AERION'S NEGLECTED WIFE. (valarr targaryen x reader)
just thinking about how gentle valarr would be with you every time his cousin publicly showed how little he cared for your marriage. he knows how deeply humiliating it must be to stand ignored before all those gossipy nobles. he sees the way your eyes fall in shame whenever you try to speak to your husband and he barely looks at you, barely touches you, barely acknowledges your presence.
and valarr sees it all. he suffers it in silence alongside you. too calm, too quiet, too honorable to intrude on marital matters that are not his own. yet you — a lady of immeasurable beauty, sharp of mind and tender of heart — deserve so much more than to be a forgotten shadow beside a man capable of such cruelty.
if only you were his lady wife, you would forget the aching loneliness that gnaws at you day after day.
and he would make it so. for the feelings he had long repressed for you only smoldered deeper with every passing day, every week, every moon. it was only a matter of time before the fire grew too fierce, before the honorable prince finally surrendered to his own heart.
so valarr began visiting you whenever aerion left to train or to seek someone new to torment. what began as soft words of comfort soon bloomed into tender compliments and whispered promises, until they became kisses scattered across your face like blessings.
his lips would brush your temple like a feather, then the tip of your nose, your cheek, the corner of your mouth… until finally he pressed the softest, most tentative kiss to your lips — so gentle you wondered if you had imagined it. he would search your eyes, silently begging for permission, knowing full well how wrong it was.
you are his cousin’s wife. he cannot have you.
yet he cannot stay away. your soft, yearning gaze — silently pleading for more affection, more of him — left him utterly lost.
his lips molded to yours in delicate little pecks, each one lingering longer than the last. his hand cupped your cheek as he tilted his head, daring to part his lips and brush his tongue gently against your lower lip — first a tender caress, then with sweet, patient insistence at the seam of your mouth.
what he could not say in words, he told you with his breath against yours — how much he admires you, how unfair it was that you had to marry aerion, how he desired you. how he wanted to steal you from his cousin's claws forever.
─ summary: You and Aerion do your best to convince Valarr to stay in bed with you.
─ pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Targaryen!reader x Aerion Targaryen
─ word count: 1.5k
─ content: 18+ MDNI | smut | filthy filthy smut | established relationship | targcest (cousin and sister) | p in v | throuple | poly| the boyfriends are boyfriends | fluff
─ a/n: I have been telling you all forever that Valarr and Aerion are in love. This is my proof. This is going to be a little three-part series. Thank you as always for the likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. Much love. 🖤
The light came in slowly, creeping through the gaps in the heavy curtains in thin gold lines and fell warm across the tangled sheets. You registered the warmth first, the deep, settled heat of a bed that had learned the shape of three bodies. They had not noticed you wake.
You were where you always were, in the middle, your long silver-gold hair spread wide across the pillows like a spilled halo. Aerion was to your left, Valarr to your right, and they were leaning over you, kissing above you in the early light. Both of them were shirtless, their lines gilded by the morning sun. The broad planes of their shoulders, the sharp lines of their throats, the easy strength of them so close you could have reached up and touched either one without trying.
Valarr's hand rested at the back of Aerion's neck, his fingers possessive and unhurried. Aerion's fingers were curled loosely in the fabric at Valarr's waist, a soft sound escaping him in the kiss of people who knew each other completely, who had learned every inch of one another slowly. You watched the slide of their lips, the wet parting, the way Aerion tilted his head just so to deepen it.
You did not look away.
These are my men, you thought, a possessive thrill curling low in your belly. How lucky am I to have found them both?
You must have moved, a shift of the hips or a rustle of the linen, because Aerion's eyes opened. They found yours immediately, violet to violet, unerring as always. The corner of his mouth curved, a wicked, knowing thing.
"Enjoying the show?"
"Always," you said simply, your voice rough with sleep.
Aerion made a sound of satisfaction and dropped down beside you with absolutely no regard for grace, and then his mouth was on your cheek, your jaw, your lips, wet and entirely too much. You were laughing, both hands pushing against his firm chest, feeling the hard thud of his heart under your palms.
"Aerion," you protested, breathless.
"Good morning to you too," he said cheerfully, and kissed your cheek again for good measure, his white hair tickling your nose.
You were still laughing when Valarr leaned over you. He looked at you with a warmth he kept only for closed doors and these two people. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair from your face.
"Good morning, princess," he said, and kissed you.
It was slow and tender, a stark contrast to Aerion's chaotic energy. You felt Aerion go still against your side, paying attention, his gaze heavy on you both. When Valarr pulled back, he looked at Aerion over you, and something passed between them that needed no words. Then he kissed him again, briefly, and sat back.
Aerion recovered in his own time. He turned his wrist over in the early light, studying the faint marks still there against his pale skin, remnants of the night before.
"You are becoming quite skilled with knots," he said to Valarr conversationally, flexing his hand.
"That is because you never behave," you interjected, trailing a finger down Aerion's arm.
Aerion turned to you with an expression of profound offense. "I behave perfectly."
"He is quite the brat indeed," Valarr said pleasantly, already reaching for his shirt at the edge of the bed, his muscles shifting as he moved.
Aerion was pouting, a genuine, lower-lip-thrusting pout that made him look years younger. You leaned in to kiss it away.
He pulled back, just out of reach.
You blinked. You looked at him, letting your expression do the work, arching a brow.
Two seconds, then he pressed a single tender kiss to your mouth, quick and soft, the kind that meant things he didn't always say.
"Insufferable," you informed him against his lips.
"And yet," he murmured, "here you are."
Valarr pulled his shirt over his head and looked at the two of you. "We need to get up," he said, though he made no move to stand.
Nobody moved.
You and Aerion locked eyes in a conspiracy of laziness and lust. You sat up, the sheet pooling at your waist, and swung yourself over. You settled into Aerion's lap, straddling his thighs, your hands on either side of his face. You kissed him warm and slow. You felt his hands find your waist, his fingers digging in, pulling you closer, and heard the small sound he made against your mouth that he would later deny.
Behind you, the sound of Valarr getting dressed stopped.
"That," Valarr said, after a moment, "is extraordinarily mean."
Aerion smiled against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips.
You turned and looked at Valarr over your shoulder, your hair falling around you, your expression entirely innocent. "Stay," you said.
It was not really a request.
Valarr came back to bed. You felt the mattress dip as he knelt behind you, the heat of his chest pressing against your back. His hands came around to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebbled under his touch. Aerion shifted beneath you, his cock already hard and thick against your inner thigh. You reached down between you, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking him slowly, feeling the velvet of his skin over the hard heat of him.
"Gods," Aerion hissed, his head falling back against the pillows.
You rose up on your knees and guided him to your entrance. You were already wet, aching for it. You sank down on him, taking him inch by inch, the stretch exquisite. He filled you completely, his cock hitting deep inside you as you bottomed out.
"Gods, you are tight," Aerion groaned, his hands gripping your hips bruisingly.
You started to move, riding him. He fucked into you so deeply, his hips snapping up to meet yours, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. Valarr's mouth was on your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks that would bloom later. His hands roamed down your body, one slipping between your legs to find your clit.
"You take him so well," you heard Valarr whisper in your ear, his voice dark. "Such a good girl."
He circled your clit with firm fingers, matching the pace of Aerion's thrusts. The dual sensation was overwhelming — Aerion filling you, Valarr playing your body like an instrument. You leaned back against Valarr's chest, your head resting on his shoulder, losing yourself in the rhythm.
"Harder," you gasped.
Aerion did not hesitate. He pounded up into you, his grip on your hips tightening, driving into you with a desperate need. You felt the tension coiling in your belly, the pressure building. Valarr pinched your clit and you cried out, your body shattering.
Your release ripped through you, your cunt clamping down around Aerion's cock. He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own. With a final deep thrust he buried himself inside you and spent, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into you.
Before you could recover, Valarr pushed you off Aerion and onto your back. You landed on the mattress breathless and trembling, legs spread wide. Valarr moved between them, his eyes locked on yours. He lined himself up with your entrance, slick and spent.
He entered you slowly, his hard cock stretching you further. He made slow, languid love to you, a stark contrast to Aerion's frantic pace. He kissed you as he thrust into you, deep and slow, his tongue mimicking the movement of his hips. He drew back only to pull you flush against him, changing the angle so he hit that spot inside you that made you see stars.
Aerion, who had recovered, sat up. He watched for a moment, his violet eyes dark, before leaning in to kiss Valarr. Valarr continued his deep thrusts, his rhythm never faltering even as he kissed Aerion. Aerion pulled away from Valarr's mouth to close his lips over your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. He left little bites across your skin, marking you. The feeling of Valarr so deep, combined with Aerion's mouth on your breast, was all too much.
"I am going to—" you started, but the words cut off in a moan.
Your second release crashed over you, harder than the first. Your back arched off the bed, your toes curling, your vision whiting out. Valarr groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he followed you over the edge. He buried his face in your shoulder as he spent, his cock pulsing inside you.
The three of you collapsed together, a tangled heap of limbs and heavy breathing. You lay there, your chest heaving, feeling the combined weight of your lovers pressing you into the mattress. The room smelled of sex and something uniquely them. You closed your eyes, a satisfied smile on your lips, listening to the slowing beat of their hearts.
summary — your new husband is the epitome of chivalry, especially when it comes to you, but he cannot quite divorce himself from his less-than-perfect family, either. when his cousin fancies you as his new target to publicly humiliate, valarr is forced to strike a balance between his head and his heart. (8.2k)
featured — prince valarr targaryen / fem!baratheon!reader, aerion targaryen, maekar targaryen, lyonel baratheon, baelor targaryen (mentioned), daeron targaryen (mentioned)
content — post-events of akotsk: spoiler warning, angst w a side of fluff, asshole!aerion, sexist!aerion, emotional constipation, dead baelor (sorry ☹), canon-typical misogyny, prob ooc!maekar, virgin!valarr, aerion is back from the free cities and he didn't learn much, au where the sickness doesnt happen and everyone is happy :D, smut (MDNI, 18+): fingering, p in v, first time, they get off to the idea of killing aerion??
a/n — first fic posted on tumblr im in the big leagues now :D
(cross-posted on ao3)
He’s been staring at you all night.
On your wedding night of all nights, for the Seven's sake.
You did not know much about the Targaryens until shortly before you were set to be wed to one. What you heard existed only behind the cupped hands of serving women between their rounds, their pitying eyes following you through the halls. They knew better than anyone the things that hid behind the immaculate black and red robes and flowery rhetoric.
The most you had heard about any of them concerned Prince Maekar’s second son, Aerion Targaryen. None of which you particularly cared for.
But you also know better than anyone that rumors could be fickle things, easily molded to fit the recipient’s favorite form. That is why you give him a soft smile when he comes to pay his respects, a feeble attempt at disregarding his leering gazes from across the room.
Sitting beside you, your new husband Prince Valarr tightens his grip around your trembling fingers. Fingers that had trembled for as long as you had existed behind the walls of King’s Landing and could not seek to be stilled no matter how much wine you drank from your goblet.
“Cousin,” Prince Valarr greets him, not unkindly, but not without a trace of suspicion falling off the lilt.
The grin that curls upon Prince Aerion’s face in that instant makes you regret ever giving him a benefit of the doubt. His eyes move away from yours to rest upon his cousin and it feels like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders.
“I just came to offer congratulations,” Prince Aerion says. His bright amethyst eyes hide something behind them that you are not entirely sure you want to know the answer to. “It’s not every day you see a stag in a den of dragons. I wonder how long they will last until they catch hold of her scent?”
You try not to let the loosely-disguised threat bother you, but it makes the back of your neck prickle with goose flesh.
You notice Prince Valarr’s cordial smile fades as he considers his cousin’s words. His eyes, much warmer and without deception coating their film, narrow only slightly. You silently stroke the back of his hand and he squeezes yours in return.
“I look very much to the bedding ceremony,” Prince Aerion continues, his attempt at cordially devolving into a lascivious grin. His eyes fall on yours again for only a brief moment before they trail down to your bust. You suddenly feel like not much more than a whore roaming the Street of Silk, a commodity to abate the noblemen’s lewd impulses.
“There will not be a bedding ceremony,” Prince Valarr replies simply. No dissuading of Aerion’s flirtations or a chiding, just a laying of the facts.
You feel your heart drop to your feet. Truly? He is not going to defend your honor any more than that?
Prince Aerion rolls his eyes as if it were all some minor inconvenience to him. Your body, a toy ripped from his hands.
Your eyes drift away from the white-haired prince to where his father sits across the room. His cold eyes stare daggers in the back of his son’s head, like a part of him could sense from there the impropriety of his second son.
“Well,” Prince Aerion says, “welcome to the family, cousin.”
The prince leaves before either of you can say much else. His lithe form disappears with the throngs of people milling about like a vapor cloud disappearing under the sun.
You remove your hand from within the grasp of your new husband’s without really even realizing it. You have the want—no, need to hide away. To not be seen in that objectifying way ever again.
His mismatched eyes fall onto yours with startling intensity, as if he were peeling back your skin layer by layer and could see straight to your very core.
“I apologise for Aerion,” Valarr says with half a smile, “he never learned to hold his tongue.”
You feel what seems to be something lodged in your throat. It steals your very breath from your lungs. If you were to describe Aerion, it would be less in jest and more in disgust.
“Is he always that… crude?” you ask him quietly.
Valarr lets out a sigh that borders on being laborious. “He’s not always been that way, but he has for so long now I can scarcely remember his personality before it.”
You frown as you take in your husband’s profile. It would have been easy to disregard Aerion as being the black sheep of the white flock, but a part of you wonders whether or not he is just more confident with his desires than his family—if within every dragon, slumbers a flame waiting to erupt.
Perhaps your husband had just learned to control his flame better. The thought makes you push away the rest of your dinner.
“Forget Aerion,” Valarr tells you, “his only lot in life is to get under others’ skin. Don’t let him.”
Easier said than done, you think. Your skin burns with shame and prickles with anxiety. Not an uncommon concoction of feelings for young women on the precipice of their wedding nights, but less common for the same reason you feel it.
A moment passes in silence. You watch, half-dazed, as family and friends and Targaryens mesh together in a hypnotizing display of red and black and yellow. It is a ceremony that has passed since the beginning of time, yet only a fair few women could say they were as blessed as you were in marriage.
Still, a pit weaves itself deeply into your stomach.
“Ah, is that my darling niece I see?” the voice cuts through the fog of your somber thoughts and immediately brightens your mood like the sun chasing away a storm.
“Uncle Lyonel!” you exclaim breathlessly.
The Laughing Storm is a fitting name for such a figure of roaring humor and physical prowess. You recall your father speaking fondly but with a touch of jealousy at the free will his brother was able to exert as the secondborn son. You did not see him often, except in big gatherings such as these, but whenever you did he held a drink in his hand and a wide grin on his face.
You stand to give him a hug over the table. It is warm and comforting and just what you need at this exact moment. You pull away and sit back in your chair.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” you tell him, “I heard you had just been to a tourney and…”
“And miss my only niece’s wedding?" Lyonel scoffs as if the notion itself were preposterous. “Your father is rolling over in his grave at just the mere notion.”
He turns his eyes toward your new husband. His grin still takes up half his face as he takes the prince in.
You know what he’s thinking. Prince Valarr is all straight-edges and proper social etiquette. He is not the prince to be found wandering the Streets of Silk like Aerion or the local watering hole like Daeron. He is incredibly handsome, as all Targaryens are, but it is a carefully controlled beauty that makes one do a double-take to wonder how in the Seven Kingdoms he is related to the rest of the riff-raff.
“You are Baelor’s son, yes?” your uncle asks. It is not the question you had been expecting.
Your husband’s face sobers at the mention of his recently-deceased father. The father that had missed his eldest son’s wedding and would miss everything else in his future.
“He was a good man,” Lyonel says, “the best of them, really.”
Prince Valarr’s smile is tight. You can tell he has reached his limit of what he wants to speak about regarding his father, but you do not intervene.
“If you are anything like him, you will make a good husband to my niece,” Lyonel continues, “and if you don’t, I’ll hang you by your stones from a tree.”
Valarr’s face drops.
His face is deadly serious before he breaks out in raucous, drunken laughter. “You should have seen your face!” he wheezes.
Valarr smiles only slightly, seemingly off-put by the brazenness of the Baratheon.
Your uncle stumbles away without another word, giggling to himself all the while. You watch him go with an affectionate pang to your chest and with it, the only security and normalcy you felt within the room’s four walls.
You look away from your uncle to the rest of the party goers, and inadvertently get hung on a pair of purple eyes staring daggers at you from across the hall. You feel a spike of fear hit your heart like a dagger.
“—Perhaps we should retire,” your husband says, offering forth possibly the best suggestion of the night, “before anyone else comes to enlighten our meal.”
If he notices your fear, he does not show it. You nod almost catatonically as you stand beside him. He grabs your hand and squeezes it gently in what should have been reassuring, but only makes you realize how sweaty your palm is.
All eyes in the room follow the two of you as you exit the room. A chorus of cheering erupts from behind you, but you do not look back to see the commotion. You did not need to know that all those people were looking forward to you losing your maidenhead. Even the thought makes your body cringe like a grape left in the sun for too long.
As you take your first steps into the heir prince’s bedroom, you gaze around in awe at the large four-poster bed and the array of burning candles that bathe the walls in flickering shadows. At the far wall, an ornate copper mirror reflects your visage back to you and you only realize from it the speed of your heaving chest.
You hear the door click shut behind you. Your hands tremble as you try to clutch at the laces at the back of your gown, attempting to unravel them.
Prince Valarr comes up behind you and wraps a gentle arm around your quivering middle, stilling your hastened movements. He presses a soft, barely-there kiss to your shoulder and his hot breaths against your flushed skin make you shiver in anticipation. He chuckles softly at your reaction and you smile.
As he continues to leave soft kisses across every inch of exposed skin, you feel a deep burning beginning to form at the base of your stomach.
In that moment, you remember the mirror and your eyes dart to see the lewd display in a fulfillment of some voyeuristic impulse, but you jolt when you see not your husband behind you but a light streak of hair and a familiar eye that cuts through the night. You let out a sharp gasp before your brain can process that all you are seeing is your husband’s streak of silver in his auburn locks and his own one purple-blue eye, but the damage is done.
The slight hint of arousal you began to feel is gone and has been replaced by the fear and disgust from earlier in the evening.
Valarr pulls away and looks at you with furrowed brows. “Are you all right, my love?”
You go to reply, but find your mouth seems to be filled with cotton. You swallow and try again. “My apologies, my prince. I just… thought I saw something.”
Valarr follows your gaze to the mirror and he takes a step back from you. You turn to meet his gaze unobstructed by the distorted reflection.
“You seem anxious,” your husband says, “we… do not have to consummate tonight.”
You begin to protest, but he interjects.
“I would rather it be a happy occasion, not one wrought with fear.”
You do try to hide the sudden rush of relief you feel from your face, but some of it must slip through as he quickly averts his eyes to the floor.
Valarr strides over to the end table in his room where two goblets of wine sit untouched on its surface. He hands one to you as he passes your side to the bed. He tilts his goblet until a few drops land on the sheets, giving the impression of a perfectly sound marriage night.
He lifts a finger over his lips with a teasing smile. “Shh. No one will know.”
You cannot find it within you to return the smile. You worry your lip between your teeth and set the goblet back down.
“I’m sorry,” you say, watching his hand slide away from the goblet to gently grasp your heaving shoulder, “I do not know what has come over me.”
Valarr smiles and gives your arm a gentle squeeze. “Come, let me help you untie your laces.”
As you eventually are able to lay in bed beside your new husband, listening to his quiet exhaling snores, you cannot ever fully relax for every time you do, you see a pair of predatory eyes staring back at you and a silent husband watching from the side.
The anxiety has all but left your mind after a few days' distance from the wedding and, more importantly, Prince Aerion.
You begin to fall in a sort of rhythm that takes your mind off all other pressing matters by weaving between embroidery and lengthy lessons on the history and founding of the Targaryen rule. The lessons had not been something required, but as the future queen, you thought it especially prudent to be educated in all there was to know about the kingdom.
It makes you feel a bit like a child again, being taught an extensive curriculum on the language and culture and social etiquettes expected of a young noblewoman. It becomes a nice escape from your adult worries.
By the fifth day, you realize an important thing, however, and that is that in King’s Landing, no one can disappear completely.
“You have been working hard,” your husband says, surprising you as you step outside of the makeshift classroom.
You stare at your husband for a moment in mute shock. His usually-quite tidy hair is unruly and standing in every direction on his head. He’s wearing a thick breastplate and underneath a thin shirt of cotton that is rolled up to his elbows, exposing his muscled forearms. His face is flushed and perspiring as if he ran all the way here.
You swallow back a groan at the sudden rush of heat to your head at the sight. Who knew your sweet, disciplined husband had the ability to look so… well, wild?
It makes you wish for a moment that you had never postponed your wedding consummation—something that still had not been amended.
“I’ve been trying,” you finally force yourself to reply, “though not as much as you have, apparently.” You gesture to his sweaty, heaving body.
Your husband grins and cocks his head to the side. “Oh, this?” he says, pointing to his tunic, “I’ve just been warming up. Perhaps you’d like to join us, cheer me on from the stands?”
You bite your lip to try to hide the smile creeping up on you. “You’re quite vain, has anyone told you that before?” you say teasingly, “needing a pretty woman to cheer you on while you play with swords.”
You tuck your arm in the crook of his elbow as he leads you down the hall.
“Not just any pretty woman,” he says, “just my wife will do.”
You duck your head and grin like an unflowered girl of ten and two.
You follow your husband through the winding hallways of the castle before he stops in front of an open archway leading to a large, outdoor courtyard. Several men of the kingsguard take turns battering dummies and dueling each other with dull blades and thin armor.
You gaze around at the open courtyard with a swell of excitement that quickly disappears when you notice a familiar head of white hair standing near the sidelines. His eyes find yours almost immediately and your stomach drops to your feet.
“Your cousin is here,” you say in a lilt that almost sounds like a question.
Valarr nods as his eyes sweep across the courtyard to where his cousin stands. “Yes, Aerion often trains with me.”
You swallow thickly and take a step back. Your husband cocks a brow toward you in a silent question.
“I can watch from here,” you tell him, your enthusiasm at seeing your husband in his element all but dissipating with the next spring breeze.
Valarr opens his mouth as if to say something else, but he’s interrupted.
“I thought I saw a little doe wandering around here.”
You angle your head toward Prince Aerion as he approaches. There’s a swagger to his walk that accentuates his crass words in a way that no other person’s movements can. You realize in that moment, if you show any slight outward expression of fear, he will find it and exploit it.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” you tell them, “just here to watch.” It’s your polite way of saying to Aerion, ‘fuck off.’
He grins as he takes in your presence. “Disturb me?” he laughs. “Now how could a doe disturb a dragon?”
You look over at Valarr, who seems annoyed but not giving the impression he is going to do anything to tell him off. Your blood boils with indignation.
You clench your fists into the fabric of your dress as your eyes meet Aerion’s again. Your husband won’t protect you? Then you will have to protect yourself. “You might be surprised, Aerion,” you tell him in a sickeningly-sweet tone, “a stag still has antlers plenty sharp enough to pierce a dragon… or an arsehole pretending to be one.”
If Aerion were truly a dragon, you would be but a pile of ash from the fire alight in his eyes. “Did you just threaten me, wh–”
“Enough!” your husband shouts. You fall silent at the violent eruption. You quickly look over at Valarr, expecting him to be finally protecting your dignity.
You hadn't noticed the three of you had drawn in quite the crowd. It only makes you feel more abused by the words of the prince in that he does not care to antagonize you in front of other people.
“You two have done nothing but make childish insults toward each other since our wedding night,” Valarr says, “apologise and move on.”
“I – what?” you croak, your heart thundering in your ears. You, apologise? For what? Defending yourself?
You feel a bit like a young doe caught in a bramble as a pack of wolves stalk forward from the shadows. Each of the kingsguard stares at you in expectation–not at Prince Aerion, at you. They all expect you to be the bigger person, to bridge the gap between you and Aerion because you are the woman and of course you should always seek to solve issues even if you did not create them.
You look over at your husband as if half-expecting him to change his mind. He does not. You clench your jaw and shake your head. You look at Aerion who stares at you with that same shit-eating grin on his face and you realize like being struck with lightning that even though you had been welcomed into the fold by all appearances, you are still the outsider.
You do not say anything as you turn your back, pick up your dress ends, and begin to walk away.
“My love?” your husband calls out as you stride away. You hear the grating laughter of Prince Aerion as you step back inside the castle. You do not turn around.
The inside of the castle seems colder than it had just a short few minutes ago. As people pass you in the halls, you think anyone looking at you for a moment too long is plotting your demise. It is an awful feeling, you think, to not feel truly welcome in any part of the castle you now had to call home.
You do not regret marrying Valarr. Far from it, actually. But it would be wrong to say you did not feel some trepidation. Perhaps if you had known all those moons ago that your husband would not protect you and that your new cousin by marriage would be such a contemptuous bastard, you would not have agreed so hastily, leaping at any chance you could to bring notoriety to the Baratheon name.
“Princess?” you hear a voice say from behind you.
You turn to see Prince Maekar standing there in his signature black and red robes, his arms crossed behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed. Considering you knew very little about the man or his personality, you had not been keen to interact with him in the lingering fear that perhaps every Targaryen is a bit off in the head. The stark white hair and the gleaming violet eyes strike a chord of fear deep within the instinctual part of your brain that still has not fully recovered from the incident moments before.
The little you did know about the prince makes you nervous. You had heard one of your handmaidens imply that he had played a role in his older brother’s untimely death. You think if he is at all similar to his second son, then perhaps he had played a bigger role than anyone could realize.
The man standing before you does not seem guilty, though. He looks tired. Weak in a way you did not know many nobles to appear.
“Prince Maekar,” you greet, trying to hide the anxiety from leaking into your voice. What it ends up coming out like sounds a touch shrill.
His light eyes dart across your face. He comes to your side and tilts his head inquiringly. “What is the matter?”
To tell Maekar of his son’s warped obsession with seeing you suffer seems misplaced and so you just sigh and avert your eyes. “Just busy,” you tell him with a forced chuckle, “if I had known I’d be doing so much, I’m not sure I’d have agreed to be a princess.”
You aren’t sure what spurs the confession and if it is entirely removed from the truth. You are tired and overwhelmed in a way you’d never known before.
Prince Maekar’s face does not shift from stoicism. “Walk with me.”
He turns his back and begins to walk down the hall. You have to speed-walk to catch up to him.
You fall into step with the prince—which is easier said than done, considering the length of his strides—and try to focus your attention elsewhere so as to not become too nervous in his presence.
“My sons have always struggled with their responsibility to the throne,” Prince Maekar says, his voice graveled and tense. “One copes with liquor, one with whores, while the last two will do anything they can to abdicate.”
You swallow thickly, trying to understand the point of what he is saying.
“Their cousin is not that way, he never has been. He takes everything he can in stride, hides his weaknesses behind duty and honor. He cares deeply about what others think to his own detriment.” He pauses, an emotion cringing across his lips. “Just like his father.”
Prince Maekar shakes his head. “I’ve never been good with words,” he says with a sigh, “just… what I’m trying to say is, you do not have to worry about Prince Valarr. He is the best of the lot.”
You frown. “Why… are you telling me this?”
Prince Maekar comes to a stop, staring at something over your shoulder. You look to where he stares at a framed gold portrait of Prince Baelor and his young boys and wife. You study the smiling faces, the naïve unknowingness of the horrors they would face in the future. You avert your eyes, feeling a well of hurt on behalf of your husband.
“They are all products of their experiences,” Maekar tells you, “Valarr was taught from a very young age to value his family above all else. Even when that family is the source of his suffering.”
He pauses, eyes roving over yours in search of understanding. “Do you see what I am saying?”
“I… believe I do.”
He leans forward. “My son does not deserve his concessions, yet he gives them anyway. Give your husband grace, but do not let him tear you down in the process.”
You nod silently and Prince Maekar heaves a heavy sigh as he looks back at the portrait hanging on the wall. You gather from his silence that is all he had to say as his eyes move as slowly as painting drying on a canvas.
You slip away with a mind more dizzied with conflicting thoughts than before.
The Red Keep’s library is the one place you can always escape to when you have nowhere else to go. Its framework of dusty tomes and leather-bound books makes it incredibly easy for you to spend hours at a time there, sinking your teeth into the mottled pages and reading them until your eyes begin to hurt and the words blur together.
But now the books that used to provide comfort now just seem pretentious. You stare at the favorite you’d chosen from the collection—Ancient Targaryen Rulers and Legends—but nothing about it cheers you up. The usual delight you’d felt at reading about Aegon the Conqueror or Jaehaerys I’s accomplishments just makes your stomach turn today.
Were all Targaryens, even the ones known to be honorable by all accounts, corrupted by a dragon's desires?
Every time you study the expressive eyes of his forefathers, you cannot prevent your mind from wandering to Valarr. If a man cannot even stand up for his wife in fear of backlash, how would he stand up for his kingdom?
Time passes slowly in the library. Although it is your safe haven, it starts to feel more like a prison the more time you spend inside. There’s nothing preventing you from leaving, and yet you can’t find it within yourself to do so, like invisible bars surrounding you on all sides. What would be there to greet you once you leave? An angry husband at your disobedience? Aerion, coming back to finish you off? Your maesters wondering when you would come back to your lessons? Nothing at all, and therefore a subsequent feeling of suffocating self-worthlessness?
When amber light begins to creep across the floors through the ornate windows, you finally think you might be mustering the courage necessary to leave. Then, the doors to the silent library creak open and your eyes dart to the person walking in.
Valarr tumbles through the doors like he’d been looking for some kind of refuge for eons. He hasn’t seen you yet—or he’s incredibly adept at playing coy—and he stands leaning up against the door for a moment, his chest heaving and eyes closed.
You are not used to seeing this side of him. The vulnerability, the raw anguish wrought across his face. You avert your eyes when his finally open.
You do not look up at him again, even though you are sure he’s seen you at this point.
You can hear him shuffling around the room for several minutes. You re-read the same sentence thrice before you ignore the rest of the page and simply skip forward.
Your mind is too focused on the sound of his heeled boots against the floor as they go from bookshelf to bookshelf—and as they inch closer and closer to you.
“May I sit?”
His voice sounds like a little boy’s, soft and underlined with anxious tension. It makes your heart wrench. But you stay stoic as you nod curtly.
Valarr sighs at your silence and takes a seat diagonal to you, dropping a heavy book onto the table. He hasn’t changed since you last saw him, aside from the addition of a black and red cloak—one you recognize distantly as having belonged to his father. You swallow thickly and force your eyes down to the book. It’s a simple, unimpressive thing—no title or extra flair, with crumpled pages and dog-eared corners.
Your fingers itch to break the spine and delve into its contents.
You look back at your own book, a book you’d practically memorized at this point. The page it has been flipped to is about Rhaenyra Targaryen, The Realm’s Delight. Her violet eyes cast a magnificent glower onto your own. You get immediately sucked in, as you always do, to her story and how she fought in the Dance of the Dragons.
You do not notice your husband's eyes burning a hole into the side of your face until he speaks.
“Are you going to ignore me?”
Your eyebrows furrow and you slowly lift your head to look at him.
You are at once struck by how tired he looks. Dark circles you hadn’t noticed before rest under his eyes. His hair is all but stuck to his skin from the perspiration. However, as you think about earlier, your skin crawls all over again and you cannot muster up sympathy. His throat bobs under your heated gaze.
You purse your lips and look back down at your book. “I have nothing to say.”
“Is… this truly about earlier?” he asks. “I misspoke, saying you ought to apologise, but surely…?” he trails off, his meaning left to interpretation.
You can feel your jaw clench beneath your skin. A tension-fueled ache pulling at your temples.
You cannot contain the storm brewing beneath your skin. Baratheons had never been very good at that.
“I have lived around men like Aerion my whole life,” you start, your voice carefully controlled, “they break you down, strip you until you are nothing, and cut you until you bleed. All with a laugh.” You swallow thickly. “But the problem isn’t Aerion. It is you.”
Your husband’s eyes widen at this.
“Have you truly never noticed?” you ask, “how your men always look to you when a problem is at hand? How they laugh at my pain, at my womanly insults, but praise Aerion for his quick wit with his own?”
Your eyes begin to overflow with tears. “How do you think it looks when their own heir prince, the only man of higher standing than Prince Aerion in presence, does not stand up for his own wife? Like I’m worth less than dirt? It is humiliating.”
Your husband ducks his head as if he has been struck. His fingers clutch at the table, knuckles white and bursting at the seams of his skin.
“I… did not realize the breadth of my power,” he replies softly, “of what it matters for me to speak up on matters such as this.”
His eyes dart to yours and a muscle in his jaw jumps beneath his skin. “The problem is, I do not know how to react in those moments,” he says, eyebrows furrowed, “and it kills me because it is expected of me to know how to react in any uncertain situations. Like a king would. Like my father would.”
Your own eyes widen at the confession, and at the tears beading in your husband’s eyes. Tears that seem so unused to falling.
“My father would have been able to handle this so much better than I could. You, the throne, Aerion,” he tells you, “I… I’m just a boy playing with his father’s sword.”
You shake your head. “Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Valarr says, “Father would have been able to handle everything so much better than I. It makes one wonder why I am here and he isn’t.”
You reach forward to place your hand upon his. Valarr drags his gaze to meet yours. “You cannot think that way,” you tell him, eyes serious, “it is destructive. It eats you alive. What happened, happened. The Seven took your father for a reason just as much as they allow you to live and breathe as you are now.”
You pull away once your husband nods.
“I did not know him,” you say softly, “but I would imagine you live up to his estimations quite well.” You pause. “At the very least, you are not Aerion.”
He smirks at that comment.
When you finally take your leave a few minutes later, you wrestle with conflicting ideas of marriage, family, and nobility, and balancing those with your own personhood and demands for respect. And if it is an ideal that can even be realistically achieved and how.
As you go to relax in your bath, you decide to let your worries sink for the moment. It is a notion you have not had since you first came to the Red Keep and you welcome it with open arms.
Later that night, you sit halfway folded over a piece of parchment, dragging your quill across the page. You are making a list of all the new things you have learned in your studies. Targaryen naming customs, the common verbiage of High Valriyan, the locations of all the important facilities in the Red Keep.
You pause for a moment to stretch your fingers, but overshoot your arm and knock your ink well and can only watch in mild horror as it spills on the table.
“Shit,” you say, quickly pulling the inkwell to sit upright again. You look around for anything to stop the puddle from seeping, but your eyes get caught on a figure lingering in the doorway.
Your eyebrows furrow and you look away.
“Am I allowed to come in?” your husband asks, “or should I resign to sleep with the hounds?”
You do not crack a smile at the quip as you often do. You simply nod and begin to wipe away the ink with a nearby cloth.
The door shuts with a soft click that reverberates through your skull. You hear a rustling of clothing and watch with solemn eyes as your husband begins to untie the laces holding his form-fitting shirt together. His densely muscled back is revealed to you in one fell swoop as he removes the shirt and begins straightening out his sleeping outfit. The softened candle light flickers across his pale skin, highlighting faded scars and moles that form a constellation across his skin.
You avert your eyes before you can feel yourself losing your nerve, beginning to read over your notes untouched by the ink spillage.
Your husband has other ideas.
“I suppose I should apologise,” you hear him say, his voice slightly muffled through the mild preoccupation of changing his breeches, “for… earlier.”
You swallow thickly, the parchment’s corners crumpling under the weight of your grip. Your voice is quiet as it comes out next. “Thank you, but that is not necessary.”
“No.” He turns half his face toward you. His one brown eye glows amber under the firelight, whilst his other remains bathed in the cloak of night. “Allow me to rephrase… I need to apologise.”
You look down at your parchment and place it quietly onto the table, folding your hands onto the sheer shift covering your legs. You hear his footsteps creak across the wood floor as he steps closer, taking a seat next to you on the chaise. He stays a respectable distance apart, enough that you can feel his presence without being oppressed by it.
“You… do not deserve to be spoken to like that,” Valarr says softly, “no one does, but certainly not you.”
You shrug one shoulder. “Prince Aerion is foul-mouthed and ill-tempered, you said so yourself,” you say, “I should have expected it.”
“Listen to me,” he tells you sternly. Your eyes move on their own accord. You are startled at once by the intensity of his mismatched gaze, his set jaw, and his furrowed brows. “You are to be queen. Prince Aerion has acted entirely out of line and I have made excuses for him because of his relation to me but I cannot any longer. You deserve better.”
“Where is all this coming from?” you ask, your lips pulled into a frown. “Just a few hours ago, you made it seem like I was the embarrassing one, not him.”
“I…” he pauses and his intensity dims, “took a walk to the Great Sept after our conversation in the library. I was reminded of something my father often said…” he looks pained, “that while family is important, a good knight always stands up for the innocent. And I want to be a good knight—a good husband, for you.”
You feel a rush of joy surge within you. You could cry, you think, but you force it down. Not out of shame, but out of not wishing to see the moment broken.
“I’m glad to hear that,” you say through a voice laden with strong emotion, “I… have been very stressed lately, but this will help.”
He places a finger underneath your chin to angle your head toward his—to capture and hold your full attention. You can feel his hot breath flush across your cheeks.
“Tell me what I can do to help more,” he tells you earnestly, “tell me so I can help unburden you.”
You trace the sincerity of your husband’s eyes down his lightly-freckled nose to the heart-shaped lips opened just barely to allow his breaths to escape. You should not forgive him so quickly, you know. Not without knowing if he would follow through with his promises. But all you can think is how delicious he looks on his metaphorical hands and knees and how much you wish you could kiss him senseless with one hand while (lovingly!) strangling him with the other.
“Kiss me,” you whisper, a small smile curling on your lips.
Valarr’s eyes widen almost comically before his senses return to him and he meets your lips with a soft grunt.
It is a bit clumsy at first. Like the kissing between two virgins—but perhaps you both are ones and in that case, it is incredibly on point. Your teeth clip and your noses bump as you try to figure out the perfect position. He tastes like the red wine he’s been sipping from all night and it feels like you’re drowning in him.
You can feel everything all at once. The heat from his skin burning against yours. That sly hand seeping through your clothes. The smell of sweat gleaning off his skin.
He pulls you closer with the palm of one of his hands against your back, reclining his body against the cushion of the chaise as you cover him. You bring your hand up from where it was leaned against the arm of the chair to his neck, keeping him perfectly poised to receive your affection.
When you finally pull away to catch your breath, his eyes are so dilated that you can no longer tell which one is brown and which is blue. His chest heaves from the exertion.
“I want to…” you start to say, but trail off.
He regards you seriously. “Are you sure?” his eyes look back and forth between your own, “we do not have to.”
You reach forward to place a hand against his cheek. He leans into your palm to place a gentle kiss against where your pulse thrums.
“I want you,” you tell him softly, reverently, “I want you more than life itself.”
Your husband's throat bobs and you notice a line of sweat cross the sharp line of his jaw to slide down his neck. You lean forward before you can stop yourself to plant a kiss to where it stops. You pull away, a bit flustered, but your husband does not allow you to stew in your thoughts for very long before he surges forward, kissing you hard and fast and with teeth clipping and nose bumping but landing just right all the same.
As you kiss, you feel his warm, calloused palm drag up the side of your thigh to hike up your shift. When it reaches the top of your hip, you feel yourself unconsciously shiver. He breaks away.
“Cold?” he murmurs against your lips.
“No,” you whisper, “hot.”
He lets out a laugh through his nose as he leans back to take in your newly-exposed skin. Not ever one to be enthralled by exposition, rather more interested in the climax, (pun definitely intended) you grab the end of the shift and pull it over your head. You throw it to the side and immediately you feel the cold air hit your exposed skin and cause a flurry of goose flesh to rise upon your limbs.
You glance up at your husband’s expression to find his face to have darkened considerably. You swallow thickly at the complete absence of light within his eyes as they leave a trail of flame from your thighs to your stomach to your breasts to your face, where he blinks slowly, eyes hooded, as if existing within a dream. In between his thighs, you notice a suspiciously hard lump.
“Much better,” you say with a mischievous grin.
He grabs your chin in his hand and looks you deeply in the eyes. “I need you to heed me when I say this,” he says solemnly, “you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes upon.”
You avert your eyes in a sign of bashfulness, though your heart strums behind your ribs like a drum. “I’m sure that’s not true. There are plenty of beautiful women that wander the Streets of Silk.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he says, “never been.”
Surprised, your eyes find his again. “Honest? I thought all princes went at least once.”
He lets out a soft chuckle. “You are the first woman I’ve laid with, love. I’m surprised you couldn’t tell.”
You lean forward to seal your mouths back in a passionate kiss. He wraps an arm around your back and you fall forward onto him like a newborn fawn finding its feet for the first time.
His clothes are removed just as quickly and thrown to where your shift lays limply in the corner. For a moment after it is all laid bare, you stare at your husband’s masculine form in complete silence. His chest heaves with each breath he takes, his stomach is lined with lithe muscles and deep scars. As your eyes trail south, you get caught on the white hair at the base of his incredibly impressive…
“Perhaps we take this to the bed?” Valarr suggests. He rubs the back of his neck and he looks like the picture of a blushing boy caught with his hand in the pastry plate. Your stupidly angelic, devilishly handsome husband. He was truly going to kill you. “My back does not approve of this arrangement currently.”
You follow him to the bed as if in a trance. How far gone did one have to be to find even the bare backside of a man to be attractive? You did not remember your mother mentioning that in her sexual education crash course. To think back on it now, she mostly lingered on the logistical side of baby-making because she really wanted grandchildren.
You fall back on the plush bed and dissuade yourself from thinking anymore of your mother in a time like this. It is like you are purposefully trying to ruin the moment again.
Valarr places his hand gingerly on the side of your inner thigh, eyes staring at yours as if beckoning some kind of unspoken permission. You give him a nod. He slides his hand up toward your cunt and the warmth is so immediate and strong that you recoil at first.
“Sorry,” you say with a nervous laugh, “not used to hands there that are not my own.”
“I will be gentle,” he says quietly.
“I know you will.”
Your skin feels like it is on fire as he works one long finger into your sex. You let out a sharp gasp when he brings it all the way out to go in again.
“Gods be good,” your husband groans, bringing his finger to the light of the nearby candle. It glistens beneath the flickering flame.
You thought it was impossible for you to become more aroused in that moment until your husband sinks the finger into his mouth to suck it clean. You suddenly feel close to bursting into flames.
“Just… would you fuck me now?”
Valarr’s eyes shoot open and his finger falls from his lips. He grins, pulling his body to lean over yours, his throbbing cock leaned on your thigh.
“Who am I to deny the orders of a future queen?” he whispers against your lips.
He seals your mouth with his and at the same time, carefully lines his cock to your cunt. He slides in with one quick thrust that has you gasping and tearing away from the kiss. A momentary pain dulls swiftly to an aching throb. You squint your eyes shut until the pain disappears completely.
“Are you okay, my love? Did I hurt you?”
You nearly forget yourself at the sweet lilt in your husband’s tone. It is so pure, so kind, you feel close to tears. What were you mad at him for, again? You couldn’t remember your own name much less that with his hard-as-steel cock throbbing inside you.
“Move,” you grit out, “fuck me, Valarr.”
Your husband does not need to be told twice and soon he’s hitting his rhythm. Every thrust of his hips feels like bliss. His hand slides up your arm to grasp your own and you watch, enraptured by his facial expressions. As he picks up speed, however, you can no longer fully focus on anything but your building release.
The grunts and groans and moans and the shaking of the bed frame collapse into one long, obscene melody.
A thought pops into your head at that moment that does not fully pass all the required checks and balances of every other sentence you say and it tumbles out before you can stop it.
“I wish Prince Aerion was here to see this,” you say, the words gritty and raw and broken off by a loud moan tearing its way through your vocal chords, “I think his horrified expression would-ah!-make my year.”
“Fuck Aerion,” your once-chivalrous, now completely debauched husband bites out. His eyes are alight with a fury you had never seen before. Hm, you think, perhaps he did harbor some dragon fire.
“Seven hells,” you moan, “you’ve never said anything more attractive.”
“Tomorrow,” your husband grunts out, “I’m going to kill him for denying me this pleasure.”
“Oh, please let me be there to see it!” you gasp. You can feel your climax quickly approaching.
“I’m going to—“ your sentence breaks off as you are enraptured by pleasure. Your husband leans down to stuff his face into your neck as he thrusts one last time before his seed fills your cunt.
Your husband rolls off of you at the end of his peak, heaving a labored sigh of well-earned pleasure. Your limbs tremble with a mix of exertion and delight, and you suddenly let out a giggle.
“What’s so funny?” your husband mumbles as he turns on his side to peer closely at your face. His reddish hair sticks to his forehead like a second skin and a small grin curls at his lips at your amusement.
You put your hand over your mouth in an attempt to calm your laughter. “Did we just…” you let out another snort, “get off to killing your cousin?”
Valarr’s grin takes over the entire bottom of his face as he remembers the conversation from just moments before. “I guess we did,” he says with a soft, disbelieving laugh of his own.
Once the laughter calms and the quilt is pulled to cover your bodies and the candles are extinguished and the only thing you can hear is the sound of your own breaths, you realize your husband has not drifted asleep yet.
He strokes his fingers across the back of your hand in his comforting hold against your back. “I meant what I said, y’know? before we consummated," he whispers into your neck, “I will not tolerate it again.”
You turn to face Valarr and your heart skips a beat at the devotion reflected in his hooded eyes and the small smile on his face. “Thank you,” you say just as quietly. You place a barely-there kiss to his mouth. “Sleep well.”
He repeats the sentiment back to you and you close your eyes and drift to sleep with a pleasant ache between your thighs and a hope for a promise to remain fulfilled.
Bonus:
Prince Aerion sits across from you and Valarr in the dining hall. He looks between the two of you with suspicion clear on his face.
He goes to call out what is an obvious afterglow clinging to your skin, but his cousin’s eyes dart to his with a startling glare that halts him in his tracks.
“Not a word,” Valarr grumbles.
Aerion’s hands shoot up in the universal “I come in peace” symbol. “What’d I do?”
“I know what you were thinking,” Valarr says, “don’t say it or I will go straight to Maekar.”
Aerion scoffs at the childish threat, but he abides by it. He looks down at his plate wondering who in the Seven hells had pissed in his cousin’s goblet.
From beside him, you squeeze your husband's hand and shoot him a smile.
pairings: platonic bsf! daeron targaryen & platonic bsf!fem!reader, and yearning! valarr targaryen x oblivious! fem! reader
synopsis: daeron wins the title best girlfailure in our hearts - no, i will not take any criticism on that take
a/n: a following crack to this crack but with bsf! daeron as an mc!
modern bsf! daeron who went back to university after rehab because the fucking therapist maekar pays for said 'it's important for still-budding men such as yourself to seek out their potential.'
modern bsf! daeron who was probably the oldest student in the lecture halls and seminars, sat in the back because he couldn't stand the idea of people sneaking looks at him, wondering why the familial failure still bothers to try
modern bsf! daeron who went back to his old habits of crashing frat parties and sending his liver to an early grave with whatever jungle-juice swell they decided to serve
modern bsf! daeron who blacked out, only to wake up with ice water dumped on his face as he belligerently stared at his 'savior.'
"hey, you prick!" the large blur was talking. it sounded female. "did you really think you could just fucking vomit on me, and then knock out?!"
daeron blinked. he tried to speak, but it just came out as "shhhhhhhhh."
the blur groaned before lifting him up, using her body as a resting spot for his attempt to stand. "do you at least got a phone on you?"
phone. phone... daeron thought for a bit.
"...chucked it..."
"god-fucking-dammit."
modern bsf! daeron who woke up the next day in his boxers, but wearing a soft, too-tight Hello Kitty t-shirt - oh, and a clearer image of the blur whose stare wasn't nearly as scary as maekar's, but fairly damn close
"um, miss, we didn't...um..." gods, this was fucking mortifying, "there was no-"
you pointed to the door. on the hook was a spare towel and Head-and-Shoulders 2-in-1 inside a caddy.
"you're taking a shower and paying for my dry-cleaning."
"yes, ma'am."
modern bsf! daeron who, do not ask him how, ended up with the nosiest, helicopter-y, nit-picky woman in all of Westeros as a best friend
modern bsf! daeron who couldn't be more grateful for you in his life and wouldn't trade you for anything in the world
modern bsf! daeron who still struggled with his demons - insomnia, sleep paralysis, depression, anxiety, grief, as life didn't suddenly become rainbows and gold after you barged yourself into his life - but now had you to help in making it manageable
modern bsf! daeron who dropped out of business and moved to art after you stayed when he told his father during a surprise visit that went shockingly well and tame
-
-
-
...assuming no one commented on the bite marks on maekar's arm that day when he returned to the office
"say that again, you fucking boomer! say that again to my fucking face!"
"sweetie! sweetie - you made your point!"
"lemme at him, daeron! i can take him!"
modern bsf! daeron who realized in that moment, he got hit with the found family trope irl and when second-year came, asked you to be his flatmate
modern bsf! daeron who is now almost a year into his sobriety, pursuing a passion he forgot he loved, on not terrible terms with his father anymore, and isn't dreading the long vacation at summerhall for once because you'll be there bitching about everyone in the corner with him
modern bsf! daeron who got fucking hosed down in medium roast summer isles brew by his baby cousin when he innocently showed him your instagram page
modern bsf! daeron who forgot how much of a nosy brat modern! valarr was as kid and already planning on making up some long-winded tale on how your grandmother suddenly got too ill and you could no longer grace his family with your presence and you needed to go to Dorne immediately to nurse her to health
---------> you didn't have a grandmother in Dorne, but valarr didn't know that, did he?
modern bsf! daeron who was going to announce the tragic news to his family, when Egg is talking his ear off about showing you all his favorite spots in the woods, Aemon listing off his favorite parts of those new books you and daeron got him for his birthday, and the twins, Daella and Rhae, are squealing his ear off because you were so nice and you got the boys to listen and make them sit and play princess with them and - oh, seven fucking hells, he couldn't do it
modern bsf! daeron whose phone is contemplating suicide by the sheer volume of texts modern! valarr keeps sending him - all about you
valarr: she seems really quiet and polite, makes sense she'd be interested in art. do you know what specific time era she likes best? does she like romanticism or prefer post-war modernism?
daeron: valarr, it is five in the fking mornig
modern bsf! daeron who can admit, alright, if he had to lose you to any one of his family members, then he supposed he'd want it to be his younger cousin
modern yearning! valarr who was the golden prince of the targaryen dynasty, the shining heir, the eternal bright light son who could never disappoint
modern yearning! valarr who, at the very least, wouldn't ever treat you less than how you deserved and would absolutely give you the princess treatment you gushed over when reading one of your many, many romantasy books
modern yearning! valarr who could pretend all he wished, but modern bsf! daeron could see the streak of obsession in those mismatched eyes whenever he brought up your name, it was the very same one that cursed every targaryen one way or another
"hey, did you know my cousin's in your class?" daeron not-so-casually brought up during dinner one day. "maybe you've seen him?"
"hm?" you glanced up from your plate, cheeks full with food - oh, yeah... you quickly nodded and swallowed so that you didn't accidentally choke. "yeah, i think so - it was um...it's uh... valor, i think?"
gods, he tried to stop the giant shit-eating grin taking up his face - but to no avail, "yep, that's the one - so, how come you've never asked about him?"
now you were really confused, "why would i ask you about him?"
"dunno, just thought you might be curious, is all," daeron casually shrugged, relieved to know that your friendship wasn't never borne from the desire to get closer to his perfect cousin. "just wanted you to know it's okay if you do."
"yeah, not interested," you forked a piece of stir-fried broccoli into your mouth. "tries to talk to me sometimes - probably feels bad for me or something."
"what, why?"
"hell if i know - pretty sure he doesn't even know my name."
modern bsf! daeron who's now about...86% sure that his cousin's obsession with you has more to do with your lack of worshipping him, and not because he actually knew anything about you
-
-
-
...no, seriously, did you have some alter ego he didn't know about? when have you ever been quiet throughout the entire time he's known you?
modern bsf! daeron who, in good conscience, couldn't let his cousin think that he'd hand over his best friend without further investigation - surely the golden prince knew that he needed to prove himself to the fair maiden
modern bsf! daeron who spied in the corner of his eye the invitiation to the same tennis championship match he and his family were invited to every year without fail, the very same that daeron hated attending because of all the attention that was forced on him
modern bsf! daeron who, if he had to suffer another year of all eyes on him, he'd at least bring someone who'd make it fun
you were coming out of the showers to wash off the sweat from your workout when you got a text from your roommate/best friend/sponsee since second-year, daeron. you checked the screen and were shocked to see the list of missed calls from the lazy dork. it was thursday - he only had the seminar, and you didn't need to pick him up until at least another hour. worry was quick to set into your bones.
was daeron hurt?
did he relapse?
did his dad know? what about his brothers?
you didn't bother drying your hair before you made a mad dash for the lockers to change. the fabric clung to your still wet skin, but all you could think about was the idea that your friend was scared or hurt or gods forbid - dead in some ditch. you burst out of the gym lockers when you called him back.
*ring* *ring* *ring* *click* "oh hey-"
"daeron! oh thank fuck! send me your location, i'm on my way -"
"you're coming with me to the Westerlings championships," dareon interrupted, sounding exhausted - the last few words were spat out like a kid needing to go to the dentist to get a cavity filled. "please..."
you stopped in your tracks, hair still dripping and slowly soaking the back of your cardigan. daeron sounded fine - tired, sure, but definitely not-injured, and most importantly, sober.
relief quickly replaced fear. sober daeron was good, safe, not dead, and... called you twenty times when he was okay and let you think he was dead in a ditch sending a quick 'hey, not dead and drunk' took too much fucking effort.
yea, anger was quick to slap relief the fuck out of you.
daeron cleared his throat, "um, hello-"
"...are you kidding me?" you spat out. "are. you. fucking. KIDDING. me?"
"ah, there she is."
"have you gone batshit mental, daeron?! you called me twenty times! TWENTY. FUCKING. TIMES! what the actual FUCK is wrong with you?"
"well, come now, darling - you already have my med list," daeron chuckled (a chuckle, the pretty-faced prick thought this was fucking funny). "you have a better idea of my ailments than me."
"i am going to beat you with a fucking pineapple, you damn prick. you-" you stopped and pinched the skin just above your nose bridge - breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out - and repeated that twice more. "this could've been a fucking text."
"and miss the chance to hear your siren voice? i could never."
straight to hell. straight to hell, you were gonna send this buffoon.
"...is the vein there?"
cheeky. fucking. bitch
"i'm moving out."
"fine, fine -but first, sit with me next week at the westerlings matches."
"daeron, i'm not interested in attending some fucking tennis match, watching two people hit a ball for hours under the sun for gods know how long-"
"-all the food is complimentary with our seats."
...fucking hells, the lout knew your weaknesses...
"can i wear my flip-flops to this?"
"not if you want everyone to call you a trollop."
you stared up at the ceiling, weighing your options - although, there really wasn't much of a choice in this, and the asshole knew that.
"...your dad's paying for my outfit."
"pick up mine while you're at it!"
modern yearning! valarr who is experiencing a new form of hell every time he looks from his seat and sees you with his cousin - the two of you, sitting together, secret smiles and soft laughter like two lovers exchanging secrets and sweet nothings
"okay, so who's that one in the pink?"
"the one looking like a pepto-bismo fever dream? or the one wearing a hat with the giant vagina?"
"giant vagina hat."
"right, so that's Talla Florent."
"ooo, what'd she do?"
"not so much as her as her husband - on the right, beer-bellied wrinkly fellow - city watch discovered an underground sex dungeon last month, they found him bound in leather and squealing like a pig."
"let me guess, her brother, cousin, or twice-removed-nephew was the one with the whip."
"all that - and she watched in the corner."
honestly, it was beyond maddening to have to watch the ardent display
modern yearning! valarr who, despite his early training in propriety and self-discipline, continues to lose more of his sanity and self-control the more he looks at you
by the mother, you looked gorgeous in white. did daeron buy you that dress? were the two of you meant to match? no, if that were the case, you'd show up wearing green - thank gods, not green. fuck, you'd look incredible in blue.
the crowd cheers as people outside their box begin to stand. kiera is clapping like mad before proceeding to shake Valarr's shoulder to get his attention, "yes! they got the point!"
"huh? what?" valarr's mismatched tore away to watch in confusion as the excitement. "who?"
"really, valarr?" kiera couldn't help but roll her eyes at her friend. honestly, this was getting ridiculous. "can you stop being jealous over your cousin for two seconds?"
"wha - i am not jealous!" a light pink dusted valarr's cheeks - something he'd later blame the heat for. "i am merely...concerned that daeron might be distracting our guest from the match."
"his guest, you mean."
"right, yeah - that's what i said."
modern yearning! valarr who, in the corner of his eye, spies you slipping out of your seat and quickly excuses himself to his father before doing the same
modern yearning! valarr who walks out the walkway, sees you make your way into the Rose Pavillion, and follows you - only to be bombarded with a flurry of elderly nanas and mothers who were desperate to introduce him to their daughters, nieces, and granddaughters.
modern yearning! valarr who barely makes his escape, only to find that he's lost you, but just before he begins pulling his hair out of his roots in frustration, he spies your familiar figure sitting all by your lonesome on a secluded bench, head down and staring intentaly at the pink 3DS XL in your hand
modern yearning! valarr who, took a deep breath, straightened his jacket and brushed off any dust off his pants, walked straight towards you with the steadfast determination of finally having a proper conversation with you
modern yearning! valarr who made a mental checklist of topics that were appropriate for the occasion
modern yearning! valarr who, if he played his cards right, could turn the feeble acquaintance between you two into something more substantial - maybe he'd finally get your number!
modern yearning! valarr who swore to himself that he'd get this right - no room for mistakes - and, with any luck, use this as the opportunity he needed to finally settle this overwhelming need to be around and know everything about you
modern yearning! valarr who stood before you, his shadow touching yours as you remained oblivious to the world - still engrossed in your game
modern yearning! valarr who couldn't help but notice the way your eyelashes curled and the shine of your lip gloss and the fullness of your bottom lip and -
- he cleared his throat to stop himself from thinking further, and accidentally broke your concentration in tandem
modern yearning! valarr who now has your full attention, just as he wanted, but with the caveat being that startling you from your game instead of just saying your name like a regular person with normal cognitive functioning was the exact opposite of how he wanted your attention and - oh shit, you were waiting for him to speak, weren't you?
"...hello."
"...hey."
"..."
"..."
"..."
you held up your 3DS, "wanna play?"
-
-
-
fuck it all, modern yearning! valarr actually forgot the topic list
a/n: if you actually stayed to read this, wow - bc this got away from me and i genuinely no idea where tf i was going while writing this
dividers: @cursed-carmine - pls go her page! she has the cutest divider and border art!
pairings: aerion brightflame x female!reader x valarr targaryen
word count: 12.7k.
summary: you dreamed of a charming prince, someone who would care for you and would go through all lengths and extent to protect you, someone who will love you dearly and honorably. so when the union was decided for you and a targaryen prince, you beamed with pure bliss. you settled in king’s landing with love and marriage plaguing your head and the dreams of having a good marriage lingered, until you got to know who aerion targaryen truly was.
warning tags: nsfw. heavy dark themes. dub con. character introspections. some bonus writings of maekar and baelor. dornish!reader. she's a ray of sunshine initially?? choking. female!receiving. somnophilia. knife play kinda? manipulation. some degradation here and there, then some praises!! valarr is a sweetheart, aerion is clearly an asshole. reader is the plaything basically. porn with plot. some soft aerion if you look long enough but he's evillll hes bad hes the worst mom i want him!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
requested: i fear the chokehold that aerion brightflame has on me will not be over anytime soon, but reqs are open!
naz says: i recently rewatched akotsk and boy was i even more whipped with the characters. i had some conversations with mads regarding characters and personal headcanons and just had a light bulb moment with this, loooool. everything i do now has aerion in it, im sorry!!! (not really) plsplspls let me know that you think!!!
Maekar had heard once from the maesters who revel in philosophy that change is the gods’ favorite game to play, it brings them delight, both to the old and the new, when things twist in a way that they do not even expect. It was the way of all things, as it happens all around him, whether it is slow-moving in the process or incredibly fast in pacing. Either way, there are more times when Maekar would not know how to fix certain changes, nor where to begin.
He had thought about sending his son off to the Free Cities, to give him a taste of what it would be like to live without any assistance from the crown; to have him live a life away from his royal upbringing, strip him away from the glory that sticks with their House and their family name.
Aerion.
He had loved him, as he does all his sons; but Aerion might be the only one who where he had felt the most difficulty. Maekar did not know how to express it further, his words do not go through him, his actions were mostly ignored, or worst, forgotten. He tried to validate him, tried to defend him by any means, and then he tried to discipline, some in front of the council, most times when it’s just the two of them.
Within each and every moment he disciplines Aerion, his mind would already try to think of other ways to reach for him, he could not give up on his own son, not now—not ever. He must think of other more methods where he could finally meet him where he is, and when his son would do well, that would be the only time he could ever fully breathe.
“While that is a good plan, brother, I’m afraid there could be some disadvantages at present.” Baelor said to him, flipping a page on one of the books he picked up from the dusty shelves. They have arrived in King’s Landing four days ago, and they had already heard concerning reports of Aerion’s activities outside the gates.
Maekar exhaled, and Baelor thinks his own brother has been aging more rapidly now, “Every plan has its flaws, what the fuck would you have me do, then?” he retorted, with a clear sign of frustration painted on his face.
Baelor closed his book and regarded Maekar with his full, undivided attention, “It would be troublesome to have him over to the Free Cities, unattended—he had already been causing you headaches now, with you and I watching over him, yet he remained as he is.” He threaded carefully, mindful of the words and how he would describe his blood, not wanting to call Aerion as what he is: mad, violent, ruthless, and cruel—as he knew it would reflect poorly on Maekar, the weight of those words already carried such a burden that it would only trigger his brother to spiral even lower.
Maekar thinks he could join Aerion, but he could never disregard his other sons too, Daeron and Aegon. Daeron was never within his control even more so when Daeron had gotten a taste of alcohol and what it could do with the dreams he speaks of, but the worst thing he had seen on his eldest was passing out at every random place, completely drunk out of his wits. He was destructive, but never violent, the only chaos he could put was towards himself—Maekar thinks he could worry about him at a later time.
“You know I did all that I can, all that is within my capacities, Baelor.” Maekar started, sinking lower into his own chair as he looks ahead, he knew he had run out of resolutions but he couldn’t sit still and let the gods flip whatever fucking coin they have, nor leave the changes to the nature—his son would either be a good man, or Maekar would inevitably lose him to madness.
He did not sleep a wink that very same night, his thoughts about Aerion kept plaguing him that it never leaves his own head. In this point of time, his best course of action is to send him off to Lys.
So when a letter arrived from Dorne, containing a proposal of union, Maekar would immediately seek for Baelor’s advise. He had caught his brother slouched on the table, writing a letter to send with the raven, performing his duties as the Hand of the King even at the late hour.
“This could be good, for him.” He tossed the paper towards Baelor, and the brown-haired man could only stop writing, setting his quill aside as he reads through the paper from Maekar.
Baelor pondered, weighing a good number of possibilities and hundreds of consequences, after a while, he could only raised his eyebrows, “I certainly hope you do not think of passing the responsibility of bending Aerion into a kinder person to an innocent girl, Maekar.” He rolls the piece of paper before placing it before him, back on the table.
“We have had our fair shares of mishaps in our youth, brother.” He responds, taking a seat in front of Baelor, placing himself across from the Hand, “And when I met Dyanna..” he shook his head, remembering the good and love-filled days he had when his wife still resides by his side.
Baelor sighed, not completely against the idea of Aerion’s betrothal, as his heart and soul was once captured by a woman too, a Dornish woman at that, “This could either go right, or incredibly wrong, Maekar.” He stands, walking over to his brother to place a hand on his shoulder, “I trust your decisions, whichever you see is best for Aerion.”
Maekar’s heart settles on his throat, the air he has been holding in his lung felt even heavier as he dissects the repercussions of a wedding. It could do him good, it could make Aerion’s behavior be directed upwards, make him more honorable—or he could drag the woman down with him.
Aerion woke up with the glare of the sun sitting on his closed eyes, followed by a loud banging of the windows as well as the abrupt pull on the blanket, tearing it off of him. There were noises, some loud gasps and then some hurried movements—most of which he cannot see, for he had mostly kept his eyes shut, sleep still lingers on his eyes when he had tried to prop them open.
It was Maekar who greeted him first thing in the morning, behind him were the whores he had taken home from the evening prior. He smiled at his father, unfazed with his permanent look of complete disappointment, he had forgotten what Maekar looked like on a good day at this point, “Good morrow, Father. Have you gotten confused? This is not the dining hall nor Uncle Baelor's chambers.” He murmured, before stuffing his face on the soft and pristine pillows laying next to his head.
Maekar cleared his throat, “We came here to make a good impression as visitors, Aerion. Do not put any more shame into our family.” He started his routine, and Aerion chose to close his eyes once again, already entertaining the idea of getting more sleep, undisturbed with how the sun sets too high, signifying it must have been close to noon. Still, he managed to push words out, “Rest assured I am anything but putting shame, Father. You can ask the pretty girls you scared off.” He smiled against the cushion as his voice came out muffled, not even daring to cover his nude body.
“Get dressed.” Maekar pulled on his shoulder, forcing Aerion to face his father, actively snatching him away and farther from getting more sleep. The younger boy grunts in response, yawning in front of Maekar’s face, making it sound as louder as he could, in hopes that his obvious hints could get through the older man.
“For?” he blinks, clearing his vision out from the immediate blur upon waking. He thinks his body felt heavier, or that the bed was egging him to lay down once again as he struggles to keep his body straight.
“We have a guest from Dorne. I need you in your best condition.” Maekar announced, taking his seat on the edge of Aerion’s mattress. A calm and prominently worried expression crossed his face.
Aerion could not fathom how it had anything to do with him, and why he had to know of it first thing in the morning. He knows his father cared about formalities, Baelor’s kind courtesies must have rubbed off on him, “You and Uncle would be plenty enough for a welcome, Father.” He rubbed his eyes this time, getting more and more awake by each second.
“You need to be there, son.” The last word rung on Aerion’s ear, it was his cue to take his father’s word seriously, for a couple of minutes at maximum, that is. He pulls the blanket towards him, now conscious enough to cover his body.
“A young woman from Dorne will be coming, and I need you to meet her.” Maekar spoke slowly, and in the surface, it felt like he had more to say, a finishing blow, a finality.
Aerion waits long enough before mustering a response, “And? Fetch some maids to tend to her then—”
“You will be wed to her.” Aerion’s mouth hangs loosely, before his eyebrows curled, creating a deep wrinkled line across his forehead.
He blinked for a few moments, unable to fully comprehend what was mentioned, “I beg your pardon?” he knew what the words meant, the weight it carried, and its implications, still, he thought he must have dozed off once more and this was nothing but a fragment of his dreams.
Maekar stood, brushing the hem of his clothes with his flat palms, “Baelor and I will be waiting in the common room. Do not disappoint me further, boy. I’ve already had my fucking fill from you.” Then he walked away, swinging the door shut behind him when he exits, the wood loudly banging.
Aerion sits completely still. The prospect of marriage was not entirely new to him, but he didn’t think it would come along this soon. He was not bothered, nor annoyed with the arrangement—more confused. He couldn’t exactly see himself to be a husband, though he assumes nothing would be entirely different, they only had to perform their duties in front of their families. At the end of the day, he could still fill his heart to its content with activities he finds endearing.
A Dornish woman, huh?
He raises an eyebrow in contemplation. He would be lying if he denies the developing anticipation and excitement that seeps from his bones, he had wondered what it would be like to face a woman from Dorne—as he had only been surrounded by the pale women near the King’s Landing, most of them from pleasure houses, all of them captivated by his silver-hair and Targaryen name, each would be all ready for a taste of him, eager to please, or to appease the dragon within.
Playing along will be the safest gamble, he thought. He could not care much for the politics and the marriage arrangements his father works on, could not care where the woman would come from, if Maekar and Baelor sees it positively, and is certain that it could help to strengthen the House across the realm, then it must be a good bargain.
When he recovers from the ultimate shock and the morning contemplation of getting betrothed, he felt thirsty, the wave of pain now washes over his head—a clear sign of his consumption from the evening that passed, he calls to the maid and ordered to be served water, before he wills himself to the sink, submerging his face to the cold water, rendering himself fully awake.
He had taken some time to scan his clothes, then he thinks it wouldn’t really matter—what he is, and who he is will not make much of a difference. This Dornish girl and her family must have arranged the union based on his lineage, on the power that comes with their name. She should be appearing in her best graces, not the other way around, because why the fuck would he care about this?
To wed an actual prince would be one of the happiest moments in a girl’s life. They are kind, chivalrous, handsome, honorable and crafted beyond perfection. Songs would say they would be saving a princess in every distress, and there would be love at first glance, eventually sharing a sweet kiss, a promised sealed within, the promise of living the rest of their days in complete bliss—locked away in their own castle with nothing but devotion and adoration to keep them bound, for life.
When you heard that Prince Maekar has answered to your Father’s letter sent by a raven, commending the union to be generous and exceptional, before confirming the decision to wed you to his second-born son, a man named Aerion—you almost leapt out of joy.
He would be the perfect prince! Prince Baelor was King Daeron’s hand and Prince Maekar was as honorable, and you could only picture yourself living in the quarters with your husband-to-be, and he will fetch you sweet cake, and the most ravishing cups of wine and marbled meat. His high status would tell you that he truly is one of a kind. You wanted to rush to your chambers and immediately gather all of your things, stuff them into boxes and take the earliest route to King’s Landing.
You learned that Aerion was well-versed in weaponry and swordsmanship, as he was said to join the lists for tourneys, winning against well-known knights, regardless of their previous matches and victories—Aerion would still win. You could already recall and envision the tales about handsome princes dressed as the knight in shining armor—he could fight for you, protect you with all his might and he wouldn’t be able to breathe well if you’re within any sight of danger.
You would giggle, imagining a faceless man with a silver hair tucking away the strands of your hair onto the back of your ear. He would sing you songs, he would show you his sheer power in fighting, he could tell you his adventures and recollections of tourneys, and you would listen to him talk until the sun sets and darkness breaks among the skies.
He would show you around the castle, carry you in his arms when the path is too wet, bring you flowers freshly gathered from the garden. He would adore you, and he would defend you and you could kiss him; you would see him in every waking hour and you will still see him before you close your eyes to dream before bed.
The wedding will be grand. Nothing short of drab and rushed, it will be the wedding of the history. A prince of his standing would never do something ordinary or nowhere near plain, you can see yourself wearing the most beautiful dress, beaded with gold and gemstones and all of it would glimmer when it stands against the light.
You would practice your smile, in front of the mirror, practicing giggles and laughs when he talks and shares a good memory. You wanted to be good for him, and you wanted to be beyond adequate, you wanted to be everything he could ever want.
Your mother would remind you to be calm and kind, above all things, and not to make haste of the arrangement, for there will be more than enough time before the wedding itself—you should get to know him, what he likes, what he doesn’t, what makes him happy, what makes him angry, what makes him sad.
There was already a long list of questions you wanted to ask him, all created in the purpose of getting to know him more, whilst revealing some pieces of yourself to him. You wanted him to see every goodness within you, so you curated a list of events you can recall from your younger days, in hopes he’d have something similar, and the conversation would extend from there.
When you arrived at King’s Landing, you were immediately met by a dark-haired man, with a few streaks of white hair that sits just above his ear, and you spared a glance at the man next to him, a spitting image of the man with the beard, only younger and smaller in stature, yet with the same streaks of white-colored hair, swaying among the darker locks of brown.
As if on cue, the knights to your left spoke loudly, “You stand in the presence of Prince Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm and the Next in Line to the Iron Throne.” The man you had been eyeing offered a short nod. “His brother, Prince Maekar, Prince of Summerhall.” The older man with a stunning hair in all silver-white offered a grunt, his expression completely unreadable as he scans you from your head to your toe.
“Their sons: Prince Valarr Targaryen, and Prince Aerion Brightflame.” The knight continued, addressing the younger men now as they stood awkwardly, their gaze locked and pierced you.
The dark-haired one with kinder eyes threaded forward, “King’s Landing welcomes you,” he spoke, and you thought he held the gentlest voice and thoughtful words.
“Cousin.” Before you could greet Valarr back, another man had already approached, cutting the simple exchange short, “We have been waiting, princess.” Prince Aerion, you figured, with his striking gaze and generous smile. He had a deeper voice than Valarr, you noticed, and he had sounded more cheerful.
You smiled in response, offering the sweetest one that you had practiced in front of the mirror, “My prince,” you offered a curt bow, acknowledging the two of them who had welcomed your arrival in the warmest way.
His smile completely captivated you, he had an air of confidence in his strides yet he spoke kindly, and he never peeled his gaze away. You did great, it seems, the prince couldn’t move away from you, it was by then that you missed the worried glances between Baelor and Maekar.
Prince Baelor spoke, “Let’s leave the princess for now and allow her a personal time. Valarr, fetch the maids and the guards to tend to her things.” He sounded commanding, and you think he’s fitting to be the King’s hand, and one day he would rule all of the seven kingdoms.
“I shall take her to her room.” Aerion turned to face the older princes, who sits next to each other now, “The King’s Landing is a spectacle, I would not want her lost on her way.”
Maekar was quick to react, “Aerion, the guards can—”
“Let me, Father. She will be my wife soon, as you say. We must get more acquainted.” Aerion turned his back away from you as he answers to his father, and it was the only time you had to move your gaze away from his impressive eyes.
He had been wearing an attire fit for the royalty. The red coat further accentuates his paler complexion, and it blended well with the color of his hair. You had pictured him taller, yet the way he carried himself, with polite etiquette and mindful manners, you see him perfect, still.
Aerion turned to face you once more, “We must go, princess.” He uttered before leading the way, opening the door for you as he goes, revealing a hall that looked almost empty.
He had offered small talks, stories about King’s Landing, the preparations for the upcoming tourney, and how he would be joining. He mentioned having his own armor, and a personally crafted helm that fits him well, and how he holds it with pride and honor whenever he wears it in a joust.
You stared at the walls, some of the walls were sculpted deeper, most of which had holes and it allowed sunlight to crawl from outside, gently lighting the otherwise dim halls. There were metals on some of its foundation, meant to hold torches for nighttime and no other source of light would be accounted for. The castle was quiet, aside from the footsteps of both maids and guards, a penny would drop and everyone within the mile would be able to hear it.
The young prince stopped in front of the door, and he opened it, motioning for you to walk in first before him and you followed, walking over to the center of the chambers before you hear the door closing. The bed was large enough to warm at least two people, there were small tables, candle holders on the furniture next to the bed.
“The rest of your things shall be here before supper.” He spoke, and you feel him walking closer; you grew nervous and admittedly self-conscious. It was not entirely common for you to be inside a room, accompanied by a man—and this very same man will be your husband in the coming days.
You turned to face him, with the practiced smile and the sweetest voice you could ever make, “Thank you, Your Grace. I truly app—”
You were welcomed by a set of digits wrapped around your neck in a single breath, holding it tight. You struggled, eyes widening due to shock and the unexpected turn of events; he changed, everything about him simply did, or perhaps he had been playing pretend since then. The kind smile he had before you got into your room was long gone, switched by something sinister and dark, he kept an upward turn on his lips but it never really reaches his eyes. You choked, your own pair of hands surrounds him, wordlessly begging to him to let go.
“My betrothed,” he whispers, his hand remained firm and tight around your throat and he never loosened, not even when you were already fighting his hold with all of your might, “well, not quite there yet, I suppose.” You trashed before him, the air you inhale through your nose grows thinner in each passing moment, “soon enough, you and I will be wedded.”
You held onto his shoulder, digging your nails against his thick coat, wishing it could pierce through the material and sink into his skin in an instant, and he leans forward, taking a long sniff of your hair that dangled the closest on your face, “I won’t let my wife-to-be dishonoring me, not when you just set foot in here, hm?” he uttered, dangerously low while his words carried enough weight as each of them falls off from his mouth, “You had to look at Valarr first—do you want him, then? You want him more than me?” he places his cheek against yours, rubbing it gently, “Have you already decided to back away from our marriage, the moment you saw him?” he questioned, and you could only release harsh wheezes as he kept his hand locked on your neck, its grip unwavering and relentless.
When he sees the tears threatening to fall from the corner of your eyes, he finally lets go, his face now displays a plain worry and filled with so much care, like he had seen his most precious possession getting a small nip or scratch, “My beloved..” he was quick to envelope his arms around your weak form.
You ended up on the floor, collapsing, naturally, after breathing thin air and fighting off the strongest urge to fall limp and surrender to sleep; you were light-headed, and you held your head weakly. His arms were around your body but it was nowhere close the strong grip he had on your neck, and so you easily pushed him off, “What are you—”
He hushes you, calming you down as you still catch your breath, the tears already fell from your eyes as you looked at him with pure disdain, “It will be okay, my love. You will be good for me, I know you will be good for me.” Aerion places a palm on your head, caressing you as he comforts you still, but the single touch of his skin felt like it burns you.
You wanted to get away, you wanted to stray away to wherever it is that is the farthest from him. You can’t be with Aerion, this was no prince as he falsefully posed, he was a cruel.
“Leave me be!” you pushed him, garnering a small strength as you fight him off, he stumbled on the ground and lost balance on his footing, but Aerion only chuckled.
“I’m afraid I can’t, my love.” He whispered, “We will be wedded soon.” He takes his time in trying to approach you again, Aerion is at a great advantage as you still feel the color drained out of your body when he blocked your airway, “There will be no other way but to be together.” he continued, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead before standing on his feet.
“I shall see you in evening’s supper, princess.” Aerion casually mentions, his carefree mask once again sticks itself on his face, his dark expression was switched with that sweet smile you thought you liked about him, before he makes his way out of the door.
You felt caged. Alone and helpless.
It all happened too quickly, with a single turn, the honorable prince and formidable knight you’ve spent days thinking about was nowhere in sight. You felt foolish, for not catching it as immediately as you could. You recalled what happened when the Targaryens welcomed you, in search for a sign, for anything, that might have been so obvious if only you weren’t fantasizing about him. But it was clear, he was practiced, a performer of sorts, he couldn’t let himself go when he is among his father, nor when he’s in front of the Hand.
You didn’t know where else to go, who to speak with, you’ve grown feeling so isolated, despite being surrounded by their initial warmth. Everyone must have been the same. Each one of them must have been hiding a second skin, a well-crafted mask. You’re all alone and away from home, and your skin burned, where Aerion’s hand was previously on, you knew it would create a mark; he gripped on your neck like he had every intention to kill, to stop you from breathing.
There were footsteps from outside, pacing in the halls, and you rushed to the door to simply lock it, “Princess.. I have your belongings.” It was a maid, and there was a relief, but only for a brief moment, you thought Aerion would still be outside, waiting, seizing a chance where he could get ahold of you once more and you were terrified of him.
“Leave it by the door, please. I shall tend to it later.” You uttered, placing your mouth as close as you could towards the door, hoping the maids can hear you clearly, “Please let Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor know that I could not join on the evening’s supper.. I am not feeling quite well.” You faked a cough, and tried to sound sickly, “I only wish to have more rest, please send my apologies.”
“Of course, princess.” There were sounds of boxes being placed on the floor, and quickly followed by more footsteps walking away before disappearing completely.
You heaved a huge sigh of relief, you wanted to lock yourself in the room for as long as you can hold out; but you must think of your duties, of the name and honor you carry, you must think of the arrangement you accepted. You must not bring shame to your house and your family by refusing to see what’s beyond your chambers, perhaps there could be more ways where you could still enjoy your time and to gain Prince Maekar’s favor, but only if Aerion is nowhere to be found.
“What the fuck did you do?” Maekar slammed his fist against the oak table, rage already setting in and seething across his face while Aerion remains seated, cutting through the roasted duck with his knife.
He was in an exceptionally good mood, considerably, during supper; has not been misbehaving in all sorts and no concerning news ever made it to Maekar and Baelor’s ears—still the Dornish princess not being in attendance sent an undeniable irk to the older princes.
Aerion chewed slowly, meeting Maekar’s gaze with a casual shrug, “I merely showed her to her chambers, Father.” He answered, before turning back to his meal, the utensil scraping loudly against his plate while he stops himself from displaying any form of amusement.
The priceless look on your face when his hand latched on your neck lays vivid in his head, it was the pure look of horror and he had been coming up with more ways he could devise a plan in order to reform you. It was nothing personal, really, you walked into King’s Landing with such exquisite smile and good graces. You had the kind manners that his father had always wanted to impose on him, you spoke in polite words and you carry a light with you that could easily illuminate each room you get yourself into.
He felt himself annoyed at that.
Royalty breeds excellence, as they say. The castle has had enough people filling up to that spot, of people who’s highly regarded because of their leveled morals, sympathy and overall character. Aerion wanted to break you, make you obedient but only to his rules and his ways, he needs you pliant enough that he could easily command you whenever he pleases. King’s Landing did not need any more people who have been reduced to be an ordinary person just to cater the demands of the people—seemingly forgetting that they are dragons, that they are born from the fire and blood. While it is true that Baelor and Valarr are considerably good—
Ah, Valarr.
He remembers the way your eyes landed on Baelor first, of course, he is the Hand of the King and the heir to the Iron Throne. He must always be regarded first, but then you moved to Valarr. His cousin, said to be the gentlest one, cut from the same cloth where Baelor was made. He had been raised with such tenderness and care that people inevitably thinks his softness were his charms.
But did you had to look at him like that?
Your eyes were twinkling lightly, but surely you must have known that you have been delivered to the House Targaryen with the promise of a union in a form of marriage—surely, you must know what your arranged husband would look like. Did you think it was him? Did you think you are betrothed to this perfect picture of a prince charming when you faced Valarr?
He wanted to make an impression, greet you with the warmest welcome he could ever show, but reads shock from your face and then it was gone too quickly before it could ever fully manifest, changed by something he couldn’t distinguish. Was it disappointment? Were you expecting something else, something different? Did you not want him?
“The princess must have felt unwell from her travels, brother. Leave her be. Aerion was kind enough to show her the way to her room.” Aerion was pulled away from his train of thought when Baelor’s voice rung in the dining hall, looking across the table with a cup of wine on his hand, his face seemed to plead for more understanding from Maekar.
“I shall see her tonight, be more certain of her current condition and see to it that she gets the rest that she requires.” Aerion broke the silence that followed after Baelor, he brings his own cup to his mouth to cleanse his palate by swallowing a large swig of wine.
With one final look on each person among the dining table, Aerion brings himself up and traversed across the hall. His steps are careful and deliberate, while his mind burns with a newfound excitement. Aerion was already seeking with a plethora of excuses to see you once more when he parted with you earlier in the mid-afternoon, and it was both a blessing and a curse to have Maekar’s distrust served on the table.
His father was right to assume he had done something, but he’d rather spare him with the details.
Aerion knocked softly against your door, twice, before he pushed his body against the wood in hopes to prop it open. It was locked, but thankfully, he had learned a thing or two when it comes to barging into chambers unannounced, he had done it first with his brother, Aegon, and it ended swiftly with his knife aimed in between his legs and Aegon in tears and quiet sobs.
He successfully breaks in, with a calculated twist and turn of his knife on the gap he found at the door, then he seeks for you in an instant. Underneath the dimmed embers brought by a small candle that’s slowly withering, he finds your figure laying on the bed, fast asleep.
Considering the tribulations that you might have endured in order to come to King’s Landing, he wanted to grant you a little bit of his kindness by allowing you some sleep. He did approach your bed, however, to make sure for himself that you really were asleep and not cheating your way out of him by pretending to be deep in slumber.
But when he looked at your form, resting in complete tranquility, glancing at your chest to study your gentle and stable breaths, he was convinced. He instinctively reached his hand to caress your head, hoping it will lull you deeper into sleep. Aerion realizes he finds you pretty. Even prettier now that your guards are completely disarmed, no pretensions that concerns looking presentable and graceful. He likes you like this—raw, natural, you almost looked serene.
He lowered his gaze on your body, your garments must have slid lower, showing him more than necessary as the fabrics lay in disarray for when you were tossing yourself on the bed. Soft and smooth skin, and you looked so vulnerable and so careless in front of him. He bent his fingers, allowing it to touch your warm skin while his eyes could only watch for any shifts in your expressions.
The knife that he was holding onto had made its way into his belt, silently sheathing it before he moves to cup his own cock from his trousers. He had not expected this, he knew he prefers to ogle at you as you remain clueless but he did not anticipate the way his cock would twitch. Aerion pulled the blankets lower, eager to see more of what you had to offer. You jerked, and you crossed your eyebrows before pulling the blankets closer to your body.
He retreated his hand, but with that sudden movement, it only made the outline of your breast much more noticeable now. With a quick unbuckling of his belt, he easily willed his cock to spring free from his garments, locking his length within his fist.
It felt rough against his hand, or that he was holding it too firm. He brings his hand closer to his mouth and spat. He felt mad, thinking that you could wake up any minute now and it would be completely unprompted, and you’ll see him towering over your body while he fucks his own fist.
Then he felt shameless, and quite pathetic. He felt incredibly stupid with trying to pleasure himself when he could just take you, to disturb the slumber you have gotten yourself into. You will be wedded soon, and it should not be a problem to start with coupling now, rather than later, should it? Besides, he knows you would keep your mouth shut, you would let him do it and you will be obedient enough to do as he says. You will be good for him.
Aerion tried to steady his labored breathing, his wet spit smothered on his cock while the leaking tip glistened against the small amount of light source, he grunted, as quiet as he could do, but it eventually got to a point when he had nothing else to think about but to cum. He needs it, he needs to chase whatever high he was trying to get himself into now that he has started it.
His rough hand made its way on your leg, gripping firmly, uncaring of what you would feel when you see him in front, positioned just like this—and it jolted you awake, Aerion pumps his cock even faster now when he sees you were awake.
There were no other pleasantries, no other snide remarks he could come up with, and he garnered no reaction at all when your face twisted in a fright, “Aerion,” you stammered and your gaze flew immediately at his nudity.
He felt his head falling backwards on a whim, the sound of your voice was more than sufficient to push him closer towards the edge and Aerion directed his length closer to your face, “This will be easier if you would help, princess.” Even speaking felt too harsh and required a handful amount of effort from him as he breathes out.
Aerion never gave you the time to process the matters currently unfolding in front of you, since he started to unsheathe his own dagger only to point right at your pulse that lays under the skin of your neck, “Hold it, princess. You must serve your husband, after all. Make me feel good, hm?” he finds it adorable that you immediately retracted away from his knife, and even more captivating when he sees just how fast tears could form in your eyes.
Your careful hands hesitantly reached for his cock, mirroring just the way he was holding it moments ago, gripping on it softly as you start your pace. Aerion smirks, pleased with the display of obedience from you once more, “Do it fast, princess. You will be nice and make me cum, you hear me?” his tone remained calm and controlled, and you would immediately comply, not because you wanted to, but because the sharper end of his dragger was drilling deeper into your skin, and with just one movement, he would easily cut a wound open.
Aerion throws his dagger somewhere on your bed and resorted to holding onto your shoulder, holding on for dear life as he grunts unabashedly, he couldn’t care about what he looks like right now, nor what he sounds like as he could only think about your hand wrapped around him, with your movement gradually increasing in pace. He could tell you were nothing like the whores who usually kept matters involving his cock occupied, your hands are clearly shaky and the look on your face tells him that you could either be disgusted, ashamed and utterly confused.
“Fuck, hm,” he was bucking his hips lightly, leaning more towards your hand as he closes his eyes, he could feel it in his tongue—he was so, so close, until he hears you sobbing, Aerion spared you a glance and he could see tears falling from your eyes.
He did not feel any remorse, rather, he felt it was the ultimate push he could ever need as his cock starts spilling outward. Strings of white fluid shoots out from the tip and landing graciously on your chest, some of it were caught on your chin and Aerion chuckled, gods, if he could only have you painted with his cum dripping from your chin, he would do anything to preserve this memory.
The after-effect was as immediate as he imagined it would be, you moved away from him, willed yourself to sit on the other end of the bed—the farthest away from him. He sees you helpless, and he almost felt bad, almost, but he still burns from the high he just chased and there was no other feeling he could think about other than bliss.
Aerion quickly fixed himself, tucking his length within his breeches and tidying himself by wiping the beads of sweat that had been forming on his scalp, dripping towards either temples. He cleared his throat, a straight smile formed on hips before he licks the side of his mouth. You looked so terrified of him, and he never wanted that, but you’ll get used to it—he knows you’ll grow fond of him soon.
You were so far from his reach, and it was almost adorable how much you wanted to make yourself look smaller, bending your knees against your chest as you shiver with every move he makes. Aerion clears his throat, thinking of some time you can spend in solitude by leaving, or to savor the time he had you all to himself.
“You shall be at peace now,” He begins, eyeing your form more meticulously now that he had come down from his climax, his body and temperament returning to its base levels. “as I would never hurt you, my princess. You and I shall be one soon, and I cannot have my wife,” he gestured at you with his hand, “behaving as this.”
Aerion drags his leg over the bed, crawling closer to you as the sheets wrinkle more under his added weight, “Have I made myself plain?” he finally finishes his words with a simple question, and a grip on one of your knees.
There was no room for protests, not that he would even consider whatever it is you have to say, he expects you to be as you are now, quiet, submissive and dutiful. He sees you giving a quick glance at his dagger placed on the bed, exactly where he threw it, and there was a flash of horror setting in your pair of eyes. He clicks his tongue before retrieving his weapon, “Worry not, I have no need for this any further,” Aerion mutters, kneeling on top of the mattress now as he pushes the dagger into his pocket, “not tonight, to say the least.”
He stared at your face, then willing his hand towards you, gathering a small amount of cum on his thumb before he shoves it inside your mouth, “You shall know what I have to do if you breathe a word of this to another person,” Aerion heard you gagged lightly as you take his thumb further into your mouth, “I’ll have your fucking tongue for that, hm?”
The warmth of the sun greeted as you step out of the castle for a change of scenery. Horses neighed right outside the castle gates while the squires brushed on their hair and filling up their rations of food; the sweet scent of sun-baked hay and straw hung in the air, along with the earthy notes of the wet soil.
It was different, but preferable, on this moment alone, compared to the thick and suffocating air that seemed to choke you the more you stay within your chambers. You couldn’t hide in so long, cannot keep yourself locked up inside the walls and resting for what felt like eternity buried within your sheets.
Aerion did not come to visit, after what he had done two nights ago, stroking his cock right in front of your face and feeding his load when he finished. You couldn’t sleep well enough after those nights, terrified to have yet another visit from the young prince, and even more fearful of what else he could do while he resides within your room.
You had taken a hot bath when he departed, requested help from the maids to bring you water and to keep it at a highest temperature as you see fit. You wanted to erase his touch, you wanted to scrub your skin as hard as you could, especially on the parts he had touch—you felt disgusted. There was a certain point that you wanted to burn the insides of your mouth with the hot water, to get rid of his taste, but it will forever linger in your mind, and you cannot do much else with that.
A strong pair of arms grabbed your lithe body, and you have come to the realization that you have been walking mindlessly across the lot. The merchants and the ladies standing right outside their vibrant pavilions stared at you, with wonder and curiosity. You turned your head to see who was holding you, and it was Valarr—worry and concern splitting on his face.
“I dare not to conclude your capacities,” he uttered, and you felt painfully conscious of the close proximity, so you moved away and cleared your throat, “but you were about to block the horse’s path and it can seriously grant you immense pain and injuries. Are you feeling well?”
You were caught off guard, unaware that you have been diving deeply into your sentiments that you completely forgot to put any regards with your surroundings, “I am well. Thank you.” You stammered, giving him a polite smile as you answered, still mindful of putting a certain distance between the two of you.
“You were hauled up in your chambers a while, princess. Have you not taken a liking on King’s Landing?” Valarr sparks a conversation, the handiwork of his armor shines under the sun, its ridges were much more pronounced now that you see it at a closer glance, the three-headed dragon bled with a faint red carved into the metal.
A wave of panicked crossed your emotions, you worry he would mention such a thing to Prince Baelor. “King’s Landing has been lovely, my prince.” you smiled bright, because it was, though it was very different from the beauty of Dorne, it certainly has its charm, “I meant no offense with my absences, and I was merely pondering certain matters in private.”
“Ah..” he nods, squinting as he looks around, and you had a proper look of the white streaks of hair within the mid-section of his head, you had the very urge to hold it, to touch it with your fingertips, “Is it my cousin, Aerion? I had known that Uncle Maekar accepted the generous proposal of union.”
There was a pause as you come up with answer, torn between admitting your discomfort, or to start a lie that it has been the best thing—one thing is certain, you will never mentioned what Aerion did, “A bit.. simply because I could not read him.” It was a vague response, you thought, but hoping it would suffice.
He nods, locking his gaze on you, “Hm, Aerion can indeed be.. difficult.” He starts, a small smile crafted on his lips as he answered, “I suppose no one can fully comprehend the kind of thoughts that gets into his head. Both our fathers tried, then his brothers too—we all failed.” Valarr releases a dry laugh at that.
“I thought he would be kinder.” Your mouth was faster than your head, “What I meant was—”
“Fear not, I understand, and what you share now shall remain between us alone.” He motioned the path with his hand, offering a brisk walk as he encouraged you to talk some more.
Naturally, there is a hesitation. A growing distrust has flowered from within since the horror you’ve seen from Aerion, yet a small voice in your head also thinks it would not be fair to paint them all in the same hue; Maekar treats you in a civilized manner, though he is very curt when providing answers, he does not do anything else that would push you further, as well as Baelor, both of the older princes were nothing but kind.
Valarr exhales a gentle air, he speaks with utter politeness, and his eyes remained genuine ever since, not like Aerion’s unreadable pair, “I dreamed to be bonded by love through marriage, I yearned for a caring husband who would be both gentle and charming towards me. Aerion is, however,”
“Does not have much to offer?” he speaks, the pacing of your steps remained as leisurely as it could be, several patrons bowed to acknowledge Valarr when they come across him in his path, and he would always offer a short nod in return.
You were silent, refusing to look at anything else but your pair of feet threading on moist soil, you worry of the dirt that could get on your skin, and you also think of how vulnerable you felt upon speaking with the prince. It wasn’t that Aerion does not have much to offer, he acknowledges you and your mere existence, it was that his offers were completely different from what you asked for.
“I shall hope he could be more at ease, though my words would not carry much weight.” Valarr answered, stopping in front of a certain tent, “Here. Go inside, get your mind off of things for a little while.” He offered, and you were welcomed by a crowd of people enjoying themselves among the noise, several hands were carrying cups of wine.
You almost laughed at Valarr’s attempt at comfort, finding it both amusing and endearing. Although you don’t necessarily choose to drown in wine, you suppose it was a time to try it out.
Little did you know, Aerion watched as you and Valarr walked alongside each other. He was straddling his horse; his Draconic helm might have hidden the brewing rage but his eyes remains fixed on your smile as he looked through his visor.
“Get a good night sleep, princess.” Aerion had heard from outside before the door opened, the voice was undeniably Valarr’s, the smooth and gentle cadence of his voice were the most distinguishable—far from the commanding tones from both of their fathers.
He gets to his feet and paced towards the door to meet his cousin and of course, you, the only person he looks forward seeing. “Why must the night end so abruptly at that?” Aerion had opened the door, and your flustered face came into view, eyes slightly widened when Aerion swung the door open. Valarr’s cheeks were somewhat reddish too, but he appears to be much more composed than you are.
“Cousin.” The brown-haired prince uttered, somewhere between a greeting and an announcement. Aerion mouth stretch into a straight smile before nodding, taking a step backwards to allow them some room before they step in, “Why are you in her room?”
Aerion didn’t like the hint of accusation dripping from Valarr’s words, he had not been doing anything wrong as of late, not yet, that is—but him being inside your room should not be within any of his concern, you are to be Aerion’s wife, after all. “Inside my wife’s chambers, you ask?”
“There has not been any wedding yet, nor a plan for when it shall take place.” Valarr pushes himself forward, shielding you away from Aerion as he keeps you supported behind him, “Leave at once, Aerion. She should be in bed.” The swirling on Valarr’s head brought upon by multiple rounds of wine disappeared quickly, much to his delight, he could not just sit simply and let Aerion have his way.
“I am aware,” Aerion then reached for Valarr’s arm and dragged him towards the center of the room, “but the marriage shall happen anytime soon—I know it.” He proceeded to grab you by the arm, dragging you to the bed before roughly pushing you towards the mattress.
Aerion did consider that Valarr would eventually tell both Maekar and Baelor of how he treats the Dornish princess who was entrusted with House Targaryen to take on the role of a wife, but he had found a way to keep Valarr’s mouth shut, and to keep him from running his mouth. He thought his plan would work, that Valarr would eventually agree—he would like this, who would not?
It was not that he had been developing certain fantasies over the years, he had not enough room and time in the past years. Aerion mostly think of dragons even before, and even more so recently as he grows stronger—he was convinced he was a dragon. But when you arrived, that was when the thoughts have taken a complete and absolute turn. Whether it was for the good or for the worst—he was not sure yet.
Aerion then locked the door, itching to finally have the room for their privacy and without any knights or maids pacing outside on the halls.
“Of course, I only care about the princess’ safety—that is why you and I are here, Valarr.” Aerion continued, standing next to his cousin as they both stare at you. The silver-haired Targaryen proceeded to loosen his clothing, unclasping the first few locks of his attire as he heaves an exhale.
There was warmth settling into Valarr’s bones, deliberate and too great for him to ignore. He had not missed the implication on Aerion’s words, he knew it meant something else, something entirely different and something he figured he feels excited for. He swallowed, hoping the lump on his throat could disappear and take his urges away.
He should not be here, Valarr would think; he should not be engaging with this absurdity, and he should not be partaking in an activity with Aerion—among all people. But there was something helpless from your eyes, and you badly wanted to be saved, and it was more than enough reason for Valarr to stay. He could not leave you with Aerion alone, he will be here and he will make it certain that you will be well and taken care of.
To say you are feeling terrified is underplaying it, there were already a certain level of fear and hopelessness when the doors of your chambers opened and revealed Aerion waiting for you from inside. Valarr was quick to put you first, to protect you from his cousin and your husband-to-be, even though you did not ask for it, he already granted you the protection you certainly need.
Every movement was unfolding right before you, but it was all too sudden, all too fast, and you were taking it all in with hazy lenses. You could only blame the vibrant pavilion for that, and the laughing of the people, and the good evening they turned your night into, and of course, the cups of wines they graciously served, the cup you had all throughout the festivities never ran out empty, not even once.
They were speaking, as you heard; every word they exchanged and mention to one another was not meant for your ears it seemed, for all you heard were sounds, nothing coherent, until you decide they were speaking in High Valyrian. When your body made contact with the soft linens of your bed, exhaust inevitably enveloped you from within, and you do whatever it takes to keep your pair of eyes open.
Both Aerion and Valarr are standing together now, side by side, and you can make a few movements from Aerion while Valarr remained eerily still. You made sure to look at him, wanting to make sure your certain message would make its way to him. Please, please, please, leave me be, make him go away.
“Do you even know how to do it, cousin?” Aerion’s voice echoed through the room, a faint smile glimmered on his mouth though you couldn’t see his face with the clearest view, couldn’t see the amusement that lingered across his face as he taps Valarr’s shoulder, “You ought to take these off now. You don’t want them hindering your every move.” He followed with a suggestion, walking towards the bed and allowing himself to be comfortable on the edge.
Valarr releases a shaky breath, every fiber in his body begged him to stop, to turn the other way, to will his feet to start running out the door, yet his mind seemed to stop, envisioning the look he witnessed on your face—he felt that you wanted him to be here, that you wanted his help, that you wanted him to make this easy. He followed, releasing his armors and placing It carefully on the floor until he was stripped into more comfortable fabrics.
“Go on, now. We could not let the princess wait.” Aerion watched you carefully, as you push yourself against the wooden headboard as if the material could swallow you whole and make you disappear, but no, you had no other place go get to, no other place you could be. You will only be here, with the two of them.
You closed your eyes, attempted to shake the dizziness away so you could hear what words were being passed over to one another, “Aerion,” you crawled towards your betrothed, “What the fuck is going on?” you uttered, and Aerion’s shock was almost physical upon hearing a curse word flowing out of your mouth.
“Shh,” he held your chin, “Valarr and I will take care of you, my love,” and he could not help himself but to lean in and close the distance between your faces, crashing his lips against you but only for a brief moment. He couldn’t let himself go just yet.
You flustered upon feeling Aerion’s soft lips on yours, blushing at the fact that it was the first time he ever got gentle, you wanted more, wanted to feel him against you, with all of his warmth. But Valarr came into view, standing at the edge of your bed and Aerion pushed you down against the mattress.
“My love,” Aerion spoke in a low tone, his lips were dangerously close to your ear and you couldn’t stop yourself to lean in closer to him, but he stops you almost immediately, and you jolted when he pulls your hair to keep your head from moving, placing you where he wants you to be, “Let Valarr move for you, hm? Let him touch you.” he asked, his serene voice in complete contrast with the harsh tug from your scalp.
When he asked, that was only when you could see Valarr slowly sinking into his knees right in front of your parted legs—you didn’t even know how you came to be positioned like this, laid on the bed and undeniably ready to take what is about to come towards your way.
Though hesitating initially, Valarr had seen the way you respond to Aerion’s touches. The way you exclaimed and whimpered when his hand sits on the back of your head to pull on your hair; he was bewildered and determined at the same time, how could you be so sensual and so, so alluring even with Aerion’s gruff advances? He couldn’t fully accept it, or that he refuses to contemplate further. You should be treated with softness, and so he strokes on your leg languidly.
Valarr’s calloused palm brushes against your thigh, it was electric, you felt your breath getting more ragged as their touches slowly grounds you—Aerion’s hand pulling on your hair and Valarr’s careful hands. You wanted to rub your thighs together, to relieve yourself a little by creating friction, but Valarr’s hold remained firm.
Aerion chuckled, it was almost laughable at how quickly your mood switched; you were scared not too long ago, frightened and clueless as two men preys on you, and seeing you now, with your legs spread apart and your chest moving at a faster speed to follow your breathing. He cups one of your breasts, kneading it lightly while Valar lifts the hem of your dress.
You were sure you have felt warm and sticky in between your legs, and then you felt embarrassed, having a prince leaning closer into your cunt was not something you could ever imagine, nor account for. Almost out of instinct, you pulled your legs together, abruptly stopping Valarr from getting closer.
“Let me, princess.” He spoke in a low tone, voice coming out breathy as air hits your skin right where you’re nearest from him. There was something in his eyes, the look of genuine sincerity and something else entirely, you thought it might be lust—you thought that whatever it is you are feeling from within must not be so different from what he feels.
Perhaps you and him are in the same page, you worry that he might only be doing this out of fear, from his cousin and the dagger sheathed into a small pocket on his belt—but his eyes says otherwise, he wanted to do this, it seemed, wanted to taste you raw and have your dripping filth to wash over his tongue.
Aerion shifts from beside your head, casting most of his weight to prop himself on his knees on top of the bed, “My dear cousin, always so, so kind and honorable.” Aerion snaps as he starts to pull the strings from his clothes and pull his breeches downward, his cock immediately sprang free from its constraints, rigid, pink, and clearly leaking.
Valarr could only ignore him, he knew his cousin would always run his mouth and speak of whatever matter it is that comes into his mind, he is a proud man, after all; but partly because he knew he had more pressing matters to tend to, how could he even bite back at the loose words rolling off from Aerion’s mouth when your cunt sits a breath away from his mouth patiently waiting?
“Respect, courtesy, you have always carried those with you.” Aerion starts once again, spitting on his hand before he wraps it on his cock, stroking gently. Valarr shook his head and proceeded with his ministrations, planting his palms on your thighs as he parts you wider.
You gasped when his tongue slides on your cunt, struggling to keep your eyes open as your head swirls—from the wine and of course, from these Targaryens. Once Valarr had his first taste, he was immediately insatiable next; pressing his face much deeper into your cunt while his tongue buries itself further into your folds.
“You see, this one,” Aerion pulls his hand away from his cock and into your lips, moving past your swollen pair until his fingertips could most reach the back of your throat. You choked out, the immediate urge to cough follows closely; “this little princess is far from deserving any of that.” he continued, his eyes were fixed on you and you only, darkened by his own arousal and needs, his gaze was laced with intent and focused on your pair, yet his words remained addressed to Valarr, “She is not so different from a common whore now, is she?”
There was a hint of scrutiny now as he allows himself to look at your entirety, with some of your locks tangled and overall messy, the small beads of perspiration forming from your hairline, some of it trickling on your skin and downward, and how the corner of your lips curved in satisfaction then opening for a good width while your face twist in response to Valarr.
“Do not say such things to her.” Valarr quipped, wiping his chin with the back of his hand when he comes up for a breath of air, “She’s delicate and she is to be your wife—she is unlike any wench, nor unlike any other woman.” He spoke rather quickly, ignoring Aerion’s smirk amidst his explanations.
“Hmm,” Aerion dismissed in return, turning his attention back towards you, the saliva that coats his fingers now lathers the length of his cock, giving it a few pumps. He felt warmer now, burning up both with desire and an inexplicable emotion he could not quite name yet, or he simply refuses to acknowledge it plainly, “I was not aware you see my lover as such.”
Your heart twitched at that, you have been called princess, even referred to as his wife though it won’t be happening any time soon—but to be called his lover, though the words don’t hold much meaning once you take how he treats you into consideration, still, it caused your breath to hitch.
“My point is, you do not know her at all, as it seems.” Aerion continued, displaying the kindest smile he had often used during his younger days, “She does not want that—that softness you speak of. I imagine she has become bored of it by now, to be treated with certain care, hmm, allow me to show you then, cousin.” His hand then flew too quickly and a loud slap was placed across your cheek. You whimpered, caught off guard while the sharp pain dulls slowly on your face.
You wanted to deny it, wanted to talk his ears off of just how wrong he was, but you found yourself wanting more, and Aerion must have recognized the plead that has manifested from within your eyes because he did it again, the loud snap of his palm once again getting in contact with your face was audible enough in the room. Valarr wanted to intervene, to stop his cousin from treating you rashly, but he sees your mouth moved, your lower lip caught in between your teeth and he wished he was wrong, he wished his mind was playing tricks. The girl who was mindlessly walking outside the gates with a longing gaze set towards something he’s not aware of was way too far from the girl he is seeing now.
He wished he imagined it, but you wriggled your hips and he feel your hand reaching to his head to push him back into your cunt; you wanted him to continue, you were simply laying on top of the sheets but Aerion’s words seemed to unlock something inside of you.
Aerion laughed at that, “You fucking whore,” he whispers, teasing your mouth with the tip of his cock and you were so ready to wrap your lips around it, even if you are not fully knowledgeable on how to do it exactly, “you wanted this, don’t you? Your pretty mouth so full of my cock, hmm? Did you imagine this, or prayed to gods your husband will fill you up nicely?”
You moved your head towards his cock and sucked on the tip, Aerion hissed at the contact, the sudden warmth that greets him when he enters your mouth was familiar; he didn’t think it’d be this easy to crack you, to make you surrender to your selfish desires, to forget about modesty and prudence.
The translucent fluid tasted salty in your mouth, but it was something you could handle, you held on his hips and pushed him more against you. The short sounds and profanities that comes from Aerion only urged you to continue, you wanted to be good enough for him, to make him feel as blissful as you are; yet in another note, you want him nearer his own edge, you wanted to see his face contorting due to the pressure and climax, you wanted to see him drained out of his wits and speechless, for once.
A sudden shift from Valarr knocked you out of your reverie, you felt his fingers on your cunt, spreading your folds apart just so he could reach into you on a newer and deeper sense, you collapsed on the bed, restless and painfully aware of the growing feeling of the knot slowly forming in your abdomen. Valarr was quiet, except for the times he would inhale a breath to supply his lungs before lapping once again.
You gripped the sheets as tight as you can, while your other hand wandered on top of Valarr’s head, clawing on his brown hair while you steady your own breath, there was a moment when you felt you almost crush his head when your legs threatened to close, but Aerion, thank gods, was quick to pull you back into the present.
“Did I give you permission to stop?”
His cock twitched on your hand and you were reminded of how badly you wanted to see Aerion falling apart, “Gods.. wait, please,” you wanted to pause, to not do anything else as you let Valarr’s tongue work inside of you; you squeezed your eyes shut and you attempted to slide your hand leisurely on Aerion’s cock but you feared you were wringing him too roughly.
You were anchored by the tight grip of Valarr’s hands on your thighs, the bed of his nails were pale white as he switch from using his tongue to sucking the small bud that’s most sensitive on your cunt, and you wanted to explode, you wanted to let go of the control and you wanted the knots to snap and to be finally freed from the heaviness that sits on your stomach.
A loud moan threatened to push past your lips but it was immediately tended by Aerion, he crouches forward and his body almost fell over to yours, but he supported his weight by placing his palm against the mattress, balancing himself. He then reaches for his cock and shoved it down on your mouth.
It was a moment of desperation, the second your wet mouth completely engulfed his cock was one of the rare times in which he ever forgot to breathe. Your tongue was unfamiliar, he figured, vividly feeling it swirling around its girth and your teeth scratched lightly on his skin, he ought to teach you on how to be better, he thought, but now is not the time for lessons, now is the time where he should make use of your heated mouth.
Aerion jerks his hips when he feels well enough to fit right inside your mouth, there was minimal resistance and the discomfort brought upon the by your teeth only felt odd but never painful. He started thrusting, finding his pace without losing his balance as it only hangs and depends on his hand and posture. He could hear you gagging, then he feels you tapping on his side, clearly running out of air as he buries his cock.
Valarr looks up from your cunt, landing at the exact moment Aerion pulls away for a fraction to allow some air to sneak inside your lungs, it was never enough, he only stopped for a blink before slamming himself against you. He was worried you would pass out, you were not in the best of condition before this whole ordeal even started; but he saw the hunger in your manner of taking Aerion’s cock. He saw the way you bobbed your head to it, determined enough to take him whole.
His mouth already craves the way you taste, but he wanted to try some things on his own; to make you feel good, despite being exploited for selfish and monstrous desires, he wanted you to feel some enjoyment of sorts, though he thinks you already see this as something pleasant. Valarr inserts a finger slowly and you whimpered, your body shoots up to check on Valarr, and finally, you paid him some attention.
He was quick to latch his tongue against the nub he had found earlier, his single digit could only make it halfway, in fear of causing you more pain, but it would do, for now. You wrapped around it perfectly, your narrow walls were not stretched enough and he thinks it would be the right time to prepare you, for what’s about to come later.
Aerion gets up on his knees once more, only thinking of his own release this time as he pulls your hair to create a better angle where he could ram his cock more flawlessly. He thinks you’re pretty this way, taking whatever it is that he’s giving and blatantly dismissing what you might need. You shall not need any other matter, he is here, he thinks, there’s no other thing that could ever satisfy you aside from him.
He sinks your head lower towards his cock, until your lips touches base of his length and he holds you there, the fabric of his breeches were wet with sweat, saliva, and some of your tears that had fallen since earlier that he never cared about. He worries, for a split second, that this would be too much, that you are in some kind of immense pain but you take his cock so well, you whimper and you choke on your own spit, you push him off but you immediately get back to it like a fond memory. You wanted this, you wanted him, and you wanted the feeling he flickered from you.
Somewhere between feeling a short pain from your cunt and the hurt you have inside your head from all the wobbling and maneuvering, your hips suddenly jolted upwards—a shot of something you could only describe as exhilarating flowed to all ends of your body. Time seemed to stop, including everything else around you. Your legs shivered as your whole body collapsed, and Valarr was still attached to your cunt, rendering you even more sensitive as he sucks all of your release, his mouth was the only thing you could recognize as the sound echoed around.
Valarr felt a pulsating sensation from within, though he could only feel it faint against his finger, he knew he had brought you to the climax, and he commends himself for holding on despite the aching pain he needs to take care of. He knew he must have soiled his garments, he knew there would be no point in denying that he wishes he could bury his own cock on your cunt instead of just his fingers.
Aerion quickly followed right after, shooting streaks of his release towards the velvety walls your mouth had offered. You were still recovering when he moans loudly, slowing his pace as he spurts out his own cum, some of it drips on your chin and he felt joyous on the simple sight of you, so full of him.
The two men halted for a moment, gathering a more stable pattern of breathing before Aerion moves again, drifting away from the bed as the weight on the mattress decrease; you had your eyes closed, understandably tired from all of the sensations you had felt—of Aerion toying with your mouth with his cock, and Valarr’s skillful tongue driving you towards your end.
You swing your eyelids open when you feel a sudden pull on both legs, bringing you closer to the edge of the bed and in front of you was Aerion, his cock positioned to your cunt.
“You should have your cock inside her mouth; she’s not practiced enough but she’ll do.” He speaks towards Valarr, who now sits beside you by the bed, unaware of where he should be, nor what he should do.
“I think the princess should rest now, Aerion.” Valarr protests, even with his hard cock inside his garments screamed at him to be freed, he could clearly see how sleep is slowly coming at you.
Aerion spreads your legs open once more, pleased with how wet you are from Valarr’s doing, “She sleeps when I say so. Now go, or ask her to do it—whatever the fuck gets you off.”
You snaked a hand against Valarr’s arm, caressing it gently, too ashamed to say something except to plead with your eyes. He turns his body towards you, “Are you well enough for another?” he asks, letting your hand drop to his groin to feel his arousal. If you are not sure enough to do this again, he swore he would fight Aerion and drag him towards the door to give you peace.
“Please,” you muttered, feeling an ounce of impatience and frustration mixed together as he kept waiting, “Use me.” You managed to insert a hand under the wool, eager to feel his bare cock on your hand.
Warnings: incest, infidelity (we feel for Kiera), angst
Hiii, I'm excited to share this fic. I really hope you like it!
Please, if you like it, don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Comments really motivate me and make me happy 🥰🥰💖
My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas 🤗💖
My commissions are also open, or if you'd like to support me with a Ko-fi, that would be a huge help too 🥰🤗
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
Sometimes you thought that you and Valarr were born in the wrong era.
If you and your brother had been born earlier, if you had been the children of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne Targaryen, then you wouldn't have to feel ashamed and guilty about the love between you.
But you aren't.
Your parents had tried to prevent this when you and Valarr were little and discovered you kissed each other whenever you played pretend: he was a knight rescuing you from the monster, or you played King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssane. You'd never forget how ashamed you felt when your father spoke to you in his chambers. He wasn't harsh, nor did he seem angry; instead, he explained that you shouldn't do those kinds of things, that brothers and sisters didn't love each other that way. You cried and apologized. You felt so guilty that you didn't protest when they stopped allowing you and Valarr to be alone together. There was always a guard, a septa, someone between you.
Innocently, your parents believed they had nothing more to worry about when the years passed, and there was no further physical contact between you and Valarr that seemed out of the ordinary. But kisses weren't necessary for the feelings between you to continue growing. You couldn't stop your heart from racing whenever you and Valarr danced together, nor could you stop your heart from feeling warm when your brother helped you plant in your garden. And Valarr couldn't help but want to make you smile all the time, nor could he stop thinking about you at night before falling asleep.
But the night that changed everything was the night before Valarr's wedding. Your brother came drunk to your chambers and confessed his love. He told you that although he couldn't marry you, he didn't want to give Kiera something that should belong to you. You should have thrown him out, told him he wasn't thinking straight, pushed him away when he kissed you. But you didn't. You kissed him back.
That night, you and your brother forgot about guilt and duty. Everything faded away as you kissed and explored each other's bodies; all that mattered was giving each other pleasure and showing each other how much you loved one another. Valarr kept whispering "I love you" as he entered you, his fingers intertwined with yours.
The next day, you had to watch him get married. You smiled and had to fight back tears when Valarr looked you straight in the eyes as he recited his vows. Your father must have suspected something, or some servant must have seen your brother leaving your chambers that morning, because just the next day, your father announced that you were getting married.
Like a good daughter, you didn't complain, not even when they wouldn't allow you a long betrothal. In less than a month, you were a married woman. But that didn't stop you and Valarr from sinning again. It was supposed to be a one-time thing for that night, but once you and your brother tasted the forbidden fruit, you couldn't stop.
The bliss you felt every time Valarr kissed you, every time you were in his arms, every time he was inside you, was immense. Just as immense as the guilt you felt once Valarr left you alone with your thoughts.
There are days when you can't look Kiera in the eye. The guilt you feel is so overwhelming it makes you nauseous, and you can barely eat. You can't even look at Valarr; you feel dirty and sick. Those were the days you spent most of your time in the sept, praying until your knees ached. Hoping the gods would forgive you, have mercy on you, and free you from your feelings.
No matter how much you prayed, how much you begged the gods, you couldn't stay away from your brother for long. You couldn't refuse his kisses, you couldn't resist his touch. You loved Valarr more than anything in the world. But if you could, you would change it. You longed to love him like a normal sister. You longed to live without feeling guilty and disgusted all the time; you longed not to have disappointed your father.
You would never forget your father's face when he saw that your son had the same eyes as Valarr and himself. Your father's eyes, which used to look at you with so much love, were at that moment filled with cold fury and disappointment. You hate that you became a burden to him. How he had to rush to create a narrative where his heterochromia must have skipped a generation with you, to try to silence any rumors of bastardy about his grandson.
Sometimes you wonder if Kiera knows the truth. If she hates you, not just for being your brother's lover, but for giving him a child while her own children are stillborn. At none of the funerals were you able to look at her without feeling nauseous. In the days that followed, you couldn't bear to be in the same room, especially when you saw how she gazed longingly as Valarr played with your son.
People thought Valarr was just a loving uncle, trying to fill the void of his losses with your son. No one suspected the real reason they spent so much time together, why Valarr played and sang to him, why he bought him so many toys, why he walked down the halls with him in his arms. Just as no one suspected the real reason your brother looked so upset, his jaw and his fists clenched, when he heard your son call your husband "Papa" for the first time. People thought Valarr was just envious, wishing he had children of his own, when in reality, he was furious that his son was calling another man "Papa." You felt guilty because behind the annoyance, you saw the pain in his eyes.
That's why you didn't think twice; you interrupted dinner, announcing you were pregnant again. You felt your heart warm when you saw Valarr smile again, and for a brief moment, you felt good as he hugged you. Until you saw your father's serious expression, and your heart skipped a beat.
Will you ever stop feeling guilty all the time?
if you wanna be part of my taglist
Taglist for all my A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms works: @tanzierina @leftdreamprunewobbler @qardasngan @sentryvvorld @fromsaltandsea @onlybells1 @cocooola @flyinglama @outpostsworld @sil1 @darktrashsoulbear @raashluvsff @x-vadon @trantknd @darylandbethfanforever9 @divajul @dragontsone-maid @gandalfthegoatsblog @xinyourdreamsx @watersquirtpewpewboomm @ladygrimmx @victorialaufeyson6
Warnings: Smut, reader’s background can be interpreted however you want, but she is a noble, infidelity (kind of? Valarr and Kiera are not married yet but they are betrothed), p in v, overstim (male receiving), praise kink, sub!Valarr, dom!reader arranged marriages, angst, possessiveness (mild)
So, I’ve been really absent, heres compensation. This is my first smut… so sorry if it's bad. Hots s3 has me fired back up.
Summary: No matter how passionate your love for Valarr was, duty always came first.
⊱ ────── {⋆ ♡ ⋆} ────── ⊰
Your eyes stayed trained intently on the way your lover’s throat bobbed, the bump on his throat protruding with each harsh swallow. The sounds he released were beautiful, breathless notes that sounded like a song in your ears.
Valarr stared up at you, the mismatched color of his eyes nearly gone with how enlarged his pupils had become.
“F-… please Y/n,” he whimpered, his fingers clenching the sheets beneath him.
You refused to let him touch you. The only contact made was on your accord, your hips methodically rolling against him, dipping your wet heat down now and then to give his weeping cock some relief before tearing it away when his eyes snapped shut and his lips formed an ‘O’ shape.
“Tell me,” you leaned down, your movements ceasing. “Did you even speak up? Or did you just let them give you away, Ñuha Hūra?”
My Moon.
His eyes shot open; his pupils still drowned of the mismatched color you oh so loved, and he stared into your eyes. His chest rose and fell, ragged puffs of air leaving his swollen lips.
“Y/n,” he whispered. “Please… don’t do this right-”
You gripped his jaw, yanking it closer to your face, just mere inches away, your breath mingling.
You swallowed hard, your voice unsteady and shaky. “You are mine. I will not let some fucking Tyroshi girl rip you from me.”
“I’m yours… all yours,” Valarr crowed back, his voice a higher pitch than yours.
He was getting desperate. You knew that. He always got whinier, more agreeable when he was teetering over the edge of bliss.
You frowned, leaning back to rest your weight on his thighs. A mock look of pity dressed your features as you trailed your hand up and down his chest.
“I haven't been very kind to you tonight, have I?” you drawled out, your gaze landing on his happy trail and following the line of it down.
His cock stood fully erect, swollen, and flushed an angry shade. Your eyes travelled back up to his face. His skin was flushed, his glossy eyes half-lidded with tears waiting to fall, and his lips, which were parted, were swollen and red from your biting them.
He looked ruined. Perfectly ruined.
“Please, Y/n,” he begged once more, his eyebrows knitted together, his lips forming a sort of pout.
You cocked your head to the side before reaching for his face. You dragged your hand along his features; across his jaw, your thumb tracing the seam of his lips, down his throat where your grip tightened a fraction, and down his chest.
“You are gorgeous. So perfect… ñuha gevie valītsos,” you whispered, leaning down, your lips barely an inch from his.
My beautiful boy.
His breath stuttered, chest sinking at the praise. He released a hum, which you quieted when he opened his mouth to say something.
“You’ll get your release, I promise,” you hummed, lifting your hips above him.
His eyes left you and wandered down toward where your bodies would soon connect. “Please let me touch you. I need to touch you.”
You freeze, his request winding through your head. His voice had come out in ragged gasps that were edged with desire.
After a moment, you grabbed his right hand and guided it to your hip. Your other hand found his left and threaded your fingers with his.
“Better?” you asked slyly, lowering your hips ever so slightly.
He released a sigh as he nodded, the grip he had on your hip and your fingers tightening when you lowered your hips more.
You yourself could not help releasing a soft gasp when you felt him slip past your folds with minimum restriction, the feel of him inside of you spread throughout your body like a wildfire. The familiar sensation of him grounded you, sending streams of heat throughout your body.
A groan echoed in his throat, deep and pitiful and so, so lovely. You leaned down, letting your lips hover above his before pressing them against his.
He tasted faintly of the honeyed duck you'd been feasting on just a few hours ago, strongly of wine, and then there was something else that mingled, something that was undeniably and familiarly him.
“I love you, Valarr,” you whispered, your lips a hair from his. “I will not watch you marry another woman. Fill me, fill me until I am swollen whole with your seed. Let us make sure it takes. Then they cannot rip us from each other.”
Your gaze was hot and dark against his, the words that had left your mouth registering in his brain. His own eyes grew dark, still blissed out with lust.
“‘M never gonna let you go. I swear,” Valarr gasped, his hips bucking up into you suddenly.
You let the action go, slowly meeting his thrusts by lifting your hips, and sliding back, sitting flush against him. The length of him dragged against your walls at a slow pace that began getting quicker as a feverish heat rolled over the two of you.
His small whines and whimpers mingled in the air with your soft moans and gasps. Now and then, a curse would leave his or your lips.
You felt his fingers flex, the grip he held on your hip and on your hand tightening, nearly bruising. But you did not care. You wanted to be covered in his marks. You wanted the evidence to linger. You wanted the world to know that, physically, he was yours and you his.
As the two of you reached your climaxes, Valarr shifted your position, flipping you over onto your back, your thighs bracketing his hips as he settled one high above his own.
He buried his face in your neck as his hips snapped against yours, his breath ragged against your neck. Your hands clawed at his back, leaving long, irritated markings and crescents.
With a few more thrusts, you were brought to your peak, your teeth clamping down on Valarr’s shoulder, nails digging into his skin, and your legs wrapping tightly around his hips.
He came soon after, burning himself as deeply as he could in you and spilling himself in the depths of your heat.
Your teeth loosened against his shoulder, your eyes fixing on the mark you’d left. You had bitten hard enough to draw a few minuscule drops of blood as well as a deep indent in the area.
Valarr left his head, leaning his forehead against yours.
“I swear you're part wolf…” he mumbled, reaching forth to stroke your jaw.
You hummed, your lips curving upward as you disentangled your legs from his hips. “Maybe I am.”
He chuckled before leaning in, breath mingling with your own, before pressing his lips to your own. It wasn’t rushed or heavy, or even consuming.
No, it was the weight of two souls in love sharing a moment.
Slowly, he leaned back. You opened your eyes, meeting his mismatched gaze. The warmth had slowly begun to turn into that cold, detached look he always assumed after the two of you spent a night together.
Not a mask he willingly put on, but the one when he realized that he could not have you. That he could not be yours.
You pulled away from him, a frown etched on your lips as he began to get up and get dressed. When he was done, he crossed your chambers over to where he had set his cloak down.
He picked it up and reached for something inside it. A waterskin. But you knew it wasn't water or while or ale that was inside of it.
You sat up watching him. The downward curve of his lips, the crease in his eyebrows as he stared at it. Then he looked at you, a near-mournful look in his face.
He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off.
“Don’t. Just bring it here.”
And so he did. He sauntered toward you as if you had scolded him or so at his face. He sat on the bed, facing you, as he extended it toward you.
You took it without a word or glance. You opened it, brought it to your lips, and drank. You could taste the hints of the mint and honey in the mixture, but the tansy, wormwood, and pennyroyal seeped through like blood does a white linen.
Your throat threatened to lock up and expel the liquid, but you fought through the rancid taste until nothing remained.
The waterskin fell from your lips, your eyes darting everywhere but at Valarr, who watched you with a regretful and pained look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he whispered, his hands finding your jaw. “If there were a child…”
“I know,” was all you could muster.
If a child had been born to him, third in line for the Iron Throne, and newly betrothed to a rich Tyroshi merchant’s daughter, it would cause a scandal and dirty both of your names.
You were suddenly aware of that fact. He would be wed to a woman who was not you in a few months. No matter how hard the two of you tried, how you pushed for your affections to the king’s court, they did not matter.
You were the daughter of a well-known lord who had given her maidenhead to the heir’s heir.
“Go, Valarr. Dawn is on the horizon. You cannot be seen here.”
He hesitated a moment, his grip on your jaw tightening a fraction before he pulled away. His eyes searched yours for something, anything, but you had already begun to shut him out.
“I’ll see you later. I…” he paused, not finishing the statement.
Slowly, he peeled away from you, his feet dragging a slow path to your door. You watched him retreat. Watched him open your chamber doors, slip through them, then close them back.
The feeling that had been swarming your chest only intensified, solidified truly, into a deep throbbing sensation that hurt and racked your lungs.
Prince Valarr Targaryen was not yours, and he never would be. He was betrothed to another woman, a woman who would take his name, have his children, and someday be his queen.
Synopsis: A golden Prince, a Kingdom’s pride, bows his head to the turning tide. He takes her body, claims her breath, but trades her future for her death. She leaves his bed, she tears her gown, to flee the heavy world of Kings. She leaves him to his golden Crown, and steps into the air on wings.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, Targcest, implied Suicide, Major Character Death, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Emotional Distress, Forced Political Marriage, No Happy Ending, Biting/Marking
Word Count: 4.5k
A/N: felt like being tragic (yes, it hurt) pssh, here is the Sequel
The heavy oak door of the maiden’s chambers clicked shut, the sound echoing through the cavernous room like the sudden, clean strike of a headsman’s axe.
For weeks, the Red Keep had been a gilded cage of suffocating whispers and hushed conferences behind closed doors.
Down below, in the cavernous Great Hall of Maegor’s Holdfast, the muffled, booming sounds of a royal feast vibrated through the very stones of the floor. The distant, mocking thrum of lutes, the clink of silver chalices, and the synchronized roars of laughing highborn lords leaked through the masonry like a slow-bleeding poison.
They were celebrating.
They were drinking to the future of the Seven Kingdoms, toast after toast raised to a peace bought with the currency of her broken life.
King Daeron the Good, the Grandfather who sat so mildly upon the Iron Throne, had spoken.
The Small Council, led by the iron-willed hand of Baelor Breakspear, had carved the royal decree into thick, unyielding parchment, sealing it with the dark red wax of the three-headed dragon.
The Great Rebellion was only a decade past, and the wounds of the Blackfyre treason still bled quietly across the Realm.
The Crown needed alliances; it needed to bind the fractured pieces of Westeros back to the throne.
And so, Prince Valarr Targaryen—the golden-boy heir, the jewel of the Realm, the grandson Daeron loved above all others—was to marry Kiera of Tyrosh, securing the wealthiest of the Free Cities and closing the Stepstones to the remnants of the Bittersteel’s exiled rebels.
And she—Valarr’s sister, his shadow, the blood of his ancient blood—was to be shipped away to the Reach within the fortnight. She was to be wed to a powerful Tyrell lord she had never laid eyes upon, simply to bind the fertile fields of Highgarden to the Dragon’s coin.
She had spent the last two hours pacing the perimeter of her chambers, her slippers tracking silent, frantic circles into the heavy Myrish carpets.
In the corner, cast in the long, skeletal shadows of the guttering candles, stood her iron-bound travel trunks. They sat open, half-filled with the fine silks and heavy wools deemed appropriate for a lady of the Reach. Every folded garment felt like a shroud.
The political machinery of Westeros had spoken, grinding her girlhood dreams into dust.
But what broke her completely, rotting the very core of her soul until she felt like a hollow shell walking the high galleries of Maegor’s Holdfast, was that Valarr had not spoken against it.
A shadow detached itself from the heavy, blood-red velvet drapes near the balcony.
Valarr stepped into the dim, amber glow of the dying hearth fires.
He looked entirely unraveled, a ghost of the pristine Prince who had sat beside the King at the high table only hours ago.
He had stripped off his fine, gold-embroidered doublet, leaving it discarded somewhere in the dark corridors, and wore only a loose linen shirt that lay completely open at his throat.
The invisible, crushing weight of the Crown he was born to inherit seemed to bow his broad shoulders, casting his features into sharp, melancholic relief.
He smelled faintly of the sweet, heavy perfumes of the foreign emissaries and the sharp, burning tang of Arbor Gold wine.
”Valarr,“ she breathed. Her voice was a fragile, broken thing, catching instantly on the cold air of the room.
He did not speak. He crossed the stone floor with an urgency that completely betrayed his usual courtly grace, his heavy riding boots clicking sharply against the stone. There was no protocol in his stride, no royal restraint.
When he reached her, his hands came up with a frantic, desperate velocity to frame her face. His grip was almost bruising, his fingers trembling violently against her jawline, his thumbs catching the hot tears she had not realized were falling until they scalded his skin. His violet eyes—the exact, terrifyingly beautiful, insular shade of her own—were wild, dark, and fractured with a helpless, suffocating rage.
She looked up at him, the fresh warmth of his hands doing absolutely nothing to soothe the agonizing chill spreading outward from her chest.
Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her chest heaving as she stared into the depths of his tortured gaze.
The betrayal was a physical weight pressing down on her windpipe.
”Did you even look at him?“ she whispered, her voice cracking beneath the immense weight of her grief.
”When your father read the decree to the council... when he signed away my life to the Reach... did you even look him in the eye? Or did you just look down at the floor?“
Valarr’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently beneath his silver-pale skin.
”I tried,“ he rasped, his voice choked with a pathetic, desperate guilt.
”I told them our blood–“
”You told them nothing!“ she cried out, the sound muffled against the heavy drapes of the room. Her violet eyes welled completely, spilling over until hot, unchecked tears tracked down his wrists, soaking into the cuffs of his linen shirt. She clutched at his forearms, her nails digging through the fabric into his muscle.
”My heart hurts so deeply, Valarr... it hurts so deeply that I cannot breathe. It feels as though they have reached into my chest and torn the fire out of me, and you sat there and watched them do it.“
Valarr’s expression shattered entirely. A look of unadulterated anguish crossed his handsome features, stripping away the Prince and leaving only a broken boy.
He pulled her forward, slamming her body against his chest, wrapping his heavy arms around her as if he could physically shield her from the decrees of the Realm. He buried his face in her hair, his breath hitching.
”Let them have the Realm,“ Valarr rasped against her temple, his forehead dropping heavily against hers, his hot breath mingling with her tears.
”Let them have the succession, the alliances, the feasts. Let father have his peace and grandfather his treaties. Tonight, you are my only queen. You are the only blood that matters in this wretched world.“
The words, meant to be a romantic balm to her bleeding heart, tasted like cold, bitter ash on her tongue.
Tonight.
Only tonight.
He would give her a single night of stolen shadows, a few hours of treasonous darkness, but he would give their father, their grandfather, and the faceless millions of the Realm the entire remainder of his living days.
He had not fought for her.
When the Small Council met behind closed doors, he had not drawn himself up to his full height, he had not invoked the ancient rights of the Dragon lords, and he had not stood before Baelor Breakspear and King Daeron to refuse the Tyroshi bride. He had bowed his brown head, accepted his duty like a well-trained hound, and come to her chambers to beg for a temporary escape from his own cowardice.
But as he looked down at her now, the sheer, desperate hunger in his eyes was a drug, a sweet, dark poison she had been addicted to for years.
And she was too weak, too utterly broken, to push him away. Not yet.
Before the heavy shadows of statecraft had crept into their bedchambers, there had been the sunlit, dusty courtyards of their childhood.
They had been inseparable since the cradle, two halves of a single, ancient soul born into the high, cold halls of the Red Keep.
She closed her eyes and let herself drift backward, escaping the suffocating reality of the present.
She remembered the sweltering summer afternoons in the training yards, when the air smelled of crushed grass, sweat, and iron. Valarr would practice for hours with his heavy wooden sword under their father’s watchful eye. Whenever Valarr struck a decisive blow, splitting his opponent’s shield or sending a master-at-arms stumbling into the dirt, he would not look to his lord father for approval. He would not care if the Hand of the King smiled.
Instead, his violet eyes would immediately scan the covered stone gallery, cutting through the crowd of court ladies until they found her. They would flash with a bright, boyish pride, a secret signal that said this is for you.
And when the sun went down, and the bruises of training grew too painful to bear in silence, it was always her fingers that rubbed the soothing mint and oil salves into his aching shoulders. They would hide away in the cool, drafty recesses of the royal library, tucked behind massive stacks of crumbling histories, while the Grand Maesters dozed over their ancient scrolls.
In those quiet hours, he was not the future King; he was just her brother, her protector, his head resting heavily in her lap as she ran her fingers through his curls.
Their love had blossomed naturally, like a wildfire creeping through dry brush, unnoticed by a court too blind to see until it was too bright to ignore.
It began with small, lingering touches at the high table—a hand brushing against hers under the cover of a heavy linen tablecloth while the King discussed taxation, a shared glance across a crowded Great Hall that communicated entire lifetimes in the span of a single heartbeat.
She remembered, with a precision that cut like a knife, the night of his sixteenth nameday.
He had snuck out of his own grand feast, leaving the highborn lords and ladies wondering where the guest of honor had vanished. He had found her in the royal gardens, sitting beneath the pale, weeping leaves of the solitary weirwood tree that grew within the castle walls. He had not spoken a word then, either. He had simply knelt before her in the damp grass, the silver moonlight painting his hair like spun glass. He had taken both of her small hands in his and pressed a reverent, burning kiss to her open palms.
”I will marry you,“ he had whispered into the dark of the gardens, his voice fierce with youth and untamed certainty.
”I do not care what the Maesters say of the old traditions or the sins of our ancestors. Our blood belongs together. We are the Dragons, and Dragons do not ask permission from sheep. I will make our grandfather see. I will make them all see.“
For three long, beautiful years, that promise had been her anchor against the shifting tides of the court.
They had loved each other in secret, their bodies discovering one another in the dark of her chambers, creating a private, impenetrable Kingdom where he was her King and she was his Queen.
They had built an entire life on whispers and stolen kisses, foolishly believing that because they were Targaryens—because they were the blood of Old Valyria—the world would eventually bend to their iron will.
But the world did not bend. It broke them instead.
The devolution of their love had been a slow, agonizing strangulation, a gradual darkening of the sun.
It began a year ago, when Baelor took a larger, more aggressive hand in Valarr’s training for the throne. Suddenly, Valarr was missing from their usual hiding spots. His duties grew into a monstrous entity that devoured his time. His letters grew shorter, more hurried, and his eyes grew heavier with the crushing fatigue of statecraft and coin-counting.
When the first whispers of the Tyroshi alliance filled the drafts of the corridors, she had run to him, her heart in her throat, expecting the fiery, untamed Prince who had knelt beneath the weirwood tree.
Instead, she had found a young man standing alone on the battlements, staring out at the grey, churning waters of the Blackwater Rush.
His face had already begun to harden into the emotionless, unreadable mask of a future ruler.
”It is for the Realm,“ he had told her, his voice flat, devoid of the wild fire that used to consume him whenever he spoke her name. He had not looked at her.
”We must secure the stepstones. The trade routes are suffering, and the Blackfyre loyalists are gathering in Essos. Grandfather says... father says it is our duty. We cannot be selfish.“
In that single, devastating moment, she had watched the man she loved devolve from a magnificent Dragon into a common, calculating politician.
He had traded his fire for a Crown of gold, and he had traded her for a peaceful succession.
Now, in the dim, suffocating light of her bedchambers, the bitter memory of that betrayal fueled a sudden, frantic desperation in her blood.
If this was to be her execution night—if the coming dawn meant her death as a Targaryen and her birth as a political prisoner of the Reach—she would ensure the executioner felt the full, agonizing weight of what he was destroying.
The restraint that had kept them balanced on the edge of propriety for years snapped entirely.
Valarr’s mouth crashed down onto hers with a desperate, crushing hunger that bruised her lips.
It was not the gentle, reverent kiss of their youth beneath the weirwood; it was a violent, territorial claim. His tongue tangled with hers, deep and possessive, drinking in her shallow, ragged breaths as if he could store them in his lungs to survive the dry, loveless years ahead of him.
She clung to him with a feral intensity, her fingers tangling fiercely in his gorgeous brown hair with the unique silver strand, pulling him down, letting the sheer heat of his desire temporarily burn away the cold, rotting disappointment in her chest.
He moved them blindly toward the grand, silk-sheeted bed, his hands tearing at the intricate silk laces of her court gown with a manic franticness.
He needed her bare. He needed to feel the raw heat of her skin against his, stripped of the heavy velvet, the stiff corsetry, and the gold embroidery that represented the court trying to pull them apart.
With a low, ragged growl that vibrated against her collarbone, his large hands gripped the heavy fabric of her bodice. The fine Myrish seams parted with a sharp, tearing sound that echoed like a confession through the quiet room. He pulled the sleeves down her white arms, pinning her elbows momentarily as he pushed her backward onto the mattress.
The heavy velvet skirts pooled around her waist and thighs before he swept them away entirely, discarding the remnants of her royal identity onto the dark stone floor like garbage.
She was left in nothing but her thin, translucent linen shift, through which the feverish heat of her skin radiated. Valarr pressed her back into the pillows, his heavy, muscular body following her down without a single moment of hesitation.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling sharply, his chest heaving violently against her breasts. His lips traveled from her jaw down to the sensitive dip of her throat, kissing her with a frantic, feverish intensity that bordered on madness.
”Memorize me,“ he demanded against her skin, his teeth nipping fiercely at her shoulder, his lips sucking the tender flesh until he left a dark, bruised mark.
”Breathe me in. Remember the taste of me when they drag you to the Reach. Let that lord try to touch you, but make him look at my marks on your skin.“
”I could never forget,“ she choked out, her hands sliding under his linen shirt to grip the warm, hard muscles of his back, though the bitter thought followed immediately behind the words:
You are the one choosing to let them drag me there. You are the one handing me over.
Valarr’s hands were unyielding, heavy, and warm as they slid up the hem of her shift. The rough, calloused texture of his palms—hardened from years of swordplay—scraped pleasantly against the soft, sensitive skin of her outer thighs.
He gathered the fine linen in his fists, pulling it up past her hips until she was completely exposed to his burning gaze.
The amber light of the dying fire danced across her pale skin, painting her in shades of gold and shadow.
Valarr paused, hovering over her on his forearms, his breathing ragged and shallow as he looked down at her. His violet eyes had darkened to near-black, filled with an intense, possessive lust that only she would ever be permitted to see. The perfect, dutiful Prince of the Realm was entirely gone; in his place was a desperate man being broken by his own choices, clinging to his only true sanctuary.
”Look at me,“ he whispered fiercely, his voice a low, gravelly growl as his hands moved to trap her wrists above her head, locking his fingers through hers with a bruising force.
”Look at me while I love you. Know that no one else will ever own my heart like this. No one.“
He shifted his weight, his heavy knee parting her thighs with an unyielding pressure. She unlatched her hands from his grip, refusing to be pinned, choosing instead to wrap her arms tightly around his neck, pulling him down so that her chest was pressed flush against his beating heart. The heat between them was staggering, a fever born of shared blood, ancient madness, and forbidden desire.
Valarr reached down between them, his fingers finding her already slick and aching for him. He stroked her with a heavy, deliberate pressure, his thumb circling the sensitive bud of her desire until she arched off the mattress with a soft, broken sob, her head tossing back against the pillows.
”Valarr, please,“ she begged, her hips rolling instinctively against his hand, her mind blurring into a haze of pure sensation.
”No more waiting. No more talking.“
He groaned, the sound vibrating deep within his chest. He freed himself from his breeches, the stark, unforgiving hardness of him pressing against her inner thigh, teasing the weeping entrance of her core.
He did not rush, despite the agonizing hunger tearing through them both. Instead, he leaned down, capturing her mouth in another deep, wet kiss, drowning out her whimpers with his own tongue while his hips slowly, inexorably nudged forward.
As he pushed inside her, a breathless cry tore from her throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure mixed with a deep, systemic ache that went down to her very bones.
He was thick and unyielding, filling her so completely that she felt stretched to her limits. The friction of his slow, deliberate entry was a beautiful, agonizing burn.
Valarr paused when he was buried fully within her, his muscles trembling under the strain of his restraint, his eyes locked onto hers as he waited for her body to adjust to his size.
”You feel so perfect,“ he choked out, his hips twitching slightly, burying himself even deeper against her pelvic bone.
”So warm. My sister. My only love.“
She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, locking him to her, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs to pull him closer.
”Move,“ she whispered, her fingers digging deep into the muscles of his back, her nails scratching light, red tracks across his shoulders.
”Valarr, move.“
The restraint snapped completely. Valarr began to move above her with a relentless, driving pace, each thrust a violent defiance of the King, the council, and the fate awaiting them at dawn.
The slick, wet rhythm of their bodies colliding echoed through the quiet room, a scandalous, beautiful symphony born of sin. He withdrew almost fully before plunging back inside her, striking deep, causing her to cry out his name into the dark spaces of the room.
The world narrowed down to the suffocating heat of the bed and the rustle of tangled silk. Valarr’s pace grew faster, harder, his upper body slick with sweat that dripped onto her skin, burning wherever it touched. He shifted his grip, sliding his hands beneath her hips to lift her off the mattress, angling her body so he could drive into her even deeper. Every thrust felt like a brand, a desperate attempt to permanently alter her, to make it impossible for any other man to ever touch her without feeling his ghost.
She was drowning in the sensation, her senses overwhelmed by the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, and the relentless, rhythmic pounding of his hips against hers. Her core clamped tightly around him with every stroke, sending waves of blinding pleasure rippling through them both.
Valarr’s face twisted in an agony of ecstasy, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles stood out in sharp relief.
”I will never let you go in my mind,“ he gasped, his thrusts becoming short, hard, and frantic as he neared his limit. He leaned down, his mouth finding her ear, biting the lobe softly before his voice broke into a ragged whisper.
”Tell me I am yours. Say it.“
”You are mine,“ she sobbed, her hips meeting his with an equal, desperate ferocity.
”And I am always yours.“
The lie tasted bitter, but the physical reality was undeniable. The building tension within her tightened like a coiled spring until it finally snapped. A shattering, breathless climax ripped through her body, her walls pulsing violently around him in tight, uncontrollable waves.
The intense internal friction was the final catalyst for Valarr. With a low, guttural ruin of a sound, he drove himself into her one last, deep time, his hips locking pinned against hers as his body shuddered violently, pouring his love, his grief, and his supreme defiance into her.
He stayed buried inside her for a long time, his forehead resting against her shoulder, his chest heaving as he breathed in her scent. He kissed the wet tracks of tears from her face, his large hands gently smoothing her hair back from her forehead.
Slowly, the frantic energy of their passion faded, replaced by the heavy, somber reality of the coming dawn.
Hours later, the fire had burned down to cold, grey ash, casting the room in a pale, ghostly light.
Valarr slept heavily beside her, completely exhausted by the weight of his grief and the sheer intensity of their union.
One of his heavy, muscular arms was slung possessively over her waist, holding her close to his chest even in sleep. His brown hair was fanned out across the white linen of the pillows, gleaming faintly in the dark.
He looked peaceful.
In the quiet dark, he looked like the boy beneath the weirwood tree again—a boy who believed he had successfully loved her one last time, who believed this night would be enough to sustain her through a lifetime of exile.
She lay perfectly still, staring up at the dark canopy above. The flush of physical pleasure had long since faded, leaving behind a cold, absolute, and terrifying clarity. And with that clarity came a crushing wave of resentment that choked the breath from her lungs.
He was the future King. He was the golden Prince, the darling of the commons and the lords alike.
If he had stood before Baelor and Daeron and refused to marry Kiera, the Realm would have shaken, the small council would have raged, but he would have kept her.
He had the power of the Dragon in his veins, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror.
Instead, he had chosen the easy path. He chose the throne. He chose his duty to a Kingdom that did not care if his heart bled. He chose to be a good grandson and a dutiful son, leaving her to bear the consequences of his crown alone.
He loved her, yes—she knew he did—but he loved the idea of his unblemished legacy more.
This night was not a beautiful tragedy to be written into the histories. It was a farewell execution, and Valarr was the one pulling the lever while whispering that he loved her.
The realization was surprisingly gentle when it finally settled in her chest, a quiet, freezing stillness that washed away all her fear.
She refused to play the part he had written for her. She refused to go to the Reach, to be handled by a stranger in a cold castle, while she spent the rest of her miserable life watching Valarr smile at his Tyroshi lady from across a crowded hall, watching him breed heirs with another woman, knowing he had not thought she was worth fighting for.
If he would not choose her over the Realm, then she would choose herself over his world.
Carefully, meticulously, she slid out from under Valarr’s heavy arm, ensuring her movements were as light as a whisper. He stirred slightly, letting out a soft, low mumble into the pillows, but the exhaustion of his duties and their passion kept him anchored in sleep.
She did not put her courtly gown back on. She left the heavy velvet and gold embroidery where it lay ruined on the floor.
Instead, she slipped into a simple, ethereal white shift that flowed like mist around her bare ankles. She did not look at her jewelry, her family rings, or the dragon tokens she had accumulated over her short life.
She walked slowly, deliberately, toward the massive, arched stone window of her chamber, stepping out onto the cold, moonlit balcony.
The wind off the Blackwater Bay was freezing, whipping through the thin linen of her shift and biting at her bare skin, but she did not feel the chill. For the first time in her life, the suffocating, crushing weight of the Targaryen name felt entirely weightless.
Far below, the black sea crashed violently against the jagged rocks at the base of the Red Keep, the white foam churning in the dark like a quiet, welcoming promise of eternal rest.
There would be no political marriages there.
There would be no duty, no crowns, and no betrayals.
She turned her head slightly, looking back through the open balcony doors. Valarr was still asleep, a beautiful, tragic silhouette in the shadows of the bedchambers. A flawless Prince who would wake up to a Kingdom, a Crown, and a wedding feast, but who would never, for the rest of his living days, have her again.
Would he mourn her?
Would he regret?
Would he forget her one day?
Whatever the answer was, she would not be there anymore to witness.
She would be free with Valarr as the only man who ever held her heart.
”You should have fought for me,“ she whispered into the howling wind, her voice completely devoid of tears, filled only with a profound, final quiet.
She stepped up onto the stone ledge of the balcony. The wind roared in her ears, lifting her hair away from her neck, tugging at the white linen of her shift like a pair of pale wings.
She closed her eyes, inhaling one last time, tasting the salt of the sea, the cold smoke of the dying hearth, and the lingering, fading scent of Valarr on her skin.
She leaned forward, tilting her weight into the empty air.
