealth of information in a slender body, though it had ample curve. Dru couldn’t remember looking at a woman in Westeros the way she’d grown to look at Di.
An ache erupted in her chest, slithering down her spine like the man-snake attempting to coil between her legs. She’d likely never see Dianara Niqueys again, and yet, the butterflies tickled at the inner lining of her stomach at the mere thought of her.
She couldn’t afford to stall any longer. The more occupied Aerion was, the sooner it would all be over. Again and again, she kissed him, her own hands prodding at the muscle winding taut along his ribs. Warmth sprang up her back, and she supposed it must’ve been the first wave of the wine. Suddenly, she minded less and less who he was, what he wanted from her. Her heart was awash with need. Need for Daeron, need for Dianara.
“Touch me,” she murmured, letting her eyes slit the way that always made Daeron’s own darken. Aerion’s hand wound a length of her hair into his fist, and he pulled her mouth to his. Shuddering against his lips, Dru sat on her featherbed, spreading her legs for him. He allowed her to lean back, letting her hair free length by winding length. Aerion’s gaze was locked on her sex. His palm rested against her mound, his thumb slipping between her folds.
She fought the urge to shut her eyes; he’d always hated when she did that. Instead, she let a hiss escape. Aerion parted her open, his lips collected in part pucker and part snarl. Aerion pelted spit against Dru’s clit, and she tried to fight the shockwave of arousal. His thumb spread the wetness across her aching clit before letting his digit sink into her.
He said nothing about her closing her eyes this time, not as a shallow, breathy moan passed between them. Dru even let her head fall back, baring all for him.
His knee dropped to the featherbed, his free hand dropped to the leather ties of his chausses. “Wait,” Dru whispered. “You’ll wish you waited. Let me show you what I learned in Tyrosh.”
“Fuck Tyrosh,” Aerion growled. “I need you now.”
Dru bit her lip. “Humor me. Let me show you, then fucking come here and take me. Then fucking break me if that’s your wish, my prince. It won’t take long. I only need you to watch me.”
Though heat flashed like the fires from the seven hells, he stiffened his lips. “Then show me.”
Her hand found her sensitive bud and she began rubbing circles around it. “Kiss me, kiss me,” Dru begged, Aerion’s eyes narrowing in perverse confusion. He removed his thumb from her core, readjusted, and let his body cover hers. He slipped off his doublet, and sheared the ties of his chasses with the knife she’d neglected to fight him for. The leather slipped down his thighs, his cock having strained too long beneath them.
Dru spit into her own hand and found his length. His cock felt heavy, painful in her hand, stone covered by velvet. He sighed heavily, as if her touch had been the only thing he’d wanted. And it occurred to Dru that mayhaps that was true. Mayhaps she had spurned him for Daeron all those years ago, and if that had been all, she still couldn’t forgive, but she could gather a piece of glass from the broken mirror each of them seemed to stare into when looking for themselves.
Heat. Love. Passion. It was writhing in her blood, and all the fear disappeared as she guided Aerion’s hand back to her entrance. “Please, my prince, my moon. Help me.”
Aerion’s fingers squelched as they entered her, two of them curving into a hook and pulling, slight but enough. Dru shivered, her knees beginning to shake against his ribs. She half heartedly continued to stroke his cock, her other hand continuing to circle her clit. Tension rose, and Aerion wrapped his arm around one of her legs as the trembling became a quake. She began breathing heavier, a low, erotic growl rising from Aerion’s chest, the vibration mixing with her own, tickling the inside of her thigh.
Finally, Aerion leaned down, his mouth brushing hers, almost if the prince was asking. Dru let go of his cock and grabbed him by the hair, her fingers joining in a hold she knew would be painful. Aerion’s hand withdrew partially, then reentered her core with force, knuckles expanding just to wretch a scream from her throat. “There she is,” Aerion seethed against her mouth, stifling her cry. “Little dragon tried her best to keep her claws to herself, didn’t she?”
At that, her cry bubbled into something like a laugh. “Keep going,” she whimpered, teeth at the edge of drawing blood against her bottom lip. “You’ve almost got me undone.”
Dru was weaker now, less thoughtful of her environment. An arm reached out to brace herself against the wall, and she felt Aerion’s teeth drive lines across her chest, whimpering as they dragged as gently as he knew how across a nipple.
Prickling pain seared the walls of her cunt as she tightened around his fingers, the world around them suddenly dropping out from beneath her. She only heard the barest sound of a wall of squelching wetness surge between Aerion’s fingers.
Dru’s head was swimming now, Aerion’s fingers withdrew from her. The aching empty space was quickly filled to the hilt with his cock. Her own nails dug into his shoulder, a pathetic whimper torn from her throat.
“Shh, shh, princess,” Aerion whispered. Dru thought she heard a mild slurring. “Unless you want all of Ashford to hear me fucking you.”
Her heart almost leapt out of her chest. It was there, Aerion was beginning to slur his speech. She looked up at him, begging for a sliver of moonlight to see his eyes. She pushed him back by the shoulders, his face flashing pale and half lidded by the light boring in from the small window.
“I love your cock,” she bleated, acid at the back of her throat. “You’re going to fucking tear me apart.” It felt like someone else was speaking now. Someone small, just who she needed to be.
A self satisfied smirk rose on Aerion’s face, his hands biting bitterly into the fat of her hips. It was true enough, at least. The underside of his cock was angled in just such a way that her entrance would have made her sore.
But she was numb. Her body felt heavy and weightless at the same time, and she fought the weight of her eyelids. She moaned, moaned, because there was a good feeling. Like a kind of love she hadn’t felt in years warmed her spirit, like the gods themselves were cradling her in their arms.
And then Dru would realize in a disconnected, despondent way that it was the milk of the poppy. It wasn’t any god of any faith but the machinations of Lyonel Baratheon.
Right. Right. She was poisoning her brother and herself in the process, for some purpose of her own for which she could no longer remember, and oh yes, she was rocking because her brother’s cock was inside her and it almost could’ve been bliss if it had been her other brother.
The rocking slowed. She no longer felt Aerion inside her. She took a sobering breath and forced her eyes open wider, shooing the darkness away. Aerion’s hand was at his temple. He was swaying.
“Aerion?” Dru said, hoping her own voice didn’t sound slurred. As if it would matter to him, three sheets to the wind.
“I-I’m… Sorry, Dru. I’ve lost it.”
Aerion fell swiftly, but Dru caught him before his head hit the wall. “You have, haven’t you?” She snorted. When Aerion didn’t respond, she lowered him to her pillow, and slipped the blankets out from underneath him. She thought about letting him catch a chill, but decided against it.
She let out a heavy sob, finally able to remove herself from the facade she’d quickly cobbled with the desire not to suffer his wrath. Dru slipped out from under his legs, straightened them, thinking something, something, circulation and so on. Then she lifted a hand and brought it down as heavy as her heart could manage across the side of his face. She listened to the echo of the clear clap for as long as she could remember it.
And then…
Her body couldn’t sag now. She could not lay next to him. She could not wake up next to him.
Lyonel.
In a stark moment of recollection, she could smell the dark roast Tyroshi coffee sealed somewhere in her wheelhouse. Its exact location was lost on her, mayhaps a drawer. She fumbled around her shelves and drawers, knocking over items and even hearing a glass break. Eventually, she did find it, its scent permeating everything as she loosed the sachet free from a leather bag from beneath her bed. She slid her gown back on, hitting her head against the wall in the process. But after that, it was just the boots that gave her trouble, as her cloak was nearly a second skin.
The big knight.
The Trial of Seven.
She bounced out of the wheelhouse, not even caring to shut the door behind her.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she hissed, tears streaming down her cheeks again as she ran like a baby deer through tall grass.
As she disappeared into a thicket of thin, gangly trees, she had the stark notion she’d gotten herself lost. She couldn’t force her voice to carry, however. Dru knew with a sobering alertness what she’d done to Aerion was wrong, though as righteously funny a certain Baratheon might have found it.
Okay, Drucera. Focus. She took a breath and slowed. She was under the cover of the trees now, and the land was all aglow with an eerie light. The moon. Dru glanced upward. The moon was full, in its most full guidance phase.
There was a dark spot across its face, a hole. The spot moved slowly, and Dru realized the spot was in her vision.
She remembered the way to Lyonel’s tent. She shouldn’t have gone for the trees. She’d just have to cross the river that split the meadow from the main thoroughfare. Glancing backward, the wheelhouse’s shadow stood tall against the grass.
“Fuck it,” she whispered, and stalked toward what remaining emberlight was ahead.
She managed the river slowly.
She managed the wet mud, she managed the darkness as the trees gained thickness.
In the sea of pavilions, however, she was lost. She drew her cloak closer to her and fought a shiver. She just needed the fucking coffee. And then she needed a better plan.
Dru stumbled outside one of the only pavilions left with sound, tripping over a rock. She landed on her hands and knees. A soft voice called out, though she could hardly understand what the person was saying. Eventually brown eyes met hers, the woman’s dark hair tied up high. Her brows were knitted, but as her mouth moved, dimples deepened her olive toned cheeks.
“Alexia Dondarrion?” Dru’s voice was slow and heavy as she gripped the woman’s shoulders.
Alexia was crouching now, wrapped up in a sea of fine black and purple clothing. Dru bleated a laugh.
“You look like seven hells, sweetling,” Alexia told her, hoisting Dru up from the ground. “Lady Jocelyn told me you’d found her earlier. Or she’d found you. Whichever came first.”
“I’m going there, to be sure,” Dru replied. “Listen – I need to speak with Lyonel Baratheon. Can you show me his pavilion? It’s so dark out, Lex.”
Alexia squinted at the ancient nickname. “Ser Lyonel?”
“Yes,” Dru said. “Yes, I – I – He’ll understand.”
“Drucera,” Alexia whispered against her hair. “Lyonel Baratheon fucking hates House Targaryen.”
“So be it,” Dru told her. “I doubt he’s ever had Tyroshi coffee, and unfortunately, I can go nowhere else to make it. Not without having to explain why I’m making it in the first place.” Dru burped up acid, and then swallowed it down. “And besides. It’s said that House Baratheon descended from a bastard Targaryen, so he’s just going to have to accept my pre-dawn call.”
Alexia let out a squeaky laugh. “You’ll owe me for waking up that particular heir this time of night.”
Dru finally relaxed as her arm wound around Alexia’s shoulders. “What are you doing awake, might I ask?”
The other lady snorted a laugh. “I came across some lord’s son who promised me a freshly strung lute. What would you have done?”
“I’ll get you a better instrument,” Dru said, a comic resolve edging her tone. “I’ll buy you your own traveling band, and some of the members of the troupe might even be handsome. Or pretty, as you prefer.”
Alexia barked a short laugh that could rival a Baratheon’s any day. “I’ll hold you to it then. Ser Lyonel’s pavilion is coming swiftly.”
It was mere steps, and Dru and Alexia were at a canvas door Dru knew to be familiar.
“Should I…?” Dru began to question.
The pavilion was completely dark, and there was no telling if Lyonel was inside or somewhere else, abiding whatever little hedonistic tendency he found to fulfill.
Alexia cleared her throat. “He’s inside, your grace. He is, but there are others. It’s going to be awkward, but if it must be done, it must be done, as you say.”
Dru let go of Alexia and grabbed the canvas edge. “Go,” she whispered. “I’ll see you.”
“Aye,” Alexia said, stepping backward, but not quite leaving yet. “I’ll see you in.”
Turning away from the lady, Dru stepped into the full darkness of Lyonel’s pavilion.
“Ser Lyonel?” She called. There wasn’t sound at first, but then there was a burst of movement. Dru held up her hands. “Lyonel!”
Out of the darkness, Lyonel Baratheon laughed. “You made it out, princess?”
