summary: I won't consume him, or let him consume me.
warnings: angst, dubcon marriage, public humiliation, an emotionally guarded protagonist, non happy ending. (yet)
a/n: Sometimes I make beautiful things out of my most miserable thoughts, I cry and project myself onto characters who don't even have a name. I don't know if you'll like this, but I really hope you do; writing in this tone isn't usual for me, I generally prefer my main characters to be more expressive. Thank you for reading and sticking with me through such a different chapter. It means a lot to know it connects with someone. I hope to keep surprising you with what's coming!
Btw, the song at the end was actually a big inspiration for me, it gives such strong medieval vibes that fit the setting, jeje.
part one.
Sometimes I considered Valarr beyond the crown that weighed upon his temples; I contemplated him as a man crushed beneath the burden of his own expectations, a being filled with contained silences. I would often find him seeking air, leaning upon the sill of the window in his study that commanded the gardens. From there he watched the gatherings of betrothed maidens and damsels, and it did not escape me the way his sighs died upon looking at me. Was that a gaze steeped in pity? Or did my eyes deceive me, and in truth his longing sought the young woman who laughed at my side, the beautiful Kiera? I wondered then whether it would be Valarr’s ardent blood that would consume my youth until it begot an heir, or whether I would be the slow flame that devoured his spirit, becoming the bitter reminder of a life he never chose.
After what happened that afternoon, the day had only to ruin itself further. The Tourney at Ashford had already been a disaster from the first day, yet to finish spoiling everything, the cruel Prince Aerion had provoked yet another colossal scandal. It all began when he brutally assailed a modest company of puppeteers, which forced the intervention of a giant of a hedge knight known as Ser Duncan. The youth, unable to tolerate the prince’s cruelty, inflicted upon Aerion a historic thrashing in the midst of the camp, unleashing the demand for a Trial of Seven to settle the affront.
As if the spectacle were not enough to hold the attention of the entire realm, the search for the culprit brought to light a revelation still more astonishing: the modest, shaven-headed squire who accompanied the giant was none other than Prince Aegon, the last lost prince of House Targaryen, the youngest son of Maekar who had been wandering in disguise.
Against all expectation, the combat to the death did not end in the tragedy all had feared. All had survived the bloody fray; though they bore considerable wounds and bandages beneath their tunics, they walked upon their own feet. He who suffered the worst was Aerion himself: disfigured, beaten to a pulp and humiliated, he could scarcely hold another’s gaze.
Seeing him there, bent and with his pride in ruins, a dark and comforting thought crossed my mind. It comforted me to know that the worst had fallen to him, that the justice of the gods had returned to him even a fraction of the pain and humiliation he dispensed with such liberal hands. Still fresh in my memory was the bitter recollection of the banquet the night before, that closed-door supper which yet stung my soul.
With such a whirlwind surrounding the royal family, the banquet that night held nothing of festivity. We gathered behind closed doors in the principal pavilion: a long table laden with jugs of wine and dishes scarcely touched, where the princes sought to trace the strategies and alliances for the combat on the morrow. The air within the tent was dense, heavy, dominated by the grave tone of masculine voices and the shadow of the blood judgment that would take place at dawn.
I remained seated beside Valarr, maintaining an impeccable posture with my hands crossed in my lap. The discomfort between us was almost palpable, an invisible yet icy barrier that separated us though we sat shoulder to shoulder. From time to time Valarr’s arm brushed mine as he reached for his cup of wine, and a rigid tension seized his body before he apologized with a clumsy murmur to which I scarcely replied with a slight inclination of the head.
On the other side of the table the atmosphere was no better. Aerion and his betrothed sat together, offering their own grotesque spectacle. The young woman made not the slightest effort to disguise the disgust and anger that gnawed at her face. She kept her arms crossed, her brows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line, utterly outraged at having been dragged into such shame on account of an absurd puppet show. For her, that her future husband should have become the talk of the entire realm for brawling with puppeteers and a knight of the streets was an intolerable humiliation.
Aerion, far from appearing repentant or ignoring his betrothed’s fury, seemed to take pleasure in provoking her. With that twisted, malicious smile that turned my stomach, he goaded her subtly. He gave her little playful nudges with his elbow in her side and whispered cutting remarks into her ear solely to force her to react, watching with delight as the poor girl’s cheeks flared with pure contained rage; then he let out a rasping laugh before pouring himself more wine.
“Come, Valarr,” said Aerion, pointing at him directly with his silver cup, wearing that twisted smile that always churned my insides. “Enough of your contemplations and don your armor tomorrow. Be one of my seven champions. A true dragon does not remain in the stands watching a wretched peasant trample the family’s name.”
Valarr did not lift his gaze from his plate. He merely clenched his fists upon the fine tablecloth until his knuckles showed white. A heavy, weary sigh escaped his chest before he answered in a voice that sought to be firm, yet sounded empty:
“I will not take part in that spectacle, Cousin. My intention is to return to my chambers whole… and in one piece for my wife.”
For his wife. My stomach clenched in a blind knot. Those words rang to me as the cruelest and most calculated of lies. A phrase rehearsed to fulfill protocol before his own, like those caresses upon the cheek that appeared only when we were observed.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, letting escape a mocking guffaw laden with a venomous malice that froze the blood in my veins.
“Your wife?” Aerion spat, regarding him with open contempt. “By the Seven, cousin, what endearing devotion… Though from what I have heard this afternoon between cup and cup, I doubt very much the poor girl will care whether you return whole or in pieces. In fact, after hearing you insinuate that to touch her feels an infamous punishment and that you would rather have any other in your bed, were I in her place I would pray that a lance run you through at dawn.”
A bucket of icy water seemed to fall upon the entire table.
The impact of hearing the humiliation laid bare thus, so raw and miserable before the eyes of all House Targaryen, provoked in me an unbearable burning behind the eyes. My pride stung like an open wound. I felt I was drowning in my own shame, trapped in the certainty that everyone at that table now knew the secret of my marriage: that I was merely an unwanted burden.
Daeron’s hand, which held his cup clumsily beside him, trembled until it spilled wine upon the wood, knowing himself guilty for having opened his mouth. For an instant Aerion’s betrothed ceased her gestures of annoyance toward him and crossed her gaze with mine; in her eyes there was no mockery, but a grimace of genuine apology and a discomfort so profound that she had to press her lips with pity. A few seats away, Kiera of Tyrosh remained motionless. Upon hearing Aerion’s venom and knowing herself the involuntary shadow in the midst of this disaster, Kiera shifted awkwardly in her chair, dropping her gaze abruptly to her plate, unable to meet anyone’s eyes in the tent while the flush of mortification covered her neck.
But before Aerion could savor his provocation a second longer, Prince Maekar rose abruptly from the head of the table. The entire board trembled.
Without uttering a single word, Maekar stretched out his arm and dealt Aerion a dry, heavy blow to the back of the head. The impact was so strong that the cruel prince’s forehead crashed against the rim of his plate, cutting his laughter short.
“Shut your mouth, you piece of an imbecile!” thundered Maekar’s voice, hoarse with pure fury, regarding his son with true disgust. “You have already covered us with enough dishonor this week by brawling with puppeteers without your mouth now spewing excrement. Focus on the judgment tomorrow if you do not wish to end up dead upon the grass.”
Aerion rose slowly, passing his hand over the nape of his neck with teeth clenched and eyes blazing with wrath against his father, yet he dared not speak another word.
At my side Valarr did not move. He kept his eyes fixed upon the table, but I saw how his throat swallowed a knot and how his breathing grew rapid, uneven, crushed beneath the weight of the situation.
In a desperate, clumsy movement, his hand sought mine beneath the table. He squeezed my fingers with a trembling force, a pleading, blind grip, like that of a man drowning who clings to the last scrap of wood in the midst of the ocean. He wished to hold me, to feel that something still remained to which he might cling amid the ruins of his own disaster.
But I withdrew my hand slowly, without harshness, leaving him with empty fingers upon the tablecloth.
Now, as night fell on the following day, the shadow of that supper still projected itself over us, yet death had claimed no one and the royal pavilion had transformed into a hall of grotesque, deafening merriment. The atmosphere was a seething of cruel laughter, silver cups clashing, and the strident music of the lutes that seemed to drill into my temples.
My eyes settled first upon the opposite table. There sat Aerion with his face disfigured by the bruises and swellings the hedge knight had inflicted upon him in the trial. At his side the young woman who would be his betrothed made no effort to disguise her mockery: she pointed at him brazenly, laughing in his face at the blackened eye and the pride reduced to shreds of the prince. Aerion could only let out a heavy sigh and lower his head, chewing his humiliation in silence.
Seeing the scene, I could not help it: a small, dry, bitter laugh escaped my lips.
At that very same instant, beside me, Valarr let escape a smothered guffaw at the same scene. For the briefest second the two laughs crossed in the air, brushing like ghosts of what we once might have been, sharing the same involuntary measure. Yet the moment our eyes met and we realized we were laughing together, the illusion tore.
We fell silent at the same time.
The cut was so drastic, so painfully automatic, that the air between us froze again at once, leaving a silence still heavier, a void that burned my skin.
Beyond, the dancing floor was an insult to my misery. Little Egg, his shaved head gleaming beneath the torches, turned awkwardly yet with a genuine smile, hand in hand with the young daughter of Lord Ashford. A few steps away the enormous Ser Duncan danced, careful not to tread upon the feet of the puppet girl, Tanselle, whose happy laughter drowned amid the bustle. Maekar had yielded; his youngest son would go to roam the realm as a humble squire, and the child’s freedom filled the air with a strange innocence, while in my breast everything rotted.
At the high table Prince Baelor wore bandages upon his shoulder and a split lip, yet he laughed with the strength of a man who possessed the world.
And in our corner… reigned a septic pit of silence.
I sat beside my husband, Valarr. The distance between us was an abyss of broken glass. Since the incident in the tent and the infamy of the supper, we had not addressed a single word to each other; not one glance, not one touch. I had become pure stone; he, a shadow consumed by a guilt that no longer served any purpose.
It was then that my eyes descended, traitorous, toward his chest. A knot so violent pierced my throat that I nearly choked upon my own saliva.
Valarr wore a doublet of dark velvet I had never seen him wear. Upon the cloth, sewn with a trembling yet meticulous precision, shone the blazon I myself had designed months earlier, needle in hand, pricking my fingers in the most absolute solitude of my chambers. That embroidery which united our houses—a token of blind devotion he had let die at the bottom of a dusty drawer—now covered his torso. It was an attempt so pathetic, so mute and desperate to beg my forgiveness that it hurt me physically, as though an rusted dagger had been driven into my ribs.
I turned my face abruptly, swallowing the tears that threatened to betray me. Too late.
“What ails the heirs of the crown that they seem to be at their own funeral?” The deep voice of Prince Baelor broke our bubble with affable cruelty. He regarded us with a luminous smile. “Take to the floor, my children. Show the realm how happy and in love you are.”
Valarr rose at once, with desperate swiftness, and offered me his hand. We could not disobey the Hand of the King. I rose with a ghostly grace, my body rigid as an elegant corpse, and laid my hand upon his, letting myself be drawn toward the center of the floor.
The music changed to a slow, dense-enveloping melody, a trap from which I could not escape.
Valarr took me by the waist. We glided to the measure of the strings, fulfilling the macabre choreography the courtiers expected of us. Yet in the midst of a turn, desperation broke his composure. In a blind impulse he closed the space between our bodies, pressed me against his chest with unbridled force and, setting his brow to mine, left me without breath.
The heat of his skin burned my face. I could feel his tremulous breath striking against my lips, the wild and chaotic rhythm of his heart galloping unchecked, and that cursed scent of leather and clove that so many nights I had wept for in silence.
“You look extraordinarily beautiful this night, my lady…” Valarr murmured in a thread of voice so broken, so pleading, that it sounded like the lament of a wounded animal. “And this doublet… the truth is I have never worn so fine a garment. You have marvelous hands.”
The tremor in his words tore me within, yet my face remained inert, an icy mask.
“I thank you for the compliment, my prince,” I replied in a measured murmur, so formal, so docile and empty that it sounded like a tombstone. “It is but simple work to fulfill my duty as your wife.”
Valarr blinked, and I felt the tremor of his hand become spasmodic. I could perceive the absolute desperation seeping into his fingers as he realized my courtesy was a wall of ice spikes. He tried to smile, a pathetic gesture that begged for mercy.
“It is not simple; it is beautiful… as everything you do,” he insisted in a desperate whisper, tightening the curve of my waist with a painful force, as though he feared I might vanish into the air. “This silence pains me, my love… I would so wish that the laughter of a moment ago were for me as well. These halls need it so… I need it.”
I. The words resonated in my head like a cruel echo.
“It is very kind of you to notice, my prince,” I said without a single muscle of my face trembling, granting him an inclination of the head so perfect it froze the blood. “I endeavor to maintain the decorum and the joy the occasion demands.”
Valarr shuddered with such violence that I nearly held him. His pupils, entirely flooded with contained tears, sought me blindly, pleading for a miracle. He tightened his fingers upon my waist with a childlike entreaty, crumbling into a thousand pieces while the music forced us to keep turning in an endless circle.
“Speak to me… shout at me if you will, by the gods, tear the skin from me, but do not remain in this silence of death,” he begged in a smothered sob, dragging himself in his misery before my absolute indifference. “I am drowning in this distance… I beg you, my lady… say something to me… look at me truly!”
And then I opened my lips. I let my words fall between us like pure ash upon an open wound.
“I wanted that at least we might have some manner of affection. You and I. I wanted you to look at me in the same way I looked at you. Was that so much to ask? I believed that marriage would, one way or another, draw forth the best in us. I understand that you did not wish to marry me; you know, I supposed that at least you would try, my prince, but instead what did I have? Murmurs at supper hour, sidelong glances and awkward encounters in our chambers. Until I heard your words I had not realized how much I pretended your attitudes did not matter to me… and now the least I would wish is to look at you and not feel so wounded.”
At that precise instant my feet stopped completely in the midst of the floor, compelling the music to halt with our stillness. Valarr froze with his face dislocated, awaiting the final blow, the cry or the open scorn. Yet I did none of that. In a brutal act of submission he buried his face in the hollow of my neck, brushing his trembling mouth against my skin without regard for the gaze of hundreds of nobles. He clung to my fabric with white knuckles, breaking entirely in a dragged and pathetic plea:
“I do not know what is wrong with me… What must I do to regain you?” he sobbed against my neck, stifling a moan of pain while his tears soaked my skin. “I wish to keep hearing you, please, my beloved, tell me what I must do to be worthy of you… Last night I dreamed of you. I dreamed of your voice brushing my skin, of your lips seeking mine… I dreamed of your body drawing near to mine, of a kiss that burned slow. As if desire had memory.” The tremor of his body was so humiliating that he seemed a beggar pleading for a crumb of pity.
Leaning slightly forward, with a ghostly softness, I raised my hand to rest my fingers in his hair, burying them delicately in his characteristic white-and-silver lock. Without withdrawing my gaze for a single second, I held his flooded eyes while I felt how Valarr instinctively inclined his head toward my palm, seeking desperately the refuge of my touch at the very moment I set my lips upon his.
It was a brief, dry kiss, devoid of all heat and of any promise, a farewell disguised as affection. Valarr’s eyes opened still wider, fixed upon mine without blinking, shining with the weeping he strove with every fiber of his being to contain; his jaws tensed until they marked with pain, swallowing the tears by force, refusing to break completely before the realm.
Upon separating, before he could articulate a single sound or recover his breath:
“Despite everything, though my mind may wish to say that it hates you and that it would never see you again, my heart does not recognize those feelings,” I pronounced in a murmur so measured, so mortally calm, that his face decomposed entirely. “Because thanks to you I discovered beautiful emotions I did not know I held within me.”
Valarr shuddered again, swallowing with atrocious desperation, his eyes flooded in a weeping he could no longer contain.
“You were the beacon that kindled my capacity to love, the light with which I learned to deliver the soul without reserve,” I continued, with a thread of voice that tore the air between us. “And though you have also taught me the atrocious cold of solitude, I cannot curse the hand that showed me the beauty of my own heart. I do not hate you, Valarr… for one cannot hate the storm that taught one to value the sun, nor the abyss that made one discover how deeply one could feel.”
I made a small pause, feeling how the last remnant of warm air abandoned my lungs forever, leaving him face to face with the definitive void.
“Yet to love a ghost exhausts life…” I concluded, regarding him fixedly in the eyes, without a single tear, without a single spark of life. “And I have no more light left to burn for you.”
The rhythm of the music continued about us and the courtiers burst into enthusiastic applause. Believing it the culmination of a romantic and suffering reconciliation, the entire hall celebrated the royal couple with cheers and smiles alien to the tragedy that seethed between our hands.
But before Valarr could close his fingers once more upon mine, an enormous and clumsy shadow loomed beside us.
It was the gigantic hedge knight, Ser Duncan, who had approached with an unusual timidity in one of his size, scratching the nape of his neck awkwardly while regarding the prince with respect.
“Forgive the intrusion, my prince… my lady,” Ser Duncan murmured in his hoarse voice, making a clumsy bow. “Would you grant me this dance, my lady?”
Valarr remained motionless, his hand still extended in the air, trapped between the etiquette of the court and the presence of the hero of the day.
And then, very slowly, with a deliberate and cruel deliberateness, my fingers began to slip from his. I unbound my hand from his millimeter by millimeter, breaking the last point of contact between us, until his palm remained completely empty upon the cold air of the hall.
“It would be an honor, Ser Duncan,” I replied with a soft smile, turning toward the knight and leaving my husband behind, converted at last into a shadow for which I no longer felt any pity.
There is something curious that occurs when one ceases to feel loved. There is born a kind of bitter pride, an icy armor that tints every emotion that struggles to spring in our breast when we realize that the other never loved us. In that definitive instant which all of us are obliged to face sooner or later, we attempt desperately to convince ourselves of a pious fallacy: all will be well, because in truth I did not love him so much either; I was only at his side out of habit, out of duty, out of being… is that not so?
summary: It only took three words from his cousin to shatter everything.
warnings: Angst, arranged marriage, unrequited love, mentions of fertility pressure, non-explicit intimacy. Reader's house and physical appearance are not specified.
a/n: haha so this is a draft I've had sitting around for a while, it's not fully edited so if you spot any mistakes just pretend you're blind lol. also apologies in advance, English isn't my first language. hope you enjoy it anyway!
part two
The weight of the linen between my fingers was the faithful reflection of an entire year of my life, returned in the form of silences, perfect courtesies, and a quiet sterility that devoured me alive from the inside out.
In the freezing corridors of the Red Keep, I had learned a skill as bitter as it was solitary: talking to myself so I wouldn’t die of emptiness.
I sat across from him at those dinners we only shared out of the strictest dynastic obligation. He remained with his back straight as a steel blade, shoulders firm, and manners impeccable the kind Prince Baelor had hammered into him with honor and discipline. And I, at the other end of the long oak table, spoke.
I told him about the old septon in the small chapel who always stammered through the afternoon prayers; about the one-eyed cat that had given birth to four kittens behind the royal stables; I read him trivial, everyday fragments from the letters my sister sent from our home. I spoke of everything and nothing, spilling words like stones thrown into a bottomless well.
Sometimes, in the gloom of my chambers, I rocked myself alone in the dark, asking myself the same questions over and over: Why, when he looks at me, doesn’t his face light up? A man in love should adore me. Yet he barely speaks to me. Still, sometimes I feel like his heart whispers to mine. He smiles when I laugh.
Because he did it. On a few occasions he said beautiful things to me. He spoke well of me, making the courtiers praise his chivalry. I deluded myself, clinging desperately to small mirages. I remembered when he would approach, reach out, and brush a strand of hair behind my ear. In those seconds, my heart would race, thinking he was finally seeing me.
It took me months of torment to understand the truth: Valarr only caressed my hair or reached for my hand when Prince Baelor was nearby, watching us. The moment his father turned away, his hand would drop and his face would return to that stone mask. He wasn’t loving me, he was performing for the man he feared disappointing. And I treasured those rehearsed caresses as if they were real promises.
And then she appeared.
Kiera of Tyrosh. Every time I saw her at court, impeccable and destined for Prince Daeron a bitter thought stung my soul: Maybe I should have been in her place, and she in mine, married to the drunken prince.Daeron isn’t a bad man, but his drinking problem complicates everything. At least, thank the Seven, Kiera was spared the misfortune of being betrothed to Prince Aerion.
But when the image of Valarr beside her took root in my mind, it stole the breath from my lungs. My eyes filled with rage and my hands trembled with helplessness as tears streamed down my face. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Yes. She is. She’s better than me in every way.
I stared at the walls of the Red Keep and the longing burned in my throat: How I wish your love would disarm me. Wrap me in your cloaks and strip me with your eyes. Later, when the time comes, silence me with your lips and tear me apart. Let your soul be mine and let us live in harmony. Wouldn’t you like that? Breathing in the same rhythm, playing the same melody together.
So why did this cruel fate make me fall in love with you? With you, who doesn’t love me. With you, who never calls for me. Why do the words seem to cost your mouth so much? Am I really that hard to love? Is my heart so insignificant?
Maybe we’re only destined to connect glances, never to entwine them. So I’ll look at my pillow, imagining you… and kiss my dream as if I were happy.
But fate had placed me beside the heir, and her in the untouched memory of my husband.
Even in intimacy, the distance destroyed me. Night after night, scheduled on the calendar for the purpose of conceiving an heir, Valarr touched me with a distant delicacy that made me feel invisible. He whispered quiet apologies if he gripped my wrists too tightly and murmured “rest, my lady” before turning to his side of the bed.
And yet the moons passed and my belly remained flat. Cold. Dead.
Every cycle that I bled in the dim light of my chambers drowned me in ravenous guilt. I lay awake staring at the canopy ceiling, pressing my palms against my abdomen, begging the Seven for a child. I thought a baby with silver-and-gold hair would finally break the spell of his indifference. That motherhood would give him a real reason to look at me as his wife instead of a duty of state. But the blood always came, punctual and cruel, reminding me of my double failure: I couldn’t make him love me, and I couldn’t even give him an heir.
I learned to embroider for him because simple words were never enough. With the desperate logic of someone who loves without being loved in return, I thought my hands might say what my mouth could not. I embroidered three-headed dragons on linen handkerchiefs, on soft leather belts, on the collar of a heavy cloak that took me months to finish by the flickering light of candles. I delivered them myself very early, before the sun fully rose over the bay and before he went down to attend his duties. I left them on his desk with a short, shy note.
He never said a word about them. Not a single one. And yet, days later, I would find them folded impeccably on the side tables of his study, among account scrolls and military reports he didn’t care about. They sat there forgotten, neat but set aside as if he didn’t know what else to do with the physical proof that someone loved him, unable to accept it but too well-mannered to throw it away.
That was the worst part. Not cruelty, because cruelty can be hated cleanly; cruelty gives you an enemy to build defenses against. The worst thing about him was that infinite, completely hollow kindness that kept me well cared for and devastatingly alone.
That’s why Ashford Meadow felt different. On the journey from King’s Landing, Valarr had tried to seek me out. He made small efforts at conversation during the stops, asking if the riding fatigued me or if the weather was pleasant. I thought this tournament, far
from the suffocating shadow of the Red Keep, would be the place where we could finally build something resembling love. That perhaps this trip would break the ice between us.
Gods, I was so wrong.
.
.
In Ashford Meadow, the air smelled of trampled grass, campfire smoke, and the sweet leather of campaign tents. I clutched the handkerchief tightly against my chest, pressing the embroidered silk so hard that the golden threads bit into my palm.
I walked between the pavilions of the lords of Westeros, listening to the distant murmur of cavalry and the cheers of the jousts. When I reached the royal tent, the guards recognized my face, bowed their heads in reverence, and lifted the flap without announcing me.
Inside, the warm gloom smelled of spiced wine and horse sweat. Valarr stood with his back to the entrance, wearing a simple dark linen tunic. Beside him, Prince Daeron was slouched clumsily in a wooden chair, holding a silver cup with a limp hand, rocking it with the sloppy ease of drink.
“Tell me the truth, Valarr,” Daeron slurred between loose laughter, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “It’s been a year already, cousin. Tell me right here… Have you learned to love your wife yet?”
I froze three steps from the entrance. The linen handkerchief crumpled violently between my fingers. My heart lurched in my chest.
Valarr didn’t answer right away. I instantly recognized the tension that seized his shoulders: the same stiffness he showed every time I spoke to him at dinner, the same exhausted posture that always preceded his polite silence.
“Ugh…” The sound escaped him low, heavy, choked. A weary groan from someone trapped in a sentence he never chose. “Please, cousin. Don’t ask me for what I can’t give.”
Something inside me snapped with a dry crack, a pain so sharp in the center of my chest that I had to clench my teeth just to keep breathing.
“You know perfectly well it’s not her fault,” Valarr continued in a defeated murmur, dragging a trembling hand across his face, completely unaware of my presence. “Gods, I know better than anyone that she’s a virtuous woman, that she tries to please me in every possible way… but I simply can’t help it. If my father hadn’t interfered with his alliances, Kiera would be—”
“Valarr,” Daeron hissed suddenly.
The drunken prince had shot to his feet. The silver cup slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud, spilling a dark pool of wine. Daeron had gone pale as wax, staring fixedly over Valarr’s shoulder.
“Shut up…” he whispered with genuine terror in his eyes. “By the Seven, Valarr, shut up…”
Valarr froze. The hand on his face lowered slowly. And then, very slowly, he turned.
Our eyes met in the middle of the gloom.
I saw the exact, heartbreaking, brutal instant when he realized what I had heard. Every last trace of color drained from his face. For the first time in a year of marriage, I didn’t see the flawless mask of courtesy or the polite distance.
I saw panic. I saw a shame so deep it twisted his features.
And I saw the naked confirmation of something I already knew in the deepest part of my soul: that for a whole year he had been kind to me purely out of pity, and now, trapped by his own carelessness, he had no words to repair what the wine had just shattered.
Daeron muttered a cowardly apology and fled stumbling out of the tent, leaving us completely alone. The distant murmur of the tournament slipped through the seams of the canvas like a mocking echo.
My fingers lost their strength. The embroidered handkerchief slipped from my hand and fell onto the trampled grass, right between us.
“My lady…” Valarr’s voice broke. It was a sound I had never heard from him. He took an involuntary step toward me, raising trembling hands. “I… gods, I didn’t know you were here…”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t raise my voice even a single decibel. Fury or desperation would have required an emotional energy my body no longer possessed. Instead, an absolute, icy void took hold of me, smoothing my features until my face became polished stone.
Inside, the pain wasn’t a fire; it was a thick, freezing poison seeping through my veins, freezing every corner of my chest where I had once sheltered hope. My throat ached from the knot of tears I forced down, my pride was trampled, and above all, it hurt with the absolute certainty that I had been a fool. All those months of anguish, the sleepless nights begging the heavens to make me desirable to my own husband… it all came down to this. To the pity of a man who forced himself to touch me.
Valarr took a step back, unable to hold my gaze. He lowered his eyes to the grass, fixing them on the fallen handkerchief, on the three-headed dragon I had embroidered thread by thread, pricking my fingers in the gloom to have it ready before the tournament.
“You apologize every time you touch me… you thank me like a stranger,” I said in a flat, measured murmur, so devoid of emotion that my own voice sounded foreign. “You make sure I lack nothing… Why? Why does the mere idea of loving me feel like such a terrible insult to you?”
The words fell between us like a block of ice. Valarr froze.
That single word—insult—seemed to pierce his chest. He opened his mouth to justify himself, flustered, eyes wide with sudden panic. He began speaking in a torrent of clumsy excuses, raising his hands desperately, trying to explain his lack of love, his shame, his inability to feel anything for me. He was looking for a reaction, a spark of rage, a scream… anything that proved the woman in front of him was still alive.
But I couldn’t even feel my own breathing or the tingling in my fingers. I was numb.
As he drowned in his own words, I felt the last ember of affection I still held for him extinguish forever. The pain remained, tearing at my insides in a silent scream that would never leave my lips, but on the outside I granted him no comfort in seeing my suffering. I became so cold toward him that I learned his lesson: I turned into an iceberg.
Noticing my immobility, my empty and distant gaze, Valarr’s voice gradually faded. His desperation crashed against my indifference until it left him completely paralyzed. He fell silent, hand half-extended in the air, petrified by the violence of my serenity. He realized, too late, that he wasn’t arguing with a wounded wife, he was speaking to a stranger.
“Forgive me if I have been a bother to you, my prince,” I said at last, breaking the silence with a bow of my head as perfect as it was distant. “All I ever longed for was your affection.”
He shuddered violently, as if those words of submissive resignation hurt him more than a thousand swords.
“No…” he managed to whisper in a shattered thread of voice, unable to take a single step, eyes flooded with water as guilt crushed him. “Please… don’t say that…”
I didn’t even look at the ground. I didn’t bother to bend down and pick up the silk. The embroidered handkerchief, the golden dragon, and all the ridiculous love I had poured into it stayed there, abandoned on the trampled grass.
“I wish you luck in the tournament, my prince,” I added in the same neutral voice.
I turned with a firm step and straight back, letting the sound of my skirts dragging be the only thing that broke the air inside the tent. I left him behind, motionless and destroyed by his own paralysis, alone with his conscience and the wilted silk at his feet.
And yet, in my mind, one miserable question still fluttered:
Will he ever manage to love me?
.
.
.
Jensine Benitez, Thee Sacred Souls · Ilusión De Amor · Song · 2022
summary: after your husband is grievously injured in the trial of the seven, you tend to his wounds and, since he's never been particularly fond of you, you decide to use this opportunity to endear him to you. hopefully you didn't bite off more than you can chew...
warnings and tags: 18+, smut, mild angst, aerion's mentioned to be unfaithful, mentions of wounds, inexperienced but not innocent reader, kinda manipulative!reader, female masturbation, handjob, oral sex (male receiving), power exchange, domination/submission, degradation (reader is called a whore), corruption kink if you squint, technically dom!aerion but also some sub!aerion vibes, aerion is his own warning, no use of y/n, no physical description of the reader
Your husband’s body is unnaturally still. Lying on the bed, eyes swollen shut, lip cut open, his chest pure marble marred by purple bruises, he looks more corpse than man. Each time he exhales, he stops moving long enough for the doubt to settle in, before he draws in the next, painful breath. Your fingers itch with the urge to reach for his torso, press your palm against his heart, see for yourself that it is still beating.
You do not indulge them. Instead, stepping closer to the bed, you reach for his forehead.
His lips part when you brush against it, and you’re surprised to find him burning. Everything about him tells you that he should be cold as ice, but you suppose the blood of the dragon does run through his veins. Aerion was scorching hot on your wedding night, too, as he was during his other visits to your chambers since then — though you can count those on one hand.
You reach for a cloth, dip it into a basin of water placed on a nearby dresser, wring it, then press it to his face. A keening, pained sound rises from his throat. It is the most vulnerable you’ve ever heard him, and you think he would kill you for forcing it out of him.
“No one would ask that of you, my lady,” your maid says from the door, where she has stood this whole time. Her tone is flat, but you do not miss the disapproving inflexions in it. “This is for a maester to do, or a servant. Not for a highborn lady.”
It is true, of course, as is true that Aerion was alone when you walked in, a mere guard placed in front of the door. No one tasked to stay by his side or look after him, the prince abandoned like a dying dog.
You could not have ignored the reason why if you tried. The whispers are everywhere. It is his fault if the heir to the throne lies in a casket, his fault if his father is forever branded a kinslayer, his fault that the Targaryen house has fallen a little further still.
You do not think they are wrong.
You are also aware with bone-deep clarity that none of them will have to share his bed following this event. Aerion has never been kind to you — or, to be precise, he has never been taken with you. You know he was displeased to have to marry someone who was not a Targaryen, even more so that you were not someone he could toy with at his leisure, not when his father and his uncle were watching him like a hawk.
You had made sure to take full advantage of that, spending your time strolling through the gardens, weaving or sewing where everyone could see you, where you could not be tormented, retiring to your chambers after him, if you could.
Except now, if the whispers could be trusted, Aerion would be sent to Lys with you in tow, and there would be no one to protect you.
“You can leave,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I will stay with my lord husband.”
She is well-trained, your maid, but so are you. You know from the slightest twitch at the corner of her lips how much she resents the idea.
“He will fare well enough on his own, my lady. The maesters have seen to that.”
There is harshness on her tongue. You do not cave.
“It would not do for the prince to awake alone, should he be in want of anything. I will stay by his side, as is my duty. Do leave me.”
Her lips thin into a tight line, but she cannot disobey such a direct order. The door closes with a gentle click, and you are left alone with your husband. The man whose life you will share until his passing or yours, whether you like it or not. The man you might still attach to you, to ensure he does not slit your throat in a mad rage in a faraway land where no one will care to look into it.
The man who, though you loathe to admit it, looks so wounded, lost and lonely in the large bed that there is no reluctance in your hand when you dab the wet cloth over his chest, where pearls of sweat have formed.
He does not move much as you keep watch over him, and when he does, it always elicits a pained groan, a ragged breath, a wince. There is not much for you to do, apart from replacing the cloth every now and again, so you turn to embroidering, sitting close by the bed and focusing on your work.
Every time you glance up, you find him as painfully still as he was before. He is a beautiful man, of course, even in this state. In another life, one where whispers of the prince’s madness had not reached your ears ahead of your marriage, you might have been elated to marry him. You’re thankful you did not have to endure such disappointment, at least, though you still had to withstand the bite of humiliation that was your husband’s visible disinterest in you, and the whispers of the whores he preferred taking to bed over you.
Hours go by before Aerion finally stirs. You are on your feet instantly, rushing to his side, but he does not open his eyes — likely could not even if he wanted to. He groans, and the sound comes out pitiful and raspy. You reach for a goblet, pour water into it. With a gentle hand, you tip his head forward, and he drinks from it greedily, teeth scraping against it. When his head falls back on the pillow, you step back — only to freeze when he calls out.
“Father?”
The two syllables, pronounced slurred and hoarse, seem to exhaust him fully, whole body going slack again on the bed.
“I will call for him at once, my prince,” you reply.
The guard obeys your order begrudgingly and without enthusiasm when you relay the prince’s demand, but you may as well not have given it. By the time you sit back down at Aerion’s side, his breathing has evened, and you know he’s fallen back into his slumber.
“He’s awake?” Maekar asks urgently when he walks in.
He startles at the sight of you, bowing his head politely.
“My lady.”
“My prince,” you reply, curtsying. “He woke up briefly and asked for you.”
He nods. His eyes, riveted to his son, are wet, though you do not know if it is out of worry or grief over the loss of his brother.
“You do not have to stay here, my lady,” he says gently.
His meaning is the same as your maid’s was. You do not want to be associated with him. You should be spurning him, making a spectacle of your disapproval. You should save yourself while you still can.
How myopic of him not to realize that that choice was ripped from you in a room you were not in, the moment your hand was given away in marriage.
“I will fulfill my duty and stay at my husband’s side,” you tell him, inclining your head.
The warrior’s eyes are soft on you.
“Thank you,” he says, quiet, broken. “If that is your wish, I will leave him in your hands.”
So you stay. You are here whenever Aerion briefly surfaces, you are here to quench his thirst and clean the sweat that drips from his forehead, you are here to change his bandages and verify that the wounds do not get infected. You do refrain from touching him more often than most, merely letting your fingers trail over his skin as you clean him.
There is a brief, unpleasant conversation with the maester who visits him. He disapproves of your presence, too, but in the jealous way of a man intent on keeping his secrets. He dislikes you, you know immediately, for stepping into his territory. It does not matter that you have read all the treaties you could get your hands on; it does not matter if your work was as close to perfection as it could get. You do not know your place, and he would have you kicked out of the room if not for Prince Maekar’s strict orders.
Your hands deftly finish the bandage around Aerion’s upper thigh. It is the deepest wound on his body, the one that came closest to claiming his life. Perhaps that would have been a better ending for you, but the thought makes you nauseous nonetheless, and you have to focus to keep your fingers from trembling.
You are already on your feet when he groans. He has been waking more frequently during the last day, though never long enough to warrant disturbing his father again. You’re reaching for the water pitcher when you feel a tug on your dress. You turn to discover Aerion’s eyes, glazed and unfocused, on you.
“Why are you here?”
He manages to make the slurred words sound accusatory. You do not step back. Despite his state, you’re worried he might tear your dress. Had he been faster, he would have caught your wrist and he would be holding it tightly enough to hurt right now. Instead, you step closer, close enough for him to reach. He does not let go, still clutching to your skirts with a strength that looks a lot like desperation.
Whether it is because he does not want you to escape or to claw back control, you cannot say.
“Attending to my duties as your wife, my prince,” you answer.
You could reach for the wet cloth again, but you resist the impulse. You worry that your touch would be less than welcome at the moment.
“Since when,” he drawls, “do you care for your duties as my wife?”
There is a sharpness in his eyes, despite the haze of pain that floats inside them. He knows that you did not pursue him, knows that you did not make any efforts to make yourself more available to him.
He would have found it pitiful and laughable, had you done that, and used it to torment you, of course.
Now, instead, you’re the one witnessing his wounded pride, his pathetic attempts at saving face. It would be easy to plunge your fingers into the wound and dig.
You do not do that.
“I will carry your heir. Is this not the least I can do?”
Something dark flashes in his expression, something you do not think you have ever seen him direct at you, and it makes your tongue heavy in your mouth and your throat constrict. You are playing a dangerous game, getting his attention. It is all fine and good now, but the risk is high that you will come to regret it when he is no longer confined to his bed.
Then again, perhaps that would be a better end than getting your throat slit because he wishes to take another Targaryen for a wife.
“Do you wish for me to call your father?”
“Yes, do that. And fetch me some food.”
He orders you around like a servant. You bow your head gracefully.
“Of course, my prince.”
You know he does not miss your choice of words. He is not husband, he is not even my lord, as you would have every right to call him. He is my prince, as any lowborn peasant, any servant would say.
And you see that he it delights him.
The door clicks behind you as you leave. You have no desire to be here for the following conversation with Prince Maekar.
But you do intend to come back to pick up the pieces.
You give Aerion enough time to compose himself and eat before you walk back inside the room. You do not think he would forgive you for seeing an explicit display of weakness, and if grief and shame make him even more erratic than usual, you could see him ending your life tonight, just because he can. You’re walking a tightrope, playing these games, and keeping your balance is of the utmost importance.
He glares at you with bloodshot eyes the second you enter the room, and you bow your head.
“My prince,” you say, “I hope the meal was satisfactory.”
“It suits you,” he shoots back, “playing the servant. No Targaryen would stoop this low.”
His voice drips with disgust. You know how displeased he is that you carry his last name, but you do not flinch. The cruelty in his tone is nothing but the lashing out of a wounded animal. It cannot reach you.
“Is there anything you require of me tonight, my prince?”
Despite his state, despite the pain, his eyes are sharp, sizing you up, trying to understand the game you’re playing — what you wish to gain from it, how far you will go, what he can take from you on your way to your objective, whatever it is.
“Undress,” he orders, his voice dropping lower.
You swallow. Hard. You had expected sex to come into play eventually, of course, just not— not quite this fast. For all you’ve gleaned about playing this game, less through your family’s direct guidance and more through observing how the Targaryens do it, your husband is the only man you’ve ever laid with. Other opportunities had presented themselves,but you simply had not had the stomach to risk your life over it.
“Are you certain, with your injuries?” you ask.
Even you cannot tell if you’re being sincere or trying to stall.
“Is this not a wife’s very first duty to her husband?” Aerion counters mockingly. “Are you going to shirk your responsibilities now?”
You could easily leave. You could even say that you are concerned for him, in his state, and walk out the door.
Instead, standing at the bottom of his bed, you slide your dress off your shoulders and down your body.
Aerion follows your movement with intent focus.
“Keep going,” he says, pointing to your smallclothes with his chin.
You do. Your cheeks are on fire, but there is something more troubling than the embarrassment you feel despite yourself, and that is how much his gaze anchors you. Because even as he is playing cat and mouse, there is nothing he can do at the moment. Everything he will get tonight, you will choose to give him. He can act like that makes you lower than him, but in truth, you wield the power tonight. And he seems transfixed by you.
His tongue comes out to wet his lips as you reveal your shoulders, and his hands tighten in the sheet when the smallclothes fall beneath your breasts. He has never looked at you that way, only sparing you brief, bored glances. Now, you have him captive, even as you are obeying his commands. He is devouring you, eyes trailing over your body, setting your skin aflame everywhere he looks.
You let your fingers graze against your nipples as you trail them down your skin, watch him inhale sharply. Then you move the clothes down your hips, your thighs, and finally step out of them, leaving them on the floor. You can feel heat pooling in your lower belly, but, thankfully, your arousal is not yet obvious. You’re certain he would not have missed a chance to mock you for this as well.
“Does this please you, my prince?”
“You will do,” he replies, betrayed by the hoarseness of his voice. “Though you make for one lousy whore.”
“One only one man can afford,” you answer, and you watch how it delights him, how he bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t smile, how his focus narrows in on you. Closer, tighter, coiling around your body like a snake, so intense he might as well be touching you.
He raises a hand to move it towards his crotch, but stops mid-movement, hissing in pain. You climb onto the bed before he can snap at you, turn his own shame and embarrassment against you.
“Is that not for me to do?” you ask, like you didn’t notice, playing your part as well as you can. Aerion scoffs.
“You want to learn how to be a better whore, don’t you?” he taunts you.
“I want to learn how to best serve my husband.”
You reach for the covers, watching him for any indication that you should stop. But he just stares, head lazily cocked to the side, eyes still drinking in your naked body. His cock is half-hard underneath his breeches, and your heart rate quickens as you pull it free, hand closing gently around the base. You hear him inhale at your touch.
“Get the oil first,” he orders when you begin to move your hand experimentally over dry skin.
There is mockery in his tone, like you should have known better, but also, for the first time, a hint of urgency. You know, the moment you get up from the bed, that he wanted to watch you serve him naked some more. Again, even as you are obeying him, something about the fact that you are in control, giving him what he wants as opposed to him taking it sends a rush of heat through your body.
You find the oil in a drawer. It is expensive, the same kind you use on yourself when you know he will be visiting your chambers — and which, you suppose, he uses himself on those very nights, since he keeps these encounters as brief as possible. You lather it on your hands, then kneel back down by his side to resume your work.
He has grown harder, you find, though you do not comment on it. Your touch is more assured this time, firmer, and though he does not say a word, jaw clenched, jealously keeping any sounds to himself, you feel him react to it. Feel him grow firmer, twitching in your hand when you tighten your grasp, feel as the reddened tip of his cock starts leaking, dripping down your fingers, intermingling with the oil. A quiet hiss escapes him, even if he’s quick to swallow it. You’re a quick learner, figuring out his tells. How he shifts on the bed when your hand gets faster, how a shudder runs through his thigh when you use your thumb to press against the head. Once he is fully hard in your hand, you chance a look at him, and find him beautifully flushed, lips parted in a silent moan,red spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and his torso. Undeniable arousal sparks through you, and you press your legs tightly to provide some friction for yourself.
“Enough,” he rasps, not quite able to disguise the way he is panting, and you obey.
There is a light curve to his fully hard cock, you notice when you remove your hand — you’d only caught glimpses of it before, as he preferred mounting you.
“I will not fuck you tonight. How do you intend on satisfying me, then?”
You don’t dwell on the fact that he could not do it if he tried, nor could you ride him, not with his injuries. You know what answer he wants from you, though, again, that is mostly from whispers you’ve heard around the Keep. The very thought is quite scandalous for a lady.
“My mouth, my prince.”
His lips stretch into a satisfied grin, and despite his black eyes, he almost looks like himself again.
“You truly are a whore. A bad one, judging by your performance so far, but I suppose you can be taught yet.”
His taunts are not nearly as striking when he is still out of breath, but they do not help making you any less nervous. Touching him was one thing, but tasting him?
And Aerion is no help when he sees you hesitate.
“You have your orders, wife. You’re so desperate to serve your husband, you should have obeyed already.”
You don’t look at him, afraid you’ll give yourself away, show him your nervousness so he can cruelly poke at it some more. When you lean forward again, it’s slow and intentional. Your hand wraps around him again, and you start with a press of your mouth against the shaft, a kiss, discovering the feeling of his skin when you dart your tongue out against it. You find it salty, the undeniable taste of him mingling with that of perfumed oil.
You lick alongside his length, cautious, maybe a hint of teasing when he twitches underneath your touch and a low, keening sound rises from his chest. At last, you wrap your lips, cautiously, around the red and leaking tip of his dick, and he draws in a sharp gasp. You’re careful to open your mouth wide, not allow your teeth graze to against it, and let the weight of it settle on your tongue for a moment before you brazenly swirl it around him. It tears a brief, strangled sound from him, and you repeat the experience, more intense, more pressing this time.
You bob your head forward, trying to take more of him in, but you have to come up once the head of his cock presses against your palate. Aerion snorts derisively.
“As much as I would enjoy choking you to death on my cock, your job is not finished here. Consider breathing.”
You take the advice for your second attempt, breathing in through your nose. You manage to take him a little deeper this time, and you hollow your cheeks around him. You’re immediately rewarded by a loud, free moan, one Aerion doesn’t manage to catch in time.
You’re not surprised when his good hand, the left one, comes to bury punishingly in your hair. For a second, the touch is light, fingertips against the nape of your neck that send shivers down your spine. Then it turns hard, nails scraping against your scalp, hand pushing you down before pulling you up, and it’s your turn to be unable to stop yourself from whimpering.
His cock unmistakably jerks when you do. You keep the thought in mind.
“You’re quite the useless whore. I suppose you must have everything taught to you.”
Aerion does his best to keep his tone lazy, nonchalant, but it is easy to know better when he is rock hard and leaking inside your mouth. Still, you must brace yourself when he forces you down on his cock and up against, throat constricting around him with choking sounds, his own groans of pleasure half hidden underneath your high-pitched whimpers. You raise your eyes towards him, wide and pleading, and his face flashes with dark pleasure. You’re absolutely and entirely at his mercy, in a situation you willingly put yourself in, and nothing could thrill him more. He uses you as he pleases, fisting your hair, hips jerking up into your mouth as much as he can in his state.
“Touch yourself,” he pants, breathless, not bothering to disguise it this time. “Make yourself peak with nothing but my cock in your mouth and your own fingers.”
You would never admit it out loud, but you are thankful for the order. Your core has been aching for a while now, your juices dripping down your thighs, and you have no need for the oil that still coats your fingers when you push them inside yourself.
You are, at least, no stranger to solitary pleasures. You have prepared yourself for your husband more than once and, since he had no interest in your pleasure, have ensured your own enjoyment on numerous occasions.
And still, you were not expecting the intensity of the pleasure you feel when you hastily insert two fingers and press them against a familiar, delicious spot. Your arousal — and maybe, dare you admit it, Aerion’s touch, for once focused and intent, if not gentle — heightens everything you’re feeling, tearing a loud, genuine moan from you. From the corner of your eye, you catch your husband throwing his head back as you do, mouth open, jaw slack with pleasure.
You rub your thumb against your clitoris, pleasure rapidly climbing after you denied yourself for so long. Aerion’s hand turns lighter in your hair, even as his hips start moving faster. You keep up your pace, and finally, he spills inside your mouth with a final cry. You keep yourself still, swallowing around the length the best you can as he softens, your hand desperately seeking your own peak. You reach it as he’s pulling you off him, moaning loudly, fulfilled but with a distinct sense of something unfinished. Your body, it seems, is craving him much more than your mind.
For a second, Aerion strokes your hair, hand tracing your jawline as he removes it, the touch almost gentle. His thumb presses to your lips, then against your tongue once you allow it inside. He breathes in slowly when he realizes your mouth is empty.
“I might make something out of you yet,” he drawls. “Now clean me.”
And you do. Naked. A cloth in your hand, dabbing it over his body, washing off the sweat and other fluids. Aerion is quiet during the process, watching you intently, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
Looking at you like no one ever has before.
“Go wash yourself,” he orders once you’re done, dismissing you like he would a servant. “I don’t want you stinking up the room.”
But his eyes follow you intently as you collect your clothes and dress yourself clumsily, all the way until you’ve walked out the door. And you can’t help but wonder if you’ve managed to sink your teeth into him, as you’d intended, or if you willingly stepped into the dragon’s maw, ready to be swallowed whole.
Alright, I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve been playing with the idea for this specific reader in my mind for a while now so I’m glad I’ve managed to get it out. This is my first piece for Aerion, so I’d love to hear if you enjoyed my characterization (you can also send an ask if you'd like to stay anonymous!). It is very anchored in Finn Bennett’s portrayal and what he said about Aerion’s state of mind by the end of the series. This is the most vulnerable Aerion can get, which, obviously, is why the reader chooses this opportunity to endear herself to him. And Aerion, while knowing that she probably wants something out of this (though he doesn’t realize what she wants is to… survive him), is so desperate for touch/affection/affirmation that he’ll take whatever she has to give, even if really, she’s the one in control here.
My headcanon for the reader in this is that she’s from an important noble house, though not one of the great houses. Based on characterization, she’s probably not from the North, Dorne or the Iron Islands, but anything else is open to interpretation. I’m leaning Vale or Reach, but it’s unlikely that this will come up if I write more for this reader, which I'd love to do if you guys liked this!
Thank you for reading and I would love to know your thoughts! Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated <3
warnings. dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.
gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.
You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.
"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."
She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.
Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.
And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.
At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.
Your husband. The one you were meant for.
A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.
Aerion Targaryen.
A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.
Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.
After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.
Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.
You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.
"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."
But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.
Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.
"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."
Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.
Oh.
You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."
"He will be the last."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.
Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.
The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.
You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.
Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.
He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.
And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.
Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.
The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.
“A cruel fate for one so young.”
“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”
"May the Gods have mercy upon you."
You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.
Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.
Gently, almost tenderly.
"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.
You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.
You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.
He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."
Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.
There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.
He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.
"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.
A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.
You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.
A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.
"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.
"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?
"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."
"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."
You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.
"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.
That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."
You blinked.
Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.
How could you have missed that?
Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.
Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.
You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.
"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.
You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."
He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.
“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.
You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.
He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.
"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.
"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."
But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.
And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.
Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.
The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.
"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."
A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.
You swayed lightly. "Maybe."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.
It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.
You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.
There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.
How wrong you were.
When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.
He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.
"Husband."
He kept silent.
Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.
"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.
No pretense, no show. Sincere.
It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.
Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.
You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.
“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”
He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."
You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.
“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.
His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.
You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.
“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.
In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.
But this time you couldn't keep it in.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.
Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.
He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.
The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.
"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.
Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.
You didn't respond.
"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.
You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.
"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."
A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.
It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.
And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.
At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.
Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.
His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.
And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.
It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.
Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.
He would always be a monster to them.
His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.
He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.
“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.
I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”
You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”
His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.
have you got any fics to recommend? I'm interested in what you read!
Honestly, not that many 😭 I never get new fics/posts on my FYP, and every time I search for x readers, the same fics always pop up 😔. But the dark fics I usually read are from @valarrswhitestreak , @loveobx , @ethrlst , @mrsdarkandyandere7 , and @cintoasted .
For non-dark fics, I love @lalalovelyly ’s stories, especially her Bastards, Dragons and Royals series. I can’t wait for the Aerion version because she said it’s going to be a bit darker. I also love @osarina ’s works, especially her Aerion x Volantene reader, and @idksmtms ’s Baelor stories are my favorites. Last but not least, @ghostlybfgf , who does both dark and non-dark fics, has amazing stories too. 😭
Sooo what would happen if the former bethrothed of wife!reader who is now a widow because his lady wife died, visited her in summerhall and at first Aerion wasn’t even aware that there was a guest because he is just too busy with lyra but when the servants starts to whispers of this same handsome lord courting her and suggesting her an annulment, and he sees how she is smiling and she looks so pretty again what would he do? Because I think the situation would stress him even more because she seems to not care anymore about him, and each time they interact he is crueler than before and his father is not against letting her go through with the annulment… 😝
I love the way your brain works, ahhhhh
but let’s make it more interesting and have her old betrothed propose the annulment behind her back— just for the plot
husband!Aerion x wife!Reader
summary: For days now, your old betrothed has been walking the halls of Summerhall— and you seem to be blooming again, truly enjoying his presence. But it doesn't last long, because your husband quickly steps in to ruin it. Eventually, you let your lust take over you.
cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion, strong language, power imbalance, cheating, abusive relationship, manhandling, fingering(f!receiving), graphic violence, voyeurism & exhibitionism, dub-con, mentions of grief/childbirth loss(not the main characters/reader)
wc: 4k
For the past few days, Gerold Lannister has been a constant presence in the hallways of Summerhall, brightening the gloomy rooms with his warm, easy charm. More than anything, you are overjoyed to have a familiar face nearby—someone completely untainted by the suffocating, toxic atmosphere of the castle. It is a breath of fresh air.
A few weeks ago, you received word that his wife had tragically passed away in childbirth, taking their newborn babe with her. Unable to fathom the depths of such grief, you began writing to him. What started as a simple letter of condolence quickly blossomed into a meaningful correspondence, eventually prompting the man to pay a visit to Summerhall. Officially, of course, his journey is a diplomatic one—an opportunity to strengthen political ties and get to know Prince Maekar a little better.
In reality, he has spent far more time with you over the last few days than he has with the Prince. Your mornings have settled into a comforting routine: a quiet stroll through the gardens followed by hours spent talking on a secluded bench, as if neither of you carried the heavy burden of royal expectations. For the first time in years, you are actually happy. Usually, the people around you are either bound to you by duty or choose to ignore your existence entirely.
Your sudden happiness hasn't gone unnoticed. You are blooming; your hair has regained its luster, you’ve begun wearing your finest silks and jewelry again, and the hollow expression on your face has been replaced by a frequent, genuine smile.
At first, Aerion paid no attention to the change—ignoring how you sat at your vanity for hours while your ladies-in-waiting dressed you, how you rose at dawn just to walk before breakfast, or how you suddenly took an interest in buying vibrant new fabrics from the market.
He only realized something was wrong when he caught sight of you sitting alone on a bench with the Lannister heir. He watched from afar as your bodies leaned in close, noting how you shyly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—a nervous habit you used to have around Aerion when you were freshly in love. He used to call that your "tell"; it was how he always knew he had won your affection.
It is no surprise that you are drawn to Gerold. He was, after all, your former betrothed—before Aerion decided to tear the match apart before it could even begin. Years ago, Aerion had called off your engagement faster than you could blink, ensnaring you instead with empty promises and a hollow affection that drew you helplessly under his spell. Even now, the memory of the absolute chaos you two caused—and how furious your parents were over those reckless, impulsive choices—lingers in the air.
But all Aerion sees now is you slipping through his fingers, craving another man's warmth. A sickening, sharp pang of jealousy flares in his chest. He wants nothing more than to punish you for looking at someone else with such passion. He forces himself to stay in control, knowing that reacting too violently would expose his weakness, but God only knows how utterly unhinged he feels in this exact moment.
Stepping out from the shadows, he casually slides onto the bench right beside you, draping a heavy arm over your shoulder with a practiced, hollow smile. "Good morning, wife. Aren't you going to introduce me?" he asks cheerfully, his voice entirely devoid of the malice burning inside him.
The easy atmosphere vanishes instantly, and your posture stiffens under his touch. "Husband," you murmur politely, "this is Gerold Lannister—"
"—perhaps you remember me from before you intervened, back when I still intended to make your wife my bride," Gerold cuts in, his tone sharp. The corner of Aerion's mouth twitches, his fake smile dropping instantly to reveal his usual cold, hardened expression. His grip tightens painfully against your shoulder. Yet, despite the tension, you can't help but look down, a small, subtle smile playing on your lips.
"Ah, yes. I heard your wife passed recently. You have my condolences," Aerion replies, though his words drip with a cruel, mocking sarcasm rather than genuine sympathy. Gerold flinches slightly at the jab. For the rest of the morning, you are trapped between two men locked in a silent war of egos. Aerion sits beside you with an aggressive, dominant stance, his leg deliberately brushing against yours at every opportunity.
When a maid finally approaches to call you away, you practically leap from the bench. Following her toward the dining hall, you feel the suffocating weight lift from your chest with every step of distance you put between yourself and your husband.
For the days that follow, Aerion becomes crueler than ever before. If once you believed his neglect to be the worst punishment he could inflict, you soon discover how mistaken you are. Indifference is a mercy compared to obsession— now his eyes never leave you. Where once he treated you as though you were invisible, he now watches your every movement with unnerving attention. Wherever you go, he is there. If you walk through the halls, his presence lingers somewhere behind you. If you dine, his gaze finds you across the table. If you ride, he appears nearby beneath one excuse or another— it is as though a shadow has attached itself to your heels. The constant scrutiny becomes unbearable.
At least the nights remain your own. Aerion still spends them in the chambers of his beloved, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the silence of your rooms. There is something almost laughable in the arrangement when viewed from afar. The mornings belong to you, the nights to her— neither woman receives the whole of him, and yet somehow both are burdened by his presence. Worse still, Gerold becomes increasingly difficult to see. Since the incident, opportunities for private conversation have nearly vanished. Every corridor seems watched. Every gathering feels observed.
One night, unable to endure it any longer, you make a decision. If Aerion is elsewhere, then you intend to make use of his absence. Sleep refuses to come regardless— for hours you toss restlessly beneath your blankets, staring into darkness while thoughts churn endlessly within your mind. At last, with a quiet sigh of frustration, you rise from your bed. A light mantle is thrown over your nightdress, concealing it from curious eyes.
Then you slip from your chambers. The guard stationed outside your door immediately straightens, “my lady?”, “I need a breath of fresh air,” you reply. The man takes a step forward, clearly intending to accompany you— you stop, “alone.” The single word leaves little room for argument. Reluctantly, he bows his head.
You move through the sleeping castle with careful steps, your heart beating faster than it should. Moonlight spills through narrow windows, painting silver paths across the stone floors. Finding Gerold’s chambers proves easier than expected. Soon enough you stand before a familiar door. Fortune favors you tonight. No guards stand watch outside. For several moments you simply stare. Then you raise your hand and knock.
Only once.
The sound feels impossibly loud. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your mantle as you wait. Seconds later, the door opens. And there he is— the very man your thoughts have sought countless times these past weeks.
His hair is tousled from sleep, dark strands falling carelessly across his brow. His chest is bare, illuminated by the warm glow of candlelight spilling from the room behind him. The sight catches you off guard. “I am sorry,” you say quickly, lowering your gaze. “I did not mean to wake you.” You focus desperately on anything but the exposed skin before you— the floor, the wall, the doorway— anywhere else.
“No, no,” he replies with a warm smile. “Come inside. I was simply unprepared for visitors”, his voice remains rough with sleep, deeper than usual. Stepping aside, he gestures for you to enter. Once the door closes behind you, he retrieves a shirt and pulls it over himself, sparing you further embarrassment. The room falls quiet.For a moment neither of you knows what to say— then you gather your courage.
“I feel alone,” you admit softly. “More alone than I have in a very long time.” Your fingers twist together before you. “Until you returned to my life.” He says nothing— you continue. “I am grateful for all the kindness you have shown me these past weeks. Truly grateful.” Silence settles between you— not an uncomfortable silence. A gentle one. The kind that exists only between people who understand one another.
Gerold studies you carefully. For him, the moment feels almost unreal. Like the fulfillment of a dream long abandoned. A smile appears upon his face before he can stop it. “I confess,” he says quietly, “I have cherished our time together as well” his gaze softens. “You have helped me forget many things I would rather not remember.” Slowly, he steps closer.
Then another.
And another.
The distance between you diminishes until his presence surrounds you completely. There is an intimacy in that simple closeness unlike anything you have felt from Aerion in recent memory. Soon only inches remain. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough that your pulse begins to race. Gerold lifts a hand— slowly, carefully. His fingertips brush the side of your neck. The touch is impossibly gentle. A shiver races across your skin— goosebumps rises along your arms. Your breathing grows heavier.
Your heart pounds against your ribs with such force that you fear he might hear it. Without a word, he reaches for the mantle draped around your shoulders. Slowly he draws it away. The garment slips downward, no longer shielding the delicate nightdress beneath. Your breath catches, “we should not do this,” you whisper. The protest sounds weak even to your own ears.
“Hush now, Princess. I would grant you a kindness in return for all the comfort you have shown me these past weeks,” the man says softly. As he speaks, his hand drifts ever lower, gliding from the swell of your breast, over the curve of your belly, and at last between your thighs. He draws aside the delicate garment that shields your modesty, though little distance remains between the two of you now. His brow rests near your neck, and he scatters tender kisses along your throat— kisses gentler by far than any Aerion has ever bestowed.
Slowly, yet with unwavering purpose, his fingers find the small, sensitive pearl hidden between your legs. They move in careful circles, coaxing pleasure from your body until your breath grows unsteady. One of your arms slips around his neck, drawing him closer as you press yourself against him. Gerold lifts you with surprising ease and settles you upon the table behind you. All the while, his lips continue their pilgrimage across your throat, and his hands work their quiet sorcery, never ceasing, never faltering.
Before long, you feel him ease himself from your embrace. He lowers himself to his knees before you and gently parts your legs with both hands. His lips begin to wander across the soft flesh of your inner thighs, placing reverent kisses there as though worshipping at a sacred altar.
“Do you trust me?” he asks between those kisses, his voice rich with temptation. All you can offer in reply is a desperate nod. You feel his mouth drawing ever nearer to your most intimate flesh. Your head falls back. Your breathing trembles, caught between nervousness and longing. Somewhere within, you know what passes between you is wrong— yet you have hungered for the touch of a man for so long that you cannot bring yourself to ask him to stop.
Then his mouth finds you. You feel him suck gently at your most sensitive place while his tongue labors to draw more pleasure from you. Two fingers move within you, slow and steady, sliding in and out with maddening precision. Your hands seem to belong to someone else. Again and again, they find his hair, tugging at it— whether you wish to push him away or pull him closer, even you cannot say. Your lips part into a silent circle. A moan swells within your throat, too much to remain hidden.
It has been so long since you have felt this desired. So long since you have felt worthy of devotion and attention. Strange that such feelings come only through the hands of another man. A heat begins to gather deep within your belly. It grows stronger with every passing moment until it bends your back and tears a helpless cry from your lips. You press his head closer still, drunk upon desire as though it were the strongest wine ever poured.
So intoxicated are you that you fail to notice the figure standing in the doorway.
Your husband.
Aerion watches in utter silence— his face is carved from stone. Your heart stumbles within your chest. Your first instinct is to shove the man away— yet the aching need for release has wrapped its claws around you and will not let go. Instead, you find yourself looking directly into Aerion’s eyes while another man’s tongue and fingers continue their work upon your body.
He is testing you. He wishes to see whether you will cast the man aside— or continue. Aerion stands motionless, as though frozen in place. His eyes cling to the sight before him with a terrible fascination. His irises appear nearly black, swallowed by pupils widened despite the bright chamber— they have widened from desire, a desire he struggles with all his strength to suppress.
He stares at you— perhaps he wishes to tear you apart. Perhaps he wishes to throw the man from the nearest tower. Perhaps both. The muscles of his face are drawn so tightly that it seems the vein upon his brow might burst. His jaw is locked. His brows are pulled together in furious restraint.
Your own breathing becomes ragged. Your chest rises and falls with hurried gasps. Against all reason, the knowledge that Aerion watches and does nothing only deepens your arousal. In your thoughts, it is not Gerold upon his knees. It is Aerion.
You imagine his tongue upon you. You imagine his hand gripping your thigh, fingers digging firmly into your flesh to keep you still. You imagine his lips wandering across every inch of your body, warm and demanding.
Then it comes— your body erupts with bliss. A loud moan escapes you. The sensation is overwhelming, a flood of pleasure so fierce that it steals the strength from your limbs and tears a hoarse cry from your throat. You cling to the man before you, fearing that if you let go, reality itself will come crashing down around you.
Aerion watches every detail. He sees your trembling legs attempting to close. He sees your eyes roll back. He sees your nails buried in the man’s hair. He notices the sheen of sweat upon your upper lip and every sound that escapes your mouth. He notices everything— so much so that even he can no longer deny the effect the sight has upon him.
At last, the man withdraws his fingers and gazes up at you in admiration. To him, you are a masterpiece. His eyes linger upon his glistening hand, slick with evidence of your pleasure. A faint smile touches his lips. Slowly, he raises those fingers and smears their moisture across your mouth like paint upon a canvas— You part your lips and he slides his fingers inside. And you clean them with your tongue while never once breaking eye contact— the chamber falls silent.
Then Aerion speaks, “I see you have been enjoying the company of my wife, Gerold.” The words strike like a hammer. The man jerks upright and turns. You hastily wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your gown and tug your garments back into place. “My Prince—” “Shhh.”, Aerion is suddenly beside him. One finger rests against the man’s lips, “say nothing.” His voice is calm— far too calm. The courage that filled you only moments ago vanishes like mist before the sun.
“You know,” Aerion says, pacing slowly across the chamber, “I believed my wife capable of many things. Yet a whore…” a dark laugh interrupts his own sentence. The sight of him moving back and forth only deepens the dread gathering in your stomach. Then he stops and raises a finger. “Though perhaps the fault lies with me. I have neglected her of late. Yes. Neglected. That seems the proper word.”
His gaze never leaves Gerold. “And she believes herself entitled to share her bed with another man. Is that not so, Wife?” The final word is spoken like an insult— the air in the room grows heavy. You attempt to hold his gaze, but anger forces you to look away.
Aerion studies the man before him. He sees the fear hidden beneath the bravado. At length, he exhales a quiet laugh. “With which hand did you touch her?“, “My Prince—”, “Which hand?”
The question cracks through the room like a whip. Aerion takes a step forward. “Or was it both?” The whisper carries the weight of a threat. “The right, my Prince.” Aerion nods—nothing more. Then he steps back. “Ser Harys. Enter.” The guardsman immediately obeys.
Suddenly, realization crashes over you like icy water— “No,” you whisper. No one hears. The guard waits for his command.
“Remove the boy’s right hand,” Aerion says. “He has laid hands upon a member of the royal family.” The words are spoken without emotion— the room darkens around you. “Ser Harys, you cannot— Prince Maekar would never permit such a thing—” you try to protest. “Do not listen to her,” Aerion snaps. “I am your prince.”
The guard hesitates only a moment. Then duty prevails— steel flashes. The man struggles to maintain his pride until the final instant, but when the blade bites through flesh and bone, a scream bursts from him. A terrible scream. One that seems to tear straight through your heart— you cry out as well.
The sight is unbearable. Blood spills across the table. The severed hand tumbles to the floor. The man collapses, begging for help. And all of it feels like your fault. You leap forward, desperate to reach him, desperate to ease his suffering— however, Aerion catches your arm. He drags you back so sharply that you stumble against his chest. “Fetch the maesters!” you cry. “Help him!” The guard rushes to obey.
“Look well, Wife,” Aerion murmurs into your ear. He stands so close that his breath brushes your skin. “This is what becomes of men who draw too near to you.” A chill races through your body. “You should think carefully before repeating such mistakes,” he continues. “Perhaps five times carefully. That is how many fingers he has lost today, is it not?” You can scarcely breathe.
Blood stains the chamber. The wounded man whimpers in agony. His severed hand lies abandoned upon the stones. You turn your head away. At last, Aerion releases you— the moment freedom is granted, you flee. You rush from the chamber and nearly collide with a maester hurrying inside. “Forgive me,” you manage to say.
Behind you, Aerion remains where he stands. And deep within him some dark and pathological hunger has— for the moment, been satisfied.
·༻𐫱༺·
“Have you lost what little wits the gods granted you, boy?!” Maekar’s voice crashes through the chamber like thunder. At the far end of the table sits Aerion, silent and unmoving, while his father paces before him like a caged beast. For what feels like an eternity, the older man has stalked the length of the room without rest, turning sharply at every corner— his boots striking the stone floor with enough force to shake the very air.
The sight would almost be comical were it not for the fury written across his face. “As though it were not enough that you shame this family with your endless scandals,” Maekar continues, his voice no softer despite the minutes that have already passed, “you have now commanded a royal guard to sever the hand of a nobleman!” His words echo from the walls— Aerion says nothing.
For nearly a quarter of an hour the tirade has continued uninterrupted. Complaint after complaint pours from Maekar’s lips while Aerion remains seated, listening in grim silence. Whether it is patience or stubbornness that keeps him rooted to that chair, even he may not know. “How is it possible,” Maekar demands, throwing his hands into the air, “that a man of your age can still behave with such astonishing foolishness? Did I not raise you with my own hands? Did I not teach you better than this?”
The prince finally halts his pacing. With long strides he approaches the table until he stands directly before his son. “Do you possess the slightest understanding of what this may cost us?” he asks. “Do you understand what sort of scandal you have unleashed upon this house?” Aerion merely shakes his head— “No. He laid hands upon my wife. He crossed a boundary no man should cross. Now he suffers the consequences of his actions.”
A sharp crack resounds through the chamber as Maekar slams his palm against the table. “Your wife?” he roars. “You speak of your wife as though you have shown her any honor! You stained that marriage from its very beginning!” The words strike true and Aerion’s jaw tightens. The muscles along his neck draw taut, yet he offers no answer.
“Lord Lannister will demand justice,” Maekar continues. “The man will demand your hand in payment for the one his son has lost—“ “Then perhaps his son should tell him precisely what he was doing,” Aerion replies coldly. “Perhaps then the Lannister boy would cease questioning the honor of House Targaryen.”
The older man stares at him in disbelief. For a long moment, only silence remains between them. At last Maekar exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his face. “Boy,” he says, the fire in his voice giving way to weary resignation, “you should pray that young Lannister does not seek vengeance for this. Pray harder than you have ever prayed in your life.”
The strength seems to leave him all at once. He sinks into the nearest chair as though carrying the weight of the realm upon his shoulders. For several moments neither man speaks.
Then Maekar leans back and studies his son. “There is something else you should know.“ Aerion finally lifts his gaze. “Several days ago, he came to me seeking an annulment“ the words hang in the air. “He spoke of ending this marriage entirely. In fact, he offered the suggestion gladly enough— the boy proposed binding you instead to that little whore you have been keeping company with and allowing her to go free.”
Aerion’s expression darkens, Maekar notices. He continues nonetheless, “as compensation, he offered to persuade his father to provide substantial payment to the Crown. Enough to smooth over the matter and preserve appearances“ a bitter laugh escapes him. “And I very nearly agreed“ the confession causes Aerion’s eyes to narrow. “Of course,” Maekar adds, “I would have spoken with you first. Yet somehow I knew you would never accept such an arrangement.”
His gaze drifts toward the window. “Not because of honor. Not because of duty.” His eyes return to his son, “but because you cannot bear to be without her.” Aerion remains silent. The accusation lands harder than any shout. “You forget,” Maekar says quietly, “who begged for this marriage”, his voice is calm now, stripped of all anger. “You were the one who came to me. You were the one who pleaded with me to arrange the match despite her betrothal to the Lannister heir.”
The room grows still, “so do not stand before me now and pretend she means nothing to you.” For a long moment, Maekar simply looks at him— Gods above, where had he failed? What mistake had he made that this man sat before him as his son? The thought alone exhausts him. At last he shakes his head, “I am ashamed of you,” the words are not shouted— they are spoken softly. Yet they cut deeper than every accusation that came before.
Aerion rises so suddenly that his chair scrapes violently across the floor. For the first time that evening, genuine emotion flashes across his face— not anger, not arrogance, something far more wounded. Without another word, he turns and strides from the chamber, the doors slam shut behind him. Maekar is left alone with the echo.
a/n: just so you guys know, this is what happens when another man touches what’s his… so let’s rethink about her cheating again
summary: One day, amidst the sun-drenched paths of the Summerhall gardens, you came upon the very silk you had labored over for your husband. There it lay, held by one of your own ladies-in-waiting- the final, damning proof that Aerion’s heart was as faithless as the shifting winds.
cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion, strong language, manipulation, power imbalance, mentions of cheating, abusive relationship, choking
wc: 2,3k
Within the gardens of Summerhall, the blooms stir to life once more and the sun casts a radiance fiercer than any season past.
There, beneath the golden light, you sit upon a cloth with your ladies-in-waiting. It has become a custom of sorts, to seek the cool grass of Summerhall’s inner courts once the morning meal is done.
"A knight from the singers’ tales, perhaps, but one without a copper to his name, Jeyne," one of your ladies scoffs, for what is a gathering of highborn maids without a sharpened tongue? "His lord father gambled away three years of harvests over the dicing tables in Braavos. That silver he wears is naught but polished iron."
You listen in silence, watching them, their easy joy and contentment lend a fragile peace to your own mind. "And yet," another lady intersperses, drawing a sharp, collective gasp from the circle, "he spoke with the Princess for two turns of the glass yestereve. Without a witness to be found- save for the stone faces of the trees."
As the gossip deepens, your gaze wanders to a rose swaying beside you. Absentmindedly, you reach for it, only to recoil as a thorn bites deep into your flesh. "Ah!" You pull your hand back, crimson welling upon your skin.
"Princess, what has occurred?" cries Lyra, the first of your ladies and your longest companion.
"’Tis but a scratch, nothing more," you murmur. But before you can move, a hand clasps yours and a cloth is pressed against the wound to staunch the flow.
Your heart stops as you recognize the fabric. You know it better than your own reflection- the white favor you gifted to Aerion on his nameday. An 'A' is stitched into the corner, framed by a delicate pattern of blossoms inspired by these very gardens. Your spirit darkens in an instant, a shift that does not go unnoticed. The others stare, but you have eyes only for the silk in your hand.
"Where did you come by this?" you whisper, your voice trembling. No answer comes. You lift your eyes to catch Lyra’s expression, and the dread begins to coil in your gut. She avoids your gaze, whether from shame or some hidden guilt, her head bowed as she picks feverishly at her nails until they bleed. Her silence is an admission more piercing than any word. The faces of your ladies blur into pale, faceless masks. Without a word, you rise and flee the gardens, leaving behind the women you trusted- and the one you thought would never betray you.
Your heart hammers against your ribs like a caged bird. The stone flags of the hall seem to tilt beneath your feet as if the very earth sought to swallow you whole. The Great Pillars begin a slow, cruel dance around you, and you stumble as if driven by an invisible gale.
You knew well enough how cruel Aerion could be, how he delighted in testing your resolve and how deep his resentment ran. Yet, even in your darkest fancies, you could not have fathomed this. No- even for Aerion, this would be a fresh descent into malice.
Lost and adrift, you sought the sanctuary of your chambers- the rooms you shared with Aerion. The silk of your gown felt like a tightening noose, a cage of fabric that stole the very air from your lungs. With hands trembling and frantic, you clawed at the laces, desperate to grant your chest room to heave, struggling against the knots as if fighting for your life.
At last, the pressure eased. You sank onto the edge of the great bed, pressing a palm hard against your breast until the frantic drumming of your heart slowed to a rhythmic thrum. You forced the breath in and out, fighting to anchor your soul.
In the sudden, cold clarity of your mind, the betrayal cut deep. How could he do this? You had yielded everything expected of a highborn wife- love, devotion, obedience, and the intimacy of the marriage bed. It had never been enough. Your heart, shattered a thousand times before, lay in shards once more. But this time, you did not let the sorrow drown you; you let the embers of your fury take root instead.
You knew what must be done, he would face your reckoning. The tears you hadn't even realized were falling began to dry, leaving salty tracks upon your cheeks. Wounded and weary, you curled upon the furs, pulling your knees to your chest and burying your face in the linens. You wished only to vanish from the world- wishing you had never known his name, and wishing, most bitterly of all, that you had never gifted Lyra your trust.
Sleep claimed you for hours, an undisturbed silence that offered no true peace. When you finally stirred, a dull ache throbbed behind your eyes, and the memories of the afternoon rushed back like a rising tide.
Gazing through the casement, you saw the sky bleeding into the bruised purples and golds of sunset. It was the hour for the evening feast. You rose to bathe your face and change your attire: the gown you wore was rumpled and creased- a ruined thing, much like the day itself.
When you entered the great hall for the evening feast, your lord husband was already seated, flanked by his kin. To your relief, the rest of the family paid you little mind, their voices lost in the clatter of plates and the pour of wine. You took your place beside Aerion, who sat with the expectant air of a man awaiting his due- a kiss upon the cheek, perhaps, or the soft lingering of your hand upon his sleeve. Yet, you offered him nothing. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, a wall of ice between you, though you could feel his eyes boring into the side of your face.
To sit so near him, with the scent of his skin and the heat of his body pressing close, felt like a sickness after what you had discovered. You made a pretense of listening to the low hum of courtly talk, but it reached you only as a muffled din. The food upon your trencher was turned and pushed about with the point of your knife, never once reaching your lips. Your appetite had perished in the gardens of Summerhall.
Aerion’s scrutiny grew sharp. He noted the wildness of your hair, the laces of your gown pulled tight but crooked at the back, and the telltale puffiness of your lids- reddened from a day spent in salt and sorrow. It rankled him. In his dark, possessive heart, he demanded to be the sole author of your every humous. Whether it be love or agony, he wished to be the one who commanded it, the mere thought that some other grief or some other person occupied your mind kindled a slow fire of rage within him.
His patience snapped as he watched you toy with your meat. He let his silver clatter onto the board with a sharp ring and leaned in close, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.
"If you do not begin to swallow, I shall see to it you receive even less in the moons to come, you ungrateful chit," he hissed, his voice a low venom that went unheard by the rest of the table.
Finally, your eyes met his- burning with a cold fury and a soul-deep disappointment that seemed to catch him off guard. Without a single word, you rose so abruptly your chair screeched against the stone. Your own cutlery fell with a deafening clang as you turned your back on the feast. With steps quick and fierce, you swept from the hall, leaving the silence of the high table trailing in your wake.
Aerion followed at your heels with quick, heavy strides. "Stand still!" he shouted, but you did not stop. He grew more angry by the second, confused by what had come over you. You rushed into your chambers, but before you could bar the door, he threw it open and slammed it shut behind him.
Without a moment’s delay, Aerion grabbed you by the hair and pulled you toward him until your bodies were pressed together. "What madness is this, huh?" His lips were pulled tight in rage, and his grip was hard and painful- nothing you hadn't felt before.
You did not wish to speak- you refused to even look him in the eye. But once again, he reminded you who held the power. He yanked your hair even harder, forcing your head back to get his answer. Your hand went to his chest, though you weren't sure if you meant to push him away or simply find your balance.
Tears began to well as you struggled to keep your feelings inside. Your face bore the look of a wounded pup, crushed by a sudden blow. "I know about you and Lyra," you said, your voice shaking with grief. "You gave her my silk, the very cloth I stitched for you with my own hands."
Aerion’s eyes grew softer for a moment, but his look did not truly change, and his hand stayed knotted firmly in your hair.
Yet his expression shifted swiftly, settling into a dark amusement rather than any show of remorse. His lips curled into a cruel smile. "All this grief for a mere scrap of cloth? How wretched." You recoiled, your eyes searching for even the smallest spark of shame, but you found only a void.
He leaned closer until his nose brushed yours, his voice a low, foul murmur against your ear. "I bestowed it upon her after she had served me well between the sheets. There was a bit of my spent seed upon her face, I believe, so I let her have the rag to wipe it away." You were paralyzed, caught between a sickening disgust for his words and the raw sting of betrayal.
He straightened slowly, studying your features with a cold eye before letting out a sharp, jagged laugh. He knew well the wound he had carved into you- he savored the trembling of your lips and the way your hand retreated from his chest as if burned.
"What? Did you truly believe a man of my blood could ever be bound to one woman?" The words left him like whetted steel, piercing straight to your heart. "Release me," was your only plea. You craved distance- his very presence felt like a poison. With a sudden, mocking shove, Aerion cast you aside, sending you stumbling back.
As you stood there, frozen in your hurt, he turned away and began to strip his garments for the night. You stared at the floor, lost, before spinning to face him once more. "Why wed me at all, if this is the life you intended? Why me, when you might have taken any maid in the realm?" Your voice was heavy with a mounting sorrow. Aerion kept his back to you, indifferent to your pain as he continued his task.
His coldness kindled a fire in your veins. You were weary of being treated as naught but a shadow. "I stood by you, Aerion! When your lord father called you a failure, when the world saw only the monster within you, I remained. I forgave you every blow, every time you raised your hand in rage!" Your voice rose, jagged and fierce.
Slowly, Aerion turned, clasping his hands before him as he leaned back with a terrifying calm. "Another woman? What if I were to take a man to my bed? What if- " But the words died in your throat. In a single, blurred motion, his hand was crushed around your neck. He pinned you there, squeezing until the light began to fade from the room. Instinctively, your fingers clawed at his.
"Never let the thought of another man cross your lips again," he hissed, his face a mask of possessive rage. "I did not wed a whore." You could scarcely hear his venom over the roar of blood in your ears. The mere mention of another had turned his world black- his ego was a towering thing, and his obsession too deep to suffer the thought of you belonging to anyone but him.
You thrashed against him, beating at his wrist and pulling at his fingers in a desperate bid for breath. Just as the darkness threatened to take you, he released his grip. You collapsed to your knees, gasping for the air you had been denied, your body trembling upon the cold floor.
"Speak of another man again, and I shall have your tongue," he warned, his voice cold and final, before he returned to his business as if you were of no more consequence than a flickering candle. From your place upon the floor, you saw only the dark leather of his boots. You knew then that if you were forced to lie in that same bed tonight, to feel the heat of him beside you, your very mind would shatter.
You scrambled to your feet and fled the chambers without a second look. You had no destination in mind, only a desperate need to be far from him. Driven by instinct, you sought the comfort of your ladies, who watched your sudden entrance with wide, confused eyes.
Within the room, Aerion heard only the heavy thud of the oak door as it swung shut. He turned, finding the space where you had stood empty. You had run from him, just as every soul in his life eventually did. Yet he felt no urge to follow. In his eyes, you were but a spoiled brat and he would not grant you the satisfaction of a pursuit.
Warnings: Aerion being a bad husband/person, none beside that
Aerion stormed through the doors of your shared chambers, moving through the space like it personally offended him.
He found you in a corner, your eyes on the pages of some book, though your attention was fully on him.
He could tell, he always could. The tightness in your shoulders, the way your lips pressed into a thin line.
"You're angry at me," He said, mouth quirking up like it amused him.
You said nothing, because you knew not to provoke him. Sometimes your silence offered him more than your words did.
You sniffled. A simple cold had followed you for a week now, colouring your cheeks red and your eyes dull. Aerion had always made fun of your frail health and your many weaknesses, though it usually remained between the two of you.
This morning, he'd whispered something to a lord, which had ended in your embarrassment. You still did not know exactly what was shared between the men, but suddenly you had been treated like a glass doll, lords and ladies alike jumping to your aid at every misstep.
All eyes had been on you when you stumbled, heat creeping up to the back of your neck whilst Aerion laughed in his spot, joking of his frail, sick wife. The hall had laughed with him, and it gave you a moment to slip away and hide in your room until he found you again.
He stood in front of you still, his hand held on the hilt of his sword, posture relaxed. "I do not understand your frustration," He said, his tone softening, though you could hear the mockery laced within, "I merely meant to help you," He claimed.
You turned away from him, just slightly, but enough to draw his attention. "I do not want your help," You said, keeping your eyes on the book in your lap.
His hand shot out, grabbing your shoulder and twisting you until you faced him again. "You would rather face my wrath?" He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "It will not be kind."
"Was it kindness that drove you to shame me this morning? I think not."
"No," He agreed, catching your chin and forcing your gaze to meet his own. "But I am not made to be kind."
Your book lay forgotten in your lap as you tried to push at his arms, but his fingers held their iron grip on your jaw. They only tightened, if anything.
Aerion stood scowling down at you for a moment longer, lips pulled into a sneer. "Do not fight, it's futile."
Aerion moved slow and calculated, his fingers brushing down the line of your jaw until they reached your throat and paused there, waiting. The touch was far from affectionate, pressing into your skin insistently while his eyes searched yours, gauging your reaction.
When you gave none, he moved to his knees, slowly. Now at level with you, his hand cupped the back of your neck. Something glittered in his eyes, something dangerous that he concealed with feigned concern.
"I do not wish to be cruel with you," He whispered to you. His way of apologising, you figured.
And even though you knew he meant none of it and cared little for your well-being, it still made your heart leap and your stomach warm.
Aerion brought his face to yours then, and the brush of his lips against yours was enough to let you forget, even if it was only for a moment.
"I am not cruel with you," He murmured against you, and swallowed your answer with a kiss.
His tongue licked into your mouth, insistent and hot before he pulled away all too soon, the only warmth of him that lingered being the hand still on your neck.
"You will be a good wife, won't you?" He asked, and he sounded as a caring husband should. "No more running off, hmm?"
And you nodded, if it meant he would come closer once more, you always nodded. He smiled sweetly at that, at the way you sought his touch and were so pliant in his hands.
"Good girl," He praised, pressing one last kiss to the crown of your head as he straightened himself once more and released you completely.
He left you in the room alone, with only the memory of his touch and his faux affections.
You had learned to cherish them, for they were the only comfort this marriage could provide you, even if they weren't real.
He's evil and I love him exactly like that 🤞🤞
I'm almost at 200 followers and I cannot thank everyone enough, it means the world to me 🫶
SUMMARY: Kidnapped as a child and presumed dead, you survive years of abuse before becoming the kept woman of Prince Aerion Targaryen. In a world where survival means loving a monster, your fragile sense of safety shatters when your past resurfaces in the worst possible way.
TW: rape, sexual abuse, sex trafficking, forced prostitution, domestic abuse, dubious consent, trauma bonding, graphic violence, torture, child endangerment, kidnapping, misogyny
WC:25K
209 A.C Flea Bottom
The first thing you ever remembered was your brother’s hands.
Not your mother’s face, that was gone, worn away like a coin passed through too many fingers. You could summon the shape of her if you concentrated: the blurred watermark of a jawline, the suggestion of a mouth that laughed like a cracked bell, the smell of cheap wine and cheaper perfume that clung to her hair long after she stopped breathing. But her face? No. That belonged to the dark now, along with everything else from before.
But the hands, those you remembered. Dunk’s hands. Too large for a boy of eight, the knuckles already crosshatched with scars from street fights and kitchen fires, but impossibly gentle as they lifted you from the straw mattress where your mother lay cold and still. You had been five years old. You had not understood death, only that Mother would not wake. It was Dunk who wrapped you in a blanket thin enough to see through. Dunk who carried you out into the grey morning, your face pressed to his neck so you would not see the body being hauled away. Dunk who said, in a voice that splintered because he was barely more than a child himself, “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
And he had, you slept in doorways at first, curled together like kittens against the cold that seeped up through the cobblestones. Dunk learned quickly which bakers threw out day old bread and which watchmen could be bribed with a sad eyed look. He found work at an inn in Flea Bottom and the innkeeper’s wife let you sleep in the stables so long as Dunk scrubbed the floors and hauled the kegs and made himself useful in a dozen small ways. You would sit in the corner while he worked, your knees drawn up to your chin, watching him. Watching the boy melt away, season by season, into something that looked more like a man. He grew taller and broader and harder, his shoulders widening, his voice dropping. He was three years older than you, but sometimes he felt like thirty. He had never been a child. Neither of you had.
But you had each other. And that was enough. It had to be.
Every night, after his labors were done, Dunk would come to you in the stables. He would reek of sweat and sour ale, and he would lower himself onto the hay beside you with a groan that belonged to a man three times his age. And then he would tell you stories he’d gathered like dropped coins from travelers and old soldiers and the septon who sometimes came to beg a bowl of soup. Stories of knights who never faltered, dragons who spoke in riddles, castles of white stone that caught the sunrise like mirrors. Maidens so beautiful that kingdoms burned for a single glance.
You were twelve when the men began to notice you. It happened on an ordinary night, with an ordinary drunk who’d had too much ale and too little sense. You were carrying a tray of empty cups back to the kitchen, your arms aching with the weight, when a hand came out of nowhere and closed on your backside. You froze, no understanding of what the sudden heat crawling up your neck meant or why your body had locked itself rigid as a board. The man laughed and then Dunk was there.
One moment the drunk was leering at you, his hand still on your body, and the next he was on the floor with blood fountaining from his nose and Dunk standing over him like a thunderhead. He threw the man out into the mud, and when he came back inside his hands were trembling with a rage so profound it seemed to warp the air around him. “Stay close to me,” he said, and it was not a request. His voice was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that lives on the far side of fury. “Always. Do you understand? Always.”
You understood. From that day forward, you were never more than arm’s reach from your brother. When he walked to the market, you walked beside him, your fingers sometimes hooked into the rope that acted like a belt, when the crowds pressed too close. The men still looked, by fourteen, you had grown into the kind of beauty that stilled conversations mid sentence, your mother’s eyes and your unknown father’s soft mouth arranged on a face that seemed to belong in a ballad rather than a Flea Bottom inn, but they looked from a distance. Dunk saw to that.
You were inseparable. Joined at the hip, the innkeeper’s wife liked to say, shaking her head with a fondness that bordered on bewilderment. “Never seen the like. That boy would tear the world apart for his little sister.”
You were sixteen when everything ended. The festival came in the spring, an eruption of color and noise that spilled from the gates of the Red Keep and flooded through the city like a tide. Mummers on stilts, jugglers with flaming torches, singers with harps slung across their backs, knights in armor that caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand glittering shards. Dunk had been given the night off—a rarity—and he had taken your hand with a grin you hadn’t seen since you were children hiding from the rain under a stolen tarp. “Come on,” he said, and his eyes were bright in a way that made your chest ache.
You laughed and followed. The crowd was too thick. The torches made everything swim, light and shadow bleeding together until faces became masks and masks became faces. Dunk kept his hand clamped around your arm for the first hour, his grip unwavering, but then a knot of drunkards staggered between you and in the space of a single heartbeat, you lost him.
“Dunk?”
You rose onto your toes, straining above the heads of the crowd. You saw him turn, saw his mouth open to call back to you, saw the sudden alarm flash across his features, and then the surge of bodies carried you sideways, a riptide of flesh and noise, and you stumbled into an alley to escape the crush.
That was when they took you. There were three of them. You never saw their faces clearly, only hands. Rough and quick and impossibly strong, one clamping over your mouth, another banding around your waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You tried to scream. You bit down on the palm pressed against your lips, tasted blood and salt and felt the man curse and shift his grip, but there was no time. A sack came down over your head, coarse and stinking of something you did not want to name, and the world went dark and muffled and small.
The last thing you heard was the festival. The music, the laughter, the endless churn of celebration. It went on without you, as if you had never been there at all.
Dunk searched for three days. He did not sleep. He did not eat. He tore through Flea Bottom like a storm given flesh, overturning carts and kicking down doors, bellowing your name until his voice shredded into something barely human. He went to the City Watch, and they laughed, a girl from the slums, what did he expect? He went to the sept, and the septon only clasped his hands and murmured prayers that tasted like ash. He went to every inn, every brothel, every lightless corner of the city where a girl might be hidden or sold or worse, and he found nothing. Nothing. Nothing and nothing again.
On the fourth day, a woman came to him, she found him in the alley where you had vanished, sitting against the wall with his head in his hands, and she knelt beside him.
“You’re the one,” she said. Not a question. “Looking for the girl with the H/C hair. The pretty one.”
Dunk’s head came up so fast his neck cracked. “Where is she?”
The woman shook her head. Slowly. Deliberately. A gesture that held everything he did not want to know. “They found her in the water this morning, lad. Some men…” She paused, and something that might have been pity flickered across her ruined face. “They took her. And when they were done—” Her hands made a twisting motion, a brutal pantomime that needed no translation. “The women who found her said she was hardly recognizable. They’ve already burned the body. Too much damage, they said. You don’t want to see that. Trust me. You’re better off remembering her the way she was.”
Dunk did not speak. He simply sat there, staring at the woman’s face, and something inside him cracked straight down the middle and bled dry.
“Who?” His voice did not sound like his voice. “Who did it?”
“No one knows. Drunkards, maybe. Travelers passing through. They’re long gone now.” The woman rose, joints creaking, and looked down at him with something that was not quite pity and not quite indifference. “I’m sorry, lad. Truly.”
She left him there. And Dunk stayed. He stayed in that alley as the sun bled out and the moon rose pale and indifferent and the city settled into its night noises around him. His little sister was dead. He had promised—promised—to protect her, and she was dead. And the world, which had never been kind to either of them, now seemed to hold no color.
—
213 A.C Ashford
The gardens of Ashford Castle were not as grand as the ones in Summerhall but they were still beautiful. You had been here for less than a fortnight, arrived as part of Prince Maekar's retinue for the tourney celebrating Lord Ashford's daughter's nameday, and already the place had worked its way under your skin. The roses were in full bloom, cascading over stone walls in waves of crimson and gold and softest pink. The hedges were trimmed into the shapes of birds and beasts.
The little girl was running through the grass ahead of you, her silver gold hair streaming behind her like a banner caught in a high wind, her bare feet slapping against the earth with the unselfconscious joy of someone who had never known hunger or fear or the back of a stranger's hand. She was two years old, small for her age but fierce, so fiercely alive that it stopped your breath sometimes, with violet eyes that missed nothing and a laugh that could fill an entire hall and still demand more room.
"Rhaenyra," you called, and you tried to sound stern, you really did, but the smile kept breaking through no matter how firmly you set your jaw. "Come back here before you trip and ruin that dress."
"Won't," the child announced, with the absolute conviction of someone who had never been wrong about anything in her life, and kept running.
You sighed, gathered your skirts in both hands, and gave chase. The dress you wore was finer than anything you had owned before Aerion had claimed you, a gift he had given you specifically for this journey. Pale blue silk that whispered when you moved, with silver embroidery at the sleeves and neckline. He had wanted you to look presentable at Ashford. You suspected, though you had not said it aloud, that he also wanted to show you off. To remind his family, and perhaps himself, what he possessed.
You were twenty years old now, no longer the trembling girl who had been thrown into a black carriage while a brothel burned behind her, no longer the hollow eyed creature who had learned to disappear inside her own body while men did what they pleased. The past months and years had reshaped you, smoothed some of the sharp edges and hardened others.
But there was something new in you now, something forged in the long nights of learning to survive Aerion Targaryen and the longer days of learning to love your daughter. You knew how to bend without breaking. And you knew, with a certainty that lived in your bones like marrow, that you would kill any living soul who tried to harm your child.
Rhaenyra had tripped over an exposed root and was sitting in the grass, more affronted than injured, examining a smudge of dirt on her palm with the grave concentration of a maester confronted with an ancient and inscrutable text. You scooped her up before the tears could organize themselves, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in the smell of sunshine and crushed grass and something warm and sweet that was just her.
"Told you," you murmured into her hair. "You fell."
"Didn't cry," Rhaenyra pointed out. This was technically true, and there was a note of such fierce pride in her small voice that your heart performed an odd, painful little flip in your chest.
"No," you agreed, pulling back to look at her solemn face. "You didn't. You're a brave little dragon, aren't you?"
The child beamed. She adored being called a dragon. It was one of the few gifts Aerion had given her that did not make your stomach twist into complicated knots. This inheritance of fire and blood and the unshakeable conviction that she was meant for something magnificent.
You carried her back toward the castle, her small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, her voice a ceaseless ribbon of chatter about the butterfly she had almost caught and the bird that had flown directly over her head and the flower she had picked that was pink, Mama, pink and pretty and can I keep it forever please please please. You made the appropriate sounds of wonder and encouragement, your eyes scanning the courtyard as you crossed it, your body perpetually aware of who was watching.
The servants of Ashford avoided your gaze, much as the ones at Summerhall did. They had learned, over the course of the tourney's first days, to treat you with a careful neutrality. Not quite respect, not quite disdain, something suspended in the ambiguous space between. They knew what you were. Prince Aerion's paramour. The woman he had brought with him from Summerhall, installed in a guest chamber near his own, paraded through the grounds like a provocative piece of art he wanted everyone to see whether they wished to or not. They did not speak to you unless absolutely necessary, did not meet your eyes, did not acknowledge the child in your arms except to incline their heads stiffly and step aside.
Ashford Castle was a crowded place during the tourney. Lord Ashford's daughter Gwin had turned thirteen, and to honor her nameday, her father had declared a tourney that would last five days. Knights and lords from across the Reach and beyond had gathered to compete, their banners snapping in the spring breeze, their pavilions spreading across the fields like a crop of colorful mushrooms.
Prince Maekar's entire family had come with his children. You saw them sometimes, in the corridors or the courtyards or the great hall at supper, but you never spoke to them. You were not permitted. Prince Maekar had made that blisteringly clear from the very beginning, his voice cold with a disgust he did not bother to disguise.
"The woman stays in her chambers," he had told Aerion when he first met you. "I will not have her parading about in front of the children. She is a whore, Aerion. A whore and you will not embarrass this family."
Aerion had not argued. He rarely argued with his father directly. But he had kept you anyway, had dressed you in silk and silver, had installed you in a room that connected to his own. And now you were here, carrying your daughter back toward the keep while the roses nodded in the breeze and the distant sounds of the tourney grounds drifted over the walls like distant thunder. You had not been permitted to attend the jousts. Not since the yesterday.
You closed your eyes for a moment against the memory. It had been horrible. Aerion's tilt against Ser Humfrey. You had been watching from the stands, Rhaenyra on your lap, your heart in your throat the way it always was when he rode. He was a skilled jouster, your prince, but he rode with a recklessness that bordered on suicidal, and sometimes you thought he would not be satisfied until he left someone broken in the dirt.
This time, he had aimed too low. Deliberately, you were almost certain, though you would never say so aloud. His lance had struck Ser Humfrey's horse in the neck, a brutal, illegal blow that sent the animal crashing to the ground with a scream that would haunt your nightmares for weeks. Ser Humfrey had been thrown, his leg twisted at an angle that made your stomach lurch, and the horse had thrashed in the dirt with blood pumping from its throat.
The crowd had broken through the barriers. Prince Baelor Breakspear himself had risen from his seat, his face a mask of disgust, and you had seen the way he looked at Aerion. The way everyone looked at Aerion. Like he was something monstrous. Something broken beyond repair.
Aerion had found you afterward, still flushed with adrenaline, his eyes too bright. He had forbidden you from attending any more of the jousts.
"It's not safe," he had said, his grip on your arm just shy of bruising. "The crowds are unpredictable. The horses are dangerous. You and Rhaenyra will stay in the castle or the gardens. I don't want you anywhere near the lists."
You had not argued. You rarely argued with him about things that mattered. But you had seen the truth behind his words, the truth he would never admit. He did not want you to see him lose. He did not want you to see the way the other knights looked at him after what he had done.
So you had stayed away. You had walked in the gardens, and played with Rhaenyra, and smiled your careful smile whenever Aerion returned to your chambers in the evenings, bruised and bristling and desperate for the praise only you could give him.
"Up," Rhaenyra demanded as you approached the castle's side entrance. "Up high, Mama. I want to see."
You lifted her higher, settling her higher on your hip with the practiced ease of two years of motherhood, and she gazed around the corridor with the same wide eyed wonder she brought to everything. You loved her so much it scared you sometimes. Loved her with a ferocity that made the love you had felt for your own mother, dim and distant and blurred at the edges, seem like a candle held up against the sun.
"You spoil her."
The voice came from behind you, and you did not startle. Months with Aerion had taught you the particular cadence of his footsteps, the faint jingle of the sword he wore even at peace, the way the air in a room seemed to tighten and grow watchful when he entered. You turned, shifting Rhaenyra to your other hip with a fluidity that had become second nature, and offered him the smile you had perfected over your time together.
It was not a false smile. That was the strange thing, the thing that still surprised you when you stopped to examine it. It was not false at all. There was calculation in it, yes. There was calculation in everything you did, a habit you could not have broken if you tried. But there was warmth there too. The warmth of a woman looking at a man she had somehow, against all odds and reason, come to care for.
Love. The word still felt strange in your mouth, like a garment that did not quite fit. Aerion was not kind. He was not gentle. He was not good, in any sense that your brother Dunk would have recognized. But he was yours, in his possessive, consuming, infuriating way, and you were his, and somewhere in the crucible of the past years, that mutual belonging had transmuted into something that looked, from certain angles, remarkably like love.
He was not a tall man, standing at five and a half feet, and you knew it rankled at him. Knew that every inch he lacked compared to the warriors he trained with was a splinter under his skin. But what he lacked in height he more than compensated for in presence. The way his boots struck the stone floors, deliberate and commanding. The sharp, hawkish beauty of his face, all angles and shadows. The particular weight of his attention when it landed on you, heavy as a hand on your shoulder.
"My dragon," you said, and the word was warm, intimate, a private jest between you that no one else would recognize. "She wanted to explore the gardens. You know how she loves the roses."
He stepped closer, and Rhaenyra immediately lunged toward him, her small arms outstretched, her face alight with the uncomplicated adoration of a child who had never been given a reason to fear her father. "Papa! Papa, I found a flower!"
She had dropped the flower somewhere in the garden, of course. You had seen it fall, a little pink bruise against the green grass, left behind in her headlong rush toward the next thing and the next and the next. But Aerion did not know that, and you suspected he would not have cared if he did. He took the girl from your arms with an ease that still surprised you, settling her against his chest as naturally as if he had been doing it all his life.
Aerion, who was never gentle with anyone. Aerion, whose hands had left bruises on your body in the early days. Aerion, who had aimed his lance at a horse's throat and watched it die without flinching.
But Rhaenyra had never seen that side of him. Rhaenyra saw only the father who bounced her on his knee and called her his little dragon and looked at her as if she were the single good thing he had managed to produce in a life full of sharp edges and bad decisions. And you saw both versions of him, the monster and the man, and you had learned to hold them both in your mind at once, to love the whole complicated, contradictory mess of him.
"A flower," Aerion repeated, bouncing Rhaenyra gently against his chest. "What color?"
"Pink!"
"Pink," he said, with the solemnity of a man receiving a sacred revelation. "Pink is an excellent color. You have impeccable taste."
Rhaenyra giggled, burying her face in the curve of his neck, and Aerion's eyes met yours over the top of her head. There was something in his gaze. A flicker of warmth, a flicker of something that might have been gratitude. It made your heart clench in that way you had long since stopped trying to explain away.
I love him, you thought, and the thought did not feel like a lie. It felt like the truth, strange and inconvenient and slightly terrifying though it was. Gods help me, I truly do.
You knew what people would say if they could hear your thoughts. How can you love him? After what he did to that horse? After what he did to you? After what he is? And they would not be wrong to ask. The early days had been brutal; there was no use pretending otherwise. He had hurt you, in ways that still surfaced in your dreams on bad nights. He had fucked you without asking, had demanded without giving, had treated your body like territory to be conquered and your compliance like tribute to be extracted.
But then something had shifted. Slowly, incrementally, in the way of seasons changing. He had begun to see you. The woman who praised him when no one else would. The woman who listened to his fears and his rages and his strange, tangled dreams of dragonfire and destiny. The woman who had given him a daughter and held his hand through the disappointment and taught him, patient as a stone worn smooth by water, how to be something other than cruel.
And you had seen him, the man underneath, the one who craved praise because he had never received it, the one who lashed out because he had never learned another way to ask for what he needed. You had seen him, and against all wisdom, against all self preservation, you had loved him.
He still hurt you, sometimes. When his black moods descended and his hands grew rough and the words that came out of his mouth were designed to wound. But those moments were rarer now, spaced further and further apart, and after each one he would come to you with his arms full of gifts. Dresses of silk and velvet, jewels that glittered in their velvet nests, books with leather bindings and gold leaf on the pages that you devoured in the quiet hours when he was training and Rhaenyra was napping. He would hold you afterward, his face pressed into your hair, his arms wrapped around you like a cage he was afraid you might slip through.
"You understand me," he would whisper, and his voice would crack on the words in a way that made your heart splinter. "You're the only one who does. The only one who ever has. Don't leave me. Promise me you won't leave."
And you, holding him in the dark, would stroke his short silver hair and murmur the words he needed to hear. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm yours."
You meant them, too. That was the strangest part. After everything, you meant them.
Where would I even go? you thought, watching him bounce your daughter in his arms in this borrowed garden in a borrowed castle, surrounded by roses that belonged to someone else.
You looked at Rhaenyra, at the small, fierce face that was so clearly her father's, and you thought about the day she had been born.
It had been the longest day of your life.
The labor had lasted nearly eighteen hours. You had screamed until your voice gave out entirely, had bitten straight through the leather strap the midwife had given you, had prayed to gods you had not believed in since childhood to make it stop, please make it stop, I can't do this, I'm going to die, please let me die. Aerion had paced outside the door like a caged animal, his boots wearing a groove in the stone, demanding updates every few minutes and threatening bodily harm to the maester whenever the news was not to his liking.
"Is it a boy?" he had shouted through the door, over and over, his voice fraying at the edges. "Tell me it's a boy. It has to be a boy. I'm going to name him Maegor. A strong name. A dragon's name. Tell me!"
You had heard him, even through the wall of agony that had swallowed the world, and you had felt a cold dread settle into the pit of your stomach like a stone dropped into deep water. Maegor. He wanted to name his son after Maegor the Cruel. You had prayed then, harder than you had ever prayed in your life, with what remained of your shredded voice and your failing strength. Not a boy. Please, not a boy. Whatever else you give me, don't give me a boy who will carry that name.
The gods, for once in their capricious existence, had listened.
When the baby had finally emerged, slick and furious and impossibly, breathtakingly alive, the maester had looked between her tiny legs and pronounced, with the careful neutrality of a man who knew exactly how dangerous this moment was: "A girl, my prince. A healthy girl."
The silence that followed had been more terrifying than any scream.
Aerion had burst into the room, his face pale as milk, his short hair standing up in wild disarray from running his hands through it for eighteen hours. He had stared at the child in the maester's arms. At the tuft of silver gold hair plastered to her scalp, at the violet eyes that were already open and glaring at the world with an indignation that seemed profoundly personal. His expression had twisted into something ugly.
"A girl," he had said, and his voice was flat. Hollow. A room with all the furniture removed. "I waited nine moons. Nine moons. For a girl."
He had not touched you. He had not touched the baby. He had simply turned on his heel and walked out of the room, and you had heard his boots ring down the corridor, and then the distant slam of a door, and then nothing.
The next three days had been the darkest of your new life. Aerion did not come to your room. He did not send for you. He did not acknowledge the existence of the child at all. He ate his meals with his family, trained in the yard with a brutality that left his sparring partners bloodied and bewildered, and refused to speak to anyone who so much as mentioned the baby's existence. The girl, the servants called her in whispers, because she had no name yet, and a child without a name was a ghost.
You lay in your bed, your body slowly knitting itself back together, your breasts aching with milk, and you held your daughter against your chest and wondered if this was the end. If Aerion would cast you both out, send you back to the streets of King's Landing with nothing but the clothes on your back and a bastard child in your arms. You made plans in the dark hours. Foolish, desperate plans, the kind of plans that only seemed reasonable at three in the morning when you were alone and terrified and your stitches still pulled every time you moved. You would run. You would find Dunk if he was still alive, throw yourself at his feet, beg him to take you back even though you were ruined and used and nothing like the sister he had lost. You would find work, honest work, kitchen work, anything, and you would raise your daughter to be strong and fierce and free, and she would never, ever know what it felt like to be owned.
But on the fourth day, the door had opened.
Aerion stood in the frame, and you barely recognized him. His eyes were ringed with shadows so dark they looked like bruises, his short hair a disheveled mess, his fine clothes rumpled and stained as if he had been sleeping in them, or not sleeping at all. He had been wrestling with something, you realized. Himself, his pride, his expectations, his disappointment. And from the look of him, he had lost.
"Let me see her," he said. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw, as if he had been shouting or weeping or both. "Let me see my daughter."
You did not trust yourself to speak. You simply lifted the baby from your chest. She was awake, her violet eyes tracking the movement with that unnerving intensity newborns sometimes had. And you held her out toward him.
Aerion approached slowly, cautiously, like a man approaching a wounded animal that might bite. He looked down at the small, wrinkled face, at the silver gold fuzz on her head, at the tiny fists that clenched and unclenched in the air as if she were already fighting battles only she could see. And something in his expression shifted. Not softened. Aerion did not soften, not in any way you had ever witnessed. But cracked. A fissure in the ice, unexpected and profound.
"She looks like me," he said. It was not a question.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice still ruined from screaming. "She's a true dragon, my prince. Just like her father."
He reached out one finger, just one, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly, and touched the baby's cheek. Rhaenyra turned her head toward the contact, her tiny mouth opening and closing in that instinctive rooting reflex.
"Rhaenyra," he said. "I'll call her Rhaenyra."
You knew the name, of course. Everyone in Westeros knew the name. The princess who had been called Maegor with teats, who had fought a war that tore the realm in half and refused to surrender even when the odds were hopeless. It was a name soaked in controversy, in blood, in the stubborn refusal to be anything other than what she was. It was a cruel name to give an infant daughter, in some ways. A challenge. A provocation. A reminder that girls could be as dangerous as boys, if they were bold enough.
But it was not Maegor. It was not the name of the Cruel. And on that fourth day, with your daughter finally named and Aerion's hand resting awkwardly, almost shyly, on your shoulder, you had decided to be grateful for small mercies.
"Rhaenyra," you repeated, trying the name on your tongue. It tasted like strength. Like fire. Like survival. "My little dragon."
And now, two years later, watching that same daughter tug impatiently at Aerion's doublet while he laughed, that hope had only grown. Rhaenyra was fierce and stubborn and clever and alive, so vibrantly alive, and you would make certain she stayed that way. You would die before you let that happen. You would kill before you let that happen. And the truth of that, the absolute crystalline certainty of it, was the most liberating thing you had ever felt.
"Y/N."
Aerion's voice pulled you back from the precipice of memory. He was watching you over Rhaenyra's silver gold head, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and irritation.
"You're brooding again," he said. "You get that look on your face when you're thinking too hard. I've told you. I don't like it."
You let your expression shift, the distant look replaced by something warmer, more present. But you did not apologize; you had learned, over your time together, that apologizing for your thoughts only made him more suspicious. Instead, you reached out and straightened the collar of his doublet, letting your fingers brush the skin of his throat, a gesture of casual intimacy that you knew he craved even if he would never admit it.
"I was thinking about how happy she looks," you said, and it was the truth, or a version of it. "You make her happy, Aerion. You know that, don't you?"
He grunted, but you caught the flicker of satisfaction that crossed his features before he could suppress it. Praise. He could never get enough of it, had been starved for it his entire life, and you had learned to feed him with the same regularity you fed your daughter. All this time, and he still turned toward your words like a flower toward the sun, drinking in every affirmation, every acknowledgment, every whispered you are magnificent, you are powerful, you are loved.
"She's a dragon," Aerion said, adjusting Rhaenyra on his hip with practiced ease. "Dragons don't get sad. They incinerate the things that upset them."
"Papa," Rhaenyra said, with the sudden, intense solemnity that only a two-year-old can muster, "I want to incinerate something."
Aerion threw back his head and laughed. A real laugh, full throated and genuine, the kind of laugh that transformed his sharp features into something almost boyish, almost approachable. "That's my girl," he said, and pressed a kiss to her forehead with an uncharacteristic tenderness. "That's my little dragon. We'll find you something to burn later."
You watched them, this strange, fierce man and this strange, fierce child, and your heart performed that complicated maneuver it had been practicing for years, folding affection and exasperation and hope and fear all into one impossible shape.
This is real, you told yourself. Whatever else is happening, whatever else they say about us, this is real. He is my Aerion, and she is my daughter, and this is my life, and it is real.
Aerion shifted Rhaenyra to his other arm and extended his free hand toward you. His earlier tension seemed to have eased, replaced by something almost eager, a restless energy that crackled just beneath his skin.
"There's a play tonight," he said. "Some puppeteers have set up in the village. I've heard it's about a dragon." His mouth curved into that sharp, knowing smile you had come to recognize. "I thought we might go after supper. You and me and the little dragon here. She should see something worthy of her name."
Rhaenyra's head came up at the word dragon, her violet eyes bright. "A dragon play, Papa?"
"A dragon play," Aerion confirmed, tweaking her nose. "With fire and scales and everything a proper dragon ought to have. Would you like that?"
Rhaenyra's shriek of delight was answer enough. She bounced in his arms, clapping her small hands together, already launching into a stream of questions about whether the dragon would be big or small, whether it would breathe real fire, whether she could meet it afterward and be its friend.
You smiled, and this time there was no calculation in it at all. Aerion was trying. In his own strange, possessive way, he was trying. He had brought you to Ashford to wound his cousin, yes. He had paraded you in front of his family like a trophy, yes. But he was also here, in this sunlit corridor, planning an evening at a play with his paramour and his bastard daughter, and there was something in his face that you had learned to recognize as hope.
"That sounds wonderful," you said, and meant it. "Rhaenyra will be talking about it for weeks."
"She'll be talking about it regardless," Aerion said dryly. "The child never stops talking. She gets that from you."
"From me?" You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense. "I am the very soul of silence, my prince."
Aerion snorted. It was an undignified sound, entirely at odds with the sharp, cruel prince the rest of the world knew. "You are a terrible liar, Y/N. You always have been."
But he was smiling when he said it, and when he offered you his arm, you took it without hesitation. Rhaenyra was still chattering about dragons, her small voice filling the corridor with improbable questions and even more improbable declarations. Aerion answered her with patience, with warmth, with the particular tenderness he reserved for her alone.
And you walked beside them through the halls of Ashford Castle, your hand on Aerion's arm, your daughter's laughter echoing off the stones, and for this moment, this single bright moment, you let yourself believe that everything would be all right.
—
The screaming started before you understood what was happening.
One moment there had been music, the thin reedy piping of a flute and the thump of a hand drum, and Rhaenyra had been bouncing on your hip with her small hands clapping together in delight. The painted dragon had been swaying above the stage on its strings, its wings catching the torchlight, its jaws opening and closing in roar while the puppeteer below made a rumbling growl deep in her throat to give it voice. Rhaenyra had laughed. You could still hear the echo of that laugh, bright and silver and utterly without fear.
Then Aerion and the white cloaks moved, and the world splintered. The first tent pole went down with a sound like a thunderclap. Silk billowed inward, red and gold and orange, catching the torchlight and becoming flame even as it fell. People were screaming. People were running. A woman stumbled into you from behind and you curled around Rhaenyra on pure instinct, your spine curving, your arms locking, your body becoming a shell with your daughter at its center. Someone's elbow drove into your ribs and you felt something grind and shift and send a bright white bolt of pain up your side.
"Mama," Rhaenyra whimpered, and her voice was small, so terribly small, the voice of a child who did not understand why the world had turned cruel between one heartbeat and the next. "Mama, I want to go. I want to go home."
"Shh," you breathed into her hair, though your own voice was shaking so badly the word hardly had a shape. "Shh, my love, my dragon, Mama's here. Mama's got you. Close your eyes, sweetling. Close your eyes and it will be over soon."
She buried her face in the curve of your throat. You could feel her tears, hot and wet, soaking through the silk of your gown. You could feel her heart beating against your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. You could feel every tremor that ran through her small body, and each one was a knife slipped between your ribs.
The guard Aerion had assigned to you stood at your back like a statue carved from ice. Ser Harrold, his name was, you had begged him to escort you from the pavilion the moment the violence began. You had turned to him with Rhaenyra clutched against your chest and pleaded with him to let you leave, to let you take your daughter somewhere safe, somewhere the screaming did not reach.
He had looked at you with eyes that held no more warmth than a winter pond. "Prince's orders," he had said, and the words fell from his mouth like stones dropped into still water. "You stay until he says otherwise."
"But she's frightened," you had said, and you had hated the tremor in your voice, hated the way it made you sound weak when you needed to be strong. "She's two years old, Ser Harrold. She doesn't understand what's happening. Please."
"Prince's orders," he had repeated, and he had not looked at you again.
On the stage, Aerion had the puppeteer by the wrist. She was young. That was the detail that lodged itself in your memory like a splinter, the detail that would come back to you in the dark hours of the night for years afterward. She was young, perhaps your age. Her mouth was open in a scream that you could not hear over the roaring of the crowd, and her free hand was beating uselessly against Aerion's chest, against his arm, against the unyielding iron of his grip.
She had made a dragon out of paint and wood and string. She had painted scales on its wings with her own hands, had worked its jaws with her own fingers, had given it a voice that made children laugh and grown men cheer. She had made the terrible, fatal mistake of letting her dragon be killed in the story she told. The knight had slain it with his sword and the audience had gasped and clapped and cheered the hero's victory.
Aerion had not cheered. Aerion had stared with a face like a thunderhead, and then the Kingsguard had begun to move, and now he was on the stage with the puppeteer's wrist in his hand and her dragon lying forgotten at his feet.
He started with her fingers. The first one broke with a sound like a dry branch snapping underfoot in the depths of winter. It was surprisingly quiet, that sound, almost delicate, almost polite. The puppeteer's index finger bent backward at an angle that made your stomach contract violently, and she screamed, a high thin shriek that cut through the chaos of the pavilion like a blade through silk.
Rhaenyra flinched in your arms. "Mama," she whimpered, "why is the lady screaming? Is she hurt? Mama, I want to go."
"Close your eyes, sweetling," you whispered again, and your voice was breaking now, splintering into pieces you could not put back together. "Close your eyes and think of something nice. Think of the roses in the garden. Think of the pink flower you picked. Think of anything but this."
The second finger broke wetter than the first. A muffled, grinding crack that seemed to echo in the hollow of your chest. The puppeteer's legs gave out beneath her, but Aerion held her up by her ruined hand,ìand his face, his beautiful face that you had kissed and praised and learned to love, was alight with something that went beyond cruelty into a territory you had no name for.
Pleasure. A bright, burning pleasure that lit him from within like a lantern lights a room. His violet eyes were wide and shining, his lips parted slightly around his bloodied teeth, his breath coming in short sharp bursts that were almost sexual in their rhythm. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying this in a way he had never enjoyed a single moment of the years you had spent together, and the realization crashed into you like a wave into rocks, cold and brutal and undeniable.
You love him, you had thought earlier in the gardens. No, you hate him. That was the horror of it, the horror that would never leave you no matter how many years passed. You loved him, you loved the father of your child, you loved the man who had burned down a brothel for you. You loved him, and he was standing on a stage in a village called Ashford, breaking a girl's fingers one by one because her puppet show had insulted his pride.
The third finger made a sound like a walnut being crushed in a vise.
"Please," you heard yourself saying, and you did not know if you were speaking to Aerion or to Ser Harrold or to the gods who had never listened to a single prayer you had ever sent their way. "Please, someone stop him. Someone make him stop."
Ser Harrold's hand closed around your upper arm, immobilizing you. He was wearing gauntlets, the leather stiff and unyielding against your skin. "Hold still," he said, and his voice was the voice of a man who had learned long ago that obedience was safer than conscience.
The puppeteer's fourth finger snapped.
Then the giant came out of the crowd. His hair was dirty blonde, cut short against his skull in a way that suggested practicality rather than fashion, and it was matted with sweat and dust and something that might have been blood. His face was a shadowed blur in the torchlight, his features obscured by the angle and the distance and the chaos, but his size. Gods above and below, his size.
He was enormous. Seven feet of bone and muscle and righteous fury, with shoulders broad enough to block out the firelight behind him and hands the size of dinner plates curled into fists at his sides. He did not slow. He did not hesitate. He cleared the edge of the stage in a single stride, and then he was on Aerion, and his fist was connecting with the prince's face with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil.
Aerion staggered backward. His grip on the puppeteer's wrist broke, and she crumpled to the stage in a heap of brown wool and ruined hands, sobbing. Blood flew from Aerion's mouth in a dark arc that caught the torchlight and glittered like rubies scattered across the stage. He hit the wooden planking hard, his head snapping back against the boards, and for one impossible, crystalline moment, the entire pavilion went silent.
Then the Kingsguard moved. They came from every direction at once, white cloaks streaming behind them like wings, white enameled armor flashing in the firelight. Six of them. Seven. More, perhaps. They swarmed the big man the way wolves swarm a bear, throwing themselves onto his back and his arms and his legs, trying to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers. He fought them. Gods, he fought them. You saw one Kingsguard reel backward with blood pouring from the visor of his helm. You saw another take an elbow to the throat and go down choking, clawing at his gorget. You saw the big man's fists rise and fall and rise again with the relentless rhythm of a blacksmith's hammer, each blow carrying the weight of a righteous anger that no amount of white armor could withstand.
But there were too many. There were always too many. They dragged at his legs and his arms and his neck, six white cloaked knights and then seven and then eight, and still he nearly threw them off, still he nearly got free, still he nearly made it back to his feet with his massive hands reaching for Aerion again. Then one of the Kingsguard drove the pommel of his sword into the back of the big man's skull, and his knees buckled. Another kicked his legs out from under him. Another twisted his arm behind his back at an angle that made the joint scream in protest even from where you stood watching.
They forced him to his knees on the stage. One of them, a tall man with a captain's bars on his white cloak, grabbed a fistful of that dirty blonde hair and yanked his head back, forcing his face up into the torchlight.
Aerion rose to his feet. He moved slowly, carefully, the way a man moves when he is holding onto his composure by the thinnest of threads. His lip was split open, a gash that ran from the corner of his mouth nearly to his chin. Blood sheeted down his jaw and dripped onto the white silk of his collar, staining it crimson. He probed at his teeth with his tongue, grimaced, and spat a wad of blood and saliva onto the stage. Something small and white and hard skittered across the wooden boards.
“Why did you throw your life away for this whore” Aerion said.
"You've loosened one of my teeth,"
The pavilion had gone very quiet. The screaming had stopped, or perhaps it had simply receded to a distance where it could no longer reach you. The only sounds were the crackle of the torches, the soft sobbing of the puppeteer still huddled on the stage, and the ragged, labored breathing of the big man as he knelt in the grip of the Kingsguard. Aerion's voice was soft, almost conversational, the voice of a man discussing the weather over a cup of wine. It was more terrifying than any scream could have been.
"So," Aerion continued, prodding at his mouth again with his thumb and forefinger, examining the blood that came away, "we'll start by breaking out all of yours."
"No." The word came out of your mouth before you could stop it, a reflex as automatic as breathing, as instinctive as flinching from an open flame. "Aerion, no."
He did not look at you. He was not capable of hearing you, not in this state, not with the blood of a puppet show on his hands and the taste of his own tooth in his mouth. He was looking at the big man the way a child looks at an insect he has caught in a jar. Curious. Utterly without pity.
One of the Kingsguard, the captain with his hand still fisted in the big man's hair, forced his head down toward the stage. Another moved to stand on either side of him, gripping his shoulders, pinning him in place. A third stepped forward, removing his gauntlets one finger at a time, flexing his bare hands with the deliberate precision of a man preparing to perform a task that required both strength and care.
"Hold him still," Aerion said. "I want to watch."
Rhaenyra was sobbing in earnest now, her small body shaking with the force of her terror. She did not understand what was happening. She understood only that her father was on the stage and there was blood on his face and the safe bright world of the puppet show had collapsed into screaming and white cloaks and a big man on his knees who was about to be hurt in a way she had no language for.
"Mama," she wept, "Mama, I want Papa to stop, make Papa stop, please make him stop."
"I can't," you whispered into her hair, and the admission was a wound that would never fully heal. "I can't, sweetling. Mama can't make him stop. Close your eyes. Close your eyes and don't look."
The Kingsguard with the bare hands stepped forward. He was flexing his fingers, working the joints loose, his movements unhurried and methodical. The captain still had the big man's head forced down at the angle required for what was about to happen. The other guards braced themselves, digging their heels into the wooden stage, preparing for the struggle they knew would come.
The big man lifted his head against the pressure of the captain's grip. It was a monumental effort; you could see the muscles of his neck straining, the veins standing out like cords, the sweat cutting tracks through the blood and dirt on his face. He lifted his head, and the torchlight fell full upon his features for the first time.
You saw his face.
Time did not slow. It did not fade. It stopped. It stopped completely, absolutely, as if some vast and terrible hand had reached down from the heavens and seized the mechanism of the world itself and held it motionless. The torches froze mid-flicker. The screaming faded to a hum that existed somewhere beyond the boundaries of hearing. The blood in your veins turned to ice and then to fire and then to something that had no name at all.
You knew that face. You knew the hands. The enormous hands that had lifted you from your mother's deathbed, that had carried you through the cold morning while the other whores watched with pity and disgust, that had wrapped you in a threadbare blanket and held you against his chest while he promised you in a cracking boy's voice that he would always, always have you.
Dunk. He was alive. He was on his knees on a stage in a village called Ashford with a Kingsguard's hand in his hair and another Kingsguard's bare knuckles preparing to break his teeth out of his skull one by one, and he was alive.
"Dunk."
You did not recognize your own voice. It did not sound like a voice at all. It sounded like something that had been torn out of you by the roots, something that had been buried so deep and so long that pulling it free left a bleeding hollow in the center of your chest.
"Dunk."
Louder this time. Louder, and it cracked on the second syllable, cracked like your mother's laugh had cracked, like a bell that had been rung too hard and too long and had nothing left inside it but splinters.
"DUNK."
Time restarted itself with a violence that made your vision swim. The torches flared back to life. The screaming returned, a wave of sound that crashed over you and through you and left you gasping. The Kingsguard hesitated, their hands pausing on their prisoner, their white helms turning toward you with the synchronized precision of hunting dogs catching a scent.
Dunk turned his head. The captain still had his fist twisted in his hair, still had his neck bent at that brutal angle, but Dunk turned his head against that grip with the slow, inexorable force of a continent shifting, and he looked at you.
His eyes found yours across the chaos of the ruined tent. You saw the recognition hit him. Saw it travel through his body like a physical blow, a shock wave that started in his eyes and rippled outward through his shoulders, his chest, his hands. His face went slack with it, the tension draining out of his jaw and his brow, replaced by something that was too raw and too vast to be called surprise. It was disbelief. It was hope, the kind of hope that had been dead for so long its resurrection was indistinguishable from agony. It was joy and grief and guilt and love, all of them crashing together in the space of a single heartbeat.
His mouth moved. Formed the shape of your name. You could not hear it over the screaming, over the roaring of your own blood in your ears, but you saw it, saw the way his lips shaped the syllables he had not spoken in years, the name he had called across a hundred alleys and a hundred dark streets while he searched for you, the name he had whispered to himself in the long nights when he believed you were dead and gone and never coming back.
He surged against the guards holding him. Not fighting to escape now. Fighting to get to you. His massive shoulders bunched and heaved, nearly throwing off the two Kingsguard who were gripping his arms. A third lunged in to reinforce them, his white cloak tangling around his legs in his haste. Dunk did not seem to notice. He did not seem to feel the hands dragging at him or the knees pressing into his back or the captain's fist still grinding into his scalp. He was looking at you and only at you, and he was trying to reach you, trying to cross the impossible distance between the stage and the place where you stood with Rhaenyra in your arms.
You surged forward to meet him. You did not think about it. You did not calculate the odds or weigh the consequences. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, driven by an instinct older than thought, older than fear, older than anything you had learned in the years since they took you from the festival. Your brother was here. Your brother was alive.
Ser Harrold's arm locked around your waist like an iron bar. "Hold still," he snarled, and he was no longer calm now, no longer indifferent. He was struggling to hold you, struggling to keep his grip on a woman who had spent years learning to be still and silent and obedient and had finally, in this single shattering moment, forgotten how.
"Let me go!" The words tore out of your throat with a force that made your vision white out at the edges. Rhaenyra was screaming in your arms, her small fists beating against your shoulders, her voice a thin high wail that you could barely hear over the roaring in your ears. "Let me go, that's my brother, that's my brother, let me GO!"
"Aerion!" You were screaming his name now, the name of the man you loved, the name of the monster on the stage, the name of the only person in this pavilion who had the power to make the nightmare stop. "Aerion, please, please, you have to stop, he's my brother,please, Aerion, PLEASE!"
Aerion turned to look at you.
His face was still smeared with blood, his lip still split and swollen, his violet eyes still bright with the pleasure of the violence he had been orchestrating. But something flickered in their depths when he saw your face, when he registered the raw, unvarnished desperation in your voice. Confusion first. Then irritation, a flicker of the familiar petulance that crossed his features whenever something did not go the way he had planned. And then something else, something that chilled you more than any cruelty could have done.
Something calculating.
"What," he said, and his voice was a blade drawn slowly across a whetstone, "the fuck are you doing? What is she screaming about?"
You could barely form the words. Your throat was raw, your chest heaving, your arms trembling with the effort of holding Rhaenyra while Ser Harrold's grip threatened to crack your ribs. But you forced them out, forced them past the sobs that were building in your chest, forced them into the space between you and the man who held your brother's life in his bloodstained hands.
"He's my brother. He's my brother, Aerion." Your voice cracked on his name, splintered into something that was half a plea and half a prayer. "The brother I told you about. Dunk. The one I thought was dead. The one who raised me. Please. Please don't hurt him. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything. Just please, Aerion, please don't hurt my brother."
Something moved in Aerion's face. A muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes narrowed, the bright pleasure of the violence draining out of them, replaced by something harder and colder and infinitely more dangerous. He looked at you, and he looked at Dunk, and he looked back at you, and you could see him putting the pieces together. The brother you had wept for in the dark hours of the night, the brother whose name you had whispered in your sleep, the brother Aerion had forbidden you from ever mentioning again.
The brother who was now on his knees in front of him, bloodied and defiant, the man who had dared to strike a prince of the blood, and his expression closed like a door slamming shut in a winter gale.
"Take her back to her chamber," Aerion said. He was not looking at you anymore. He was looking at Dunk, and his voice was utterly without warmth, utterly without the history that stretched between you, utterly without anything that might have been mistaken for mercy. "Lock the door. No one goes in or out until I give the order."
"No." The word was barely a whisper. Ser Harrold was already dragging you backward, his arm still locked around your waist, his heels digging into the trampled grass of the pavilion floor. "Aerion, no, please, you can't do this."
"Take the child to the nursery," Aerion continued, as if you had not spoken, as if your voice did not exist, as if you were already gone. "She does not need to see any more of this. Make sure she stays there."
"No!" The scream that tore out of you was not a sound. It was a living thing, a creature with claws and teeth and a heart full of desperation, and it ripped its way out of your throat and into the torchlit air of the pavilion with a force that made the nearest Kingsguard flinch. "You can't separate us! She's my daughter! She's MY daughter!"
Rhaenyra was shrieking now, a high thin sound that rose above the chaos like a needle sliding into flesh. Her arms were wrapped around your neck so tightly that you could feel her small fingernails digging crescents into your skin, and her legs were locked around your waist, and her face was buried in the curve of your shoulder, and she was screaming, screaming, screaming. "Mama, Mama, don't let them take me, Mama, please, I want to stay with you, Mama, MAMA!"
Ser Harrold was dragging you backward. Another guard, a man in the pale grey of Prince Maekar's household, was trying to untangle Rhaenyra from your arms. His hands were gentle, gentler than you had expected, but that gentleness made it worse somehow, made it more real, made it a kindness that was not a kindness at all. He was murmuring something to Rhaenyra, some meaningless reassurance that neither you nor she could hear over the screaming, and his fingers were prying at her small grip one digit at a time.
"Don't," you sobbed. "Don't take her. Please. Please don't take my daughter."
But your arms were being pulled backward, and your strength was failing, and Rhaenyra's grip was slipping. You felt her fingers lose their hold on your dress. Felt the warmth of her body pulled away from yours. Felt the cold air rush in to fill the space where she had been, and that cold was worse than any physical pain, worse than the bruises blooming on your arm where Ser Harrold held you, worse than the raw burning in your throat from screaming, worse than anything you had endured in the brothel or the alley or the long dark nights when you believed your brother was dead.
"RHAENYRA!"
She was being carried away, still reaching for you over the guard's shoulder, her silver-gold hair bright as a candle flame in the torchlight, her violet eyes wide and streaming with tears. "Mama! I want my mama! Give me back my mama!"
You fought. You fought the way Dunk had fought, with every ounce of strength in your body, with your teeth and your nails and your fury. You twisted in Ser Harrold's grip and raked your nails across his face, felt the skin of his cheek tear beneath your fingers, felt the hot wet rush of his blood against your palm. He cursed and tightened his hold, and something in your side gave way with a sharp bright spike of agony, but you did not stop. You could not stop. Your daughter was being taken from you, your brother was on his knees with a prince's boot on his neck, and the world was ending, and you could not stop.
And then, cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk, a young voice rang out across the pavilion.
"No! Don't touch him!"
Everyone froze. The Kingsguard with his bare hands paused mid-motion, his knuckles inches from Dunk's clenched jaw. The captain's grip on Dunk's hair loosened slightly in surprise. Even Aerion turned, his bloodied mouth twisting into an expression of annoyed bewilderment.
The boy who stepped forward from the chaos of the crowd was small, skinny, with a shaved head that gleamed in the torchlight like a polished stone. He could not have been more than nine or ten years old, and he moved with the absolute, unshakeable confidence of someone who had never been told that the world did not bend to his will. He was bald and his clothes were the roughspun of a stable boy, dirty and sweat-stained, but he wore them like a prince wearing borrowed silks.
Dunk's voice was a ragged gasp, desperate and afraid in a way it had not been when the Kingsguard were beating him. "You stupid boy! Hold your tongue or they'll hurt you."
The boy did not slow. He did not even glance at Dunk. His eyes were fixed on Aerion, and there was something in them that made the prince's expression flicker with the first hint of uncertainty you had seen all night.
"No, they won't," the boy said, and his voice was calm, steady, the voice of someone stating a fact as immutable as the rising of the sun. "If they do, they'll answer to my father."
He stepped past the Kingsguard as if they were not there, as if the white cloaks and the white armor and the drawn swords were no more substantial than morning mist. He stopped directly in front of Aerion, this small bald boy in dirty clothes, and he lifted his chin and looked the prince full in the face.
"Let go of him," the boy commanded. "Wate, Yorkel, do as I say."
And the Kingsguard obeyed.
The captain released Dunk's hair. The other guards stepped back, their hands falling away from his arms and shoulders, their white helms inclining slightly in gestures of deference that stopped your heart in your chest. They knew this boy. They knew him, and they obeyed him, and that could only mean one thing.
Aerion stared at the boy. His violet eyes narrowed, studying the shaved head, the dirty clothes, the small defiant face that was upturned to his own. And then, slowly, recognition dawned across his bloodied features like a sluggish sunrise. It was followed immediately by annoyance, a deep and profound irritation that seemed to cut through even the pleasure he had been taking in the violence moments before.
"You impudent little rat," Aerion said. His voice dripped with contempt, but beneath it lurked something else, something that sounded almost like wariness. "What's happened to your hair?"
The boy did not flinch. He did not blink. He looked at Aerion with the steady, unblinking gaze of someone who had spent his entire life watching and learning and understanding things that others missed, and when he spoke, his voice carried the unmistakable weight of royal blood.
"I cut it off, brother," he said. "I didn't want to look like you."
Brother. The word landed in the center of the pavilion like a stone dropped into still water. Brother. This boy, this small bald boy in stable clothes, was Aerion's brother. Which meant he was Prince Aegon Targaryen, the youngest of Prince Maekar's sons, the one you had glimpsed occasionally in the corridors of Summerhall, the one who had looked at you like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
And he had just intervened to save your brother's life. The revelation halted the attack instantly. The Kingsguard could not carry out Aerion's orders now. Not against a man who was connected, through his squire, to the royal family. Not against a man who was protected by a prince of the blood, however young and however bald and however inexplicably dressed in the roughspun of a stable hand. The captain stepped back further, his white cloak settling around him like folded wings, and the other guards followed suit, leaving Dunk kneeling alone on the stage.
Aerion's face was a study in frustration. The pleasure had drained out of him entirely now, replaced by a seething, impotent fury that he could not express without defying his own brother, his own blood, in front of half a dozen witnesses. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The blood from his split lip still dripped down his chin, and his violet eyes were dark with a rage that had no outlet.
But he was a prince, and he knew the rules, and striking a man who was connected to the royal family was a crime that even he could not simply burn his way out of.
"Take him to the cells," Aerion said finally, and his voice was flat and cold and utterly drained of the pleasure that had animated it before. "He struck a prince of the blood. That crime remains regardless of whose squire the little rat has chosen to become. He will await trial and judgment, and lock her in her chamber."
Ser Harrold hauled you backward through the ruins of the pavilion. Your legs gave out beneath you, and he dragged you the rest of the way, your heels scraping furrows in the trampled grass, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice reduced to a raw and wordless keening that did not stop. You passed overturned benches. You passed torn silk and scattered cushions and a child's abandoned shoe.
The last thing you saw before the tent flap closed behind you was Aerion. He was still standing on the stage, his red tunic splattered with blood, his face a mask of cold, distant contemplation. He was not looking at you. He was looking at the place where Dunk had disappeared, and there was something in his expression that you had never seen before. Something that went beyond jealousy, beyond possessiveness, beyond the casual cruelty of a man who had never been denied anything.
He looked like a dragon counting its hoard, and finding a single coin out of place.
—
The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that echoed through your bones.
You had screamed until your voice gave out. You had beaten your fists against the iron banded oak until your knuckles split and bled, leaving dark smears on the wood that looked like accusations. You had thrown yourself at the door again and again, your shoulder bruising, your strength ebbing, until finally your legs had given way beneath you and you had slid to the cold stone floor with your back against the unforgiving wood and your face buried in your bleeding hands.
Rhaenyra was gone. Dunk was gone. Everyone you had ever loved had been ripped away from you in the space of a single night, and you were locked in a borrowed chamber in a borrowed castle with nothing but the silence and the dark and the terrible, circling thoughts that would not let you rest.
You pressed your forehead against your knees and tried to breathe.The hours crawled past like wounded animals dragging themselves toward death. You did not move from your place against the door. You did not lie down on the bed, though it was soft and wide and covered in Ashford's finest linens. You did not drink the water that had been left on the side table, though your throat was raw and burning from screaming. You simply sat, curled into yourself, and waited.
For Aerion. For news. For something, anything, that would tell you what was going to happen next. You thought about the look on Dunk's face when he recognized you. The shock. The joy. The desperate, agonized love. What must he have thought? What must he have assumed about you, about your life, about the choices that had led you to this place?
The shame of it burned in your chest like swallowed fire.
You did not know how long you sat there. It might have been hours. It might have been minutes. Time had lost all meaning in the darkness of the chamber, with the candles unlit and the fire unbuilt and the only light coming from the pale sliver of moon that crept through the narrow window high in the wall. But eventually, eventually, you heard the sound you had been dreading and hoping for in equal measure.
Footsteps in the corridor. Boots on stone, deliberate and unhurried, the particular cadence of a man who knew that the world would wait for him. The jingle of a sword at the hip. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a key turning in a lock.
The door swung inward, and Aerion Targaryen stepped into the room.
He had cleaned the blood from his face since you last saw him. His lip was still swollen. His silver gold hair had been combed back from his face, still damp from washing. He had changed his clothes; replaced by a simple black doublet that made his pale skin look almost luminous in the moonlight. He looked almost calm. Almost controlled. But his violet eyes were too bright, too sharp, the eyes of a man who was holding onto his composure by the thinnest of threads.
He closed the door behind him. You heard the lock click into place.
"My dragon," you said, and your voice came out as a croak, raw and broken from screaming. You tried to rise to your feet, but your legs would not hold you, so you remained on the floor, your back against the wall, your hands still stained with your own blood. "Aerion, please. Please tell me what's happening. My brother. Where is my brother? Is he all right? What are they going to do to him?"
The change that came over Aerion's face was instantaneous and terrifying. The careful mask of composure cracked like ice hit by a hammer. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His hands, which had been relaxed at his sides, curled slowly into fists.
"I come to you," he said, and his voice was a blade being drawn from its sheath, slow and deliberate and full of promise, "after being attacked in front of half the nobility of the Reach. My lip is split open. My tooth is loose in my skull. My dignity has been trampled by some hedge knight with dirt under his fingernails and hay in his hair. And the first words out of your mouth are not 'Are you all right, my prince?' Not 'Let me tend your wounds, my love.' Not a single word of comfort or concern for me, the man who saved you from a brothel, the father of your child, the prince who has kept you fed and clothed and protected for years."
He took a step toward you. Then another. His shadow fell across you like a shroud, blocking out the pale moonlight, plunging you into darkness.
"Your first words," he said, and his voice was rising now, climbing toward a register you had learned to fear, "are about him. A stranger. A man who struck me. A man who loosened my tooth and spilled my blood in front of the Kingsguard. That is who you ask about. That is who you care about. Not me. Not your prince. Not the father of your child. Him."
"He's not a stranger," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. You knew you should stop. You knew you should placate him, soothe him, tell him everything he wanted to hear. That was what you had done for years, what you had become so skilled at doing. But you could not. Not tonight. Not with Dunk's face still burned into your memory like a brand. "He's my brother, Aerion. He's my brother. He raised me. He protected me, and you have him locked in a cell like a criminal. Please. Please, just tell me he's all right. Just tell me you haven't hurt him."
Aerion stared at you for a long moment. The torch from the corridor outside cast his shadow long and dark across the floor, stretching toward you like a grasping hand. His breathing was audible in the silence, harsh and uneven, the breathing of a man who was losing a battle with his own rage.
"You love him," he said finally. The words were flat, toneless, utterly without inflection. "This brother of yours. This hedge knight with his dirty hands and his dirty hair. You love him more than you love me."
"That's not true," you said, and it was the truth and it was a lie and it was everything in between. "I love you, Aerion. You know I love you. But he's my brother. He's my blood. I thought he was dead. I mourned him for years. And now he's here, and he's alive, and I just want to know that he's safe. That's all. I just want to know that he's safe. Please."
"Safe." Aerion repeated the word as if it were a foreign language, a concept he had heard described but never experienced. "Safe. You want to know if the man who struck me is safe. You want to know if the man who humiliated me in front of my family and my father is safe."
He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. It was the sound of something breaking.
"You're mine," he said, and his voice cracked on the word, splintering into something that was half rage and half desperation. "You have been mine since the night I bought you. I paid fifty gold dragons for you. I burned down a brothel for you. I gave you a home, a place in my household, a daughter who bears my name. I have given you everything. Everything. And you stand there, bleeding on my floor, asking about another man."
"I'm not standing," you whispered, and you did not know why that was the detail you chose to focus on. He crossed the distance between you in three swift strides. His hand closed around your arm, hauling you upright with a strength that would leave bruises, and you cried out as the blood rushed back to your legs and the pain in your side flared white hot.
"You are mine," he said again, and his face was inches from yours, his violet eyes blazing with a fire you had seen directed at others but never, never at you. Not like this. Not with this intensity. Not with this complete and absolute absence of restraint. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you gasped. His grip on your arm was agony, his fingers digging into the bruises Ser Harrold had left, and tears were streaming down your face. "Aerion, please, you're hurting me."
"Good." He shook you, once, hard enough that your head snapped back and hit the stone wall behind you. Stars burst across your vision. "Good. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll remember who you belong to. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll stop asking about other men. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll finally understand that the only way you leave me is in a shroud."
"My brother," you sobbed. "He's my brother. Not another man. My brother. Please, Aerion, please try to understand."
"I understand perfectly." His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing your face toward his, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I understand that you have spent years telling me you loved me while you dreamed of someone else. I understand that the moment he appeared, you forgot everything I have done for you. I understand that you are a whore I pulled from a brothel, and no matter how many silk dresses I put on you, no matter how much of myself I pour into you, you will never, ever stop being what you are."
The words hit you like physical blows. Each one was a fist to the gut, a slap to the face, a knife slipped between your ribs. You had known, intellectually, that this was how he saw you. You had always known. But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing it thrown at you like an accusation, like a crime you had committed against him simply by existing, was something else entirely.
"Aerion," you whispered, and your voice was so small, so broken, that you barely recognized it as your own. "I have never been unfaithful to you. I have never looked at another man. I have never wanted anyone but you. He is my brother. My brother. Why can't you understand that?"
"Because I don't care!" He screamed the words directly into your face, his spittle flecking your cheeks, his breath hot and sour with wine and blood. "I don't care who he is! I don't care if he's your brother or your father or your long lost lover! The moment you chose him over me, the moment you screamed his name instead of mine, the moment you fought my guards and clawed Ser Harrold's face to try to reach him, you made your choice! And now you will live with it!"
His hand released your chin and came across your face with a crack that seemed to echo off the stone walls.
The backhand caught you across the cheekbone, hard enough to snap your head to the side, hard enough to send a spray of blood from your already split lip, hard enough that your legs gave out beneath you entirely. You fell. You did not fall gracefully, did not fall the way women fell in the songs Dunk used to tell you, floating down like petals on a breeze. You fell like a sack of grain, heavy and graceless, your hip striking the stone floor with a jolt of pain that made you gasp, your palms scraping raw against the cold flagstones, your already injured side screaming in protest as you landed.
You lay there for a moment, stunned. The taste of blood filled your mouth, copper and salt and something that might have been despair. The world swam in and out of focus. The moonlight from the window seemed very far away, a distant silver promise of a world that existed somewhere beyond this room, beyond this night, beyond the man who was standing over you with his chest heaving and his eyes blazing.
Then he was on top of you. His weight pressed you into the cold stone floor, heavy and immovable, the weight of a man who had trained with sword and shield and lance, the weight of a prince who had never been denied anything in his life. His knees pinned your thighs. One hand caught both of your wrists and forced them above your head, pressing them into the stone with a grip that made your fingers go numb. His other hand was at your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there, a reminder, a threat, a promise.
"You're my whore," he said, and his voice was a growl, low and guttural and utterly without the cultured refinement he wore like armor in the daylight. "Mine. You have been mine since the night I bought you, and you will be mine until the day you die. Do you understand? Do you understand what that means?"
"Get off me," you gasped. Your voice was barely audible, strangled by the hand at your throat and the weight on your chest. "Aerion, please, get off me, I can't breathe."
"It means," he continued, as if you had not spoken, as if your words were less than nothing, as if your voice did not exist in any way that mattered, "that I own you. Your body. Your heart. Your soul. Every breath you take, you take because I allow it. Every night you sleep in a warm bed, you sleep there because I permit it. Every moment you spend with our daughter, you spend because I have chosen to let you. And the only way you leave me, the only way you ever leave me, is if you are dead. Do you understand? Dead."
He was tearing at your dress as he spoke, the silk that he had given you, the dress he had chosen, the dress you had worn to the puppet show, the dress Rhaenyra's tears had soaked through. You heard the fabric rip, felt the cold air on your skin, and you found what remained of your strength and pushed against him. Your hands were still pinned above your head, but you bucked your hips, twisted your body, tried to throw him off the way Dunk had thrown off the Kingsguard.
It was useless. It was always useless. He was stronger than you, heavier than you, and he had the advantage of gravity and rage and years of training in violence that you had never received. He pressed you back down against the stone, and his hand left your throat to grip your jaw, forcing your face toward his, forcing you to look into his eyes.
"Say it," he demanded. "Say you're mine. Say you belong to me. Say that no one else matters. Not your brother. Not anyone. Say it."
You did not say it. You could not say it. The words were locked in your throat, trapped behind the tears and the blood and the terrible, crushing weight of what was happening to you.
You tried to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee drove between them, forcing them wide. He was hard and the sight of his cock made your stomach turn.
"Look at it," he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head forward. "Look at what you made me do. This is your fault. If you had just obeyed—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, already sore and swollen from the first time, and you whimpered, a high, broken sound that seemed to please him. He held there, just barely breaching you, letting you feel the pressure, the promise of invasion.
"Please," you whispered, your voice cracked and raw. "Please, Aerion, please don't—"
He thrust.
The sound you made was not a scream. It was something worse, a choked, guttural sob that tore from your throat as he buried himself inside you in one brutal push. The angle was wrong, too deep, too dry despite the precum already coating your thighs. You felt every ridge and vein of his cock as it forced its way deeper, splitting you open, claiming space that did not want him.
He paused, buried to the hilt, and let out a low groan that was almost human. Almost tender. Then he began to move.
Not fast. Not yet. He fucked you slowly, deliberately, with a cruelty that made every inch of the motion deliberate. He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in with excruciating leisure, watching your face contort with each stroke. His eyes were locked on yours, challenging you to look away.
You did. You turned your head, pressing your cheek against the cold stone, staring at a crack in the floor until your vision blurred. But he would not allow that. He grabbed your jaw, forced your face back to his.
"Watch," he commanded. "Watch me take what is mine."
His pace increased. The slow, torturous rhythm gave way to a sharp, punishing fucking that drove the air from your lungs with every slam of his hips. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed off the walls, mingling with your ragged breaths and his grunts. He leaned down, his chest pressing against yours, and bit your shoulder, not a kiss, a bite, hard enough to break skin. You cried out, and he licked the blood, humming in satisfaction.
"That's it," he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "Make sound for me. Let the whole castle hear how much you hate it. Let them know who you belong to."
He drove deeper, harder, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your back arch despite yourself. A spark of unwanted pleasure shot through your pelvis, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He slowed down, grinding against that same spot, watching your body betray you as your hips began to rock in counterpoint to his thrusts.
"There she is," he breathed, almost reverent. "There's the whore underneath. You can't hide her from me. She wants this. She needs this."
"No," you gasped, but your body said yes, clenching around him, drawing him deeper. Hot shame flooded through you, hotter than the pain, as your cunt began to slick with something that was not blood. He felt it too, he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his grip on your hips tightening.
"I'm going to fill you," he snarled, his composure cracking. "I'm going to pour every drop of my seed into this worthless hole until you're pregnant with my heir, a son this time, and then I'll do it again. And again. And—"
He came without warning, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he shoved himself as deep as he could go, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside you. You felt the hot flood of his cum, felt it spill out around him, felt it mix with the blood and your own unwanted wetness. He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the stone, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then he shifted, pulling out with a wet sound that made you flinch, and rolled onto his back beside you. The moonlight had moved, illuminating his face now haunted gleam in his violet eyes that looked almost like regret.
But you knew better. You knew he would do it again. And again. And again. Because in his world, you were already dead. You just hadn't stopped breathing yet.
He did not speak. Neither did you. You lay on the cold stone floor with your torn dress twisted around your body and your wrists still aching from his grip and your thighs slick with the evidence of what he had done, and you stared at the ceiling, and you thought of nothing at all.
After a long time Aerion rose to his feet. He straightened his clothes with mechanical precision, adjusting his doublet, smoothing his hair back from his face. He did not look at you. He did not offer you a hand to help you up. He did not speak a single word of apology or comfort or explanation.
"Your brother will stand trial," he said, and his voice was the voice of a stranger, flat and cold and utterly devoid of the passion that had consumed him moments before. "For striking a prince of the blood. The sentence will be severe. How severe depends entirely on you."
He paused at the door, his hand on the latch, his back to you.
"If you try to see him again," he said, "if you try to contact him, if you so much as speak his name in my presence, I will have him executed. Do you understand? His life is in your hands. Remember that."
The remainder of the night passed in darkness. You did not move from the floor. You could not move from the floor. The torn silk of your dress had dried stiff and crusted against your skin, and you had not bothered to cover yourself. There was no one to see. There was no one to care. The moonlight crawled across the stone floor inch by inch, and you watched it the way a corpse might watch the shifting of its own shroud, with a detachment that went beyond despair into something vast and empty and still.
Morning came grey and cold through the narrow window. The sky outside was the color of old iron, heavy with clouds that had not yet decided whether to rain. You heard the castle waking around you. Footsteps in the corridor. The distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. Servants calling to one another in voices too muffled to understand. The tourney, you remembered dimly. The tourney was still happening. Lord Ashford's daughter still needed her champion. The world was still turning, indifferent to the ruin of your life.
Someone brought food. You heard the door unlock, heard the tray scrape against the stone as it was pushed inside, heard the door lock again. You did not get up to look at it. The smell of bread and broth turned your stomach. You had not eaten since the puppet show, since before the puppet show, since the garden when Rhaenyra had found the pink flower and you had believed, foolishly and desperately, that everything would be all right.
The morning wore on. The light shifted. The clouds outside the window thickened and darkened and began to spit a thin, miserable drizzle that streaked the glass like tears.
And then, sometime in the afternoon, you heard the commotion.
It started as a distant murmur, a disturbance somewhere in the lower levels of the castle that grew louder and more urgent as it climbed toward your door. Shouts. Running footsteps. The clash of something metallic hitting stone. You lifted your head from the floor for the first time in hours, your neck aching, your vision swimming. Something was happening. Something was wrong.
The door crashed open. It was not Aerion who entered first but a maester, an old man in grey robes with a heavy chain around his neck and blood on his sleeves up to the elbows. Behind him came two guards, household men in the pale grey of Prince Maekar's service, carrying between them a litter on which lay a figure you recognized only by the silver gold of his hair.
Aerion. He was unconscious. His face was nearly unrecognizable. His lip had been split anew, a fresh gash that ran up toward his cheekbone. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the skin around it purple and black and glistening with some kind of salve. His chest was bare beneath a makeshift bandage that wrapped around his ribs, and the bandage was soaked through with blood, bright red and seeping, the color of life escaping. His right arm lay at an angle that was not natural, and his breathing was shallow and labored and made a wet, rattling sound that turned your stomach even as it ignited something else in your chest. Something you did not want to name. Something you did not want to feel.
You scrambled backward on the floor until your shoulder blades hit the wall. Your torn dress bunched around your knees. Your hands came up in front of you, a defensive gesture that was pure instinct, the instinct of a woman who had spent the night being broken and had no more pieces left to give.
"What," you said, and your voice came out as a croak, barely recognizable. "What happened? What is this?"
The maester did not look at you. He was directing the guards to lay the litter on the bed, his hands already reaching for the blood soaked bandages, already issuing orders about hot water and clean linen and milk of the poppy. But one of the guards, a young man whose face was pale and shocked and streaked with someone else's blood, paused long enough to answer.
"Trial of the Seven," he said, and the words meant nothing to you. "The prince demanded it. Against the hedge knight."
"Trial of the Seven?" The phrase was foreign, nonsensical, a collection of syllables that refused to resolve into meaning. "What are you talking about? What trial? What hedge knight?"
The maester looked up from his work at last. "The hedge knight," he said, and his voice was clipped and efficient, the voice of a man who did not have time for explanations. "Ser Duncan the Tall. The hedge knight demanded a trial by combat. The prince escalated it to a Trial of the Seven. Fourteen knights in the lists. The hedge knight's side won, but the prince was wounded. Gravely wounded. We have done what we can for the immediate injuries, but when he regained consciousness briefly, he insisted, quite forcefully, that he be brought to you. He said he wanted you to be his primary caretaker."
The words washed over you in a tide of incomprehensible information. Trial of the Seven. Fourteen knights. The hedge knight's side won. Dunk's side. Dunk had won. Your brother had won. Your brother was alive and he had won his trial and he was free, he must be free, because if the hedge knight's side had won the trial then the gods had judged him innocent.
But Aerion was on your bed with his ribs crushed and his arm broken and his face beaten into something barely human, and he had asked for you. Even after what he had done to you on this very floor. Even after the things he had said, the things he had called you, the violence he had visited upon your body. He had regained consciousness long enough to demand that you, and no one else, be the one to care for him.
You stared at the maester. The maester stared back at you, and something in his expression softened, just slightly, at whatever he saw in your face. Perhaps it was the bruises on your wrists. Perhaps it was the torn dress. Perhaps it was the way you sat huddled against the wall like a wounded animal that had learned to expect only more pain.
"I have done what I can for the immediate wounds," the maester said again, more slowly this time. "The prince will live, though his recovery will be long and painful. But he needs constant care. Someone to change his bandages, to administer his medicine, to watch for fever. He asked for you. Given his condition and his royal status, we are not inclined to refuse him."
You looked at the figure on the bed. The man who had raped you on the stone floor less than a day ago. The father of your daughter. The monster you loved. The prince who had promised to execute your brother if you so much as spoke his name. He lay unconscious and broken, his breath rattling in his chest, and you were being told that you would be his caretaker. That you would sit by his bedside and change his bandages and mop his brow and listen to him breathe.
The absurd cruelty of it was almost beautiful, in its way. A kind of poetry written in blood and bruises and the particular viciousness of men who believed they owned the women they had purchased.
"Leave us," you said, and your voice did not sound like your own. It sounded like the voice of someone much older, someone who had survived worse things than this and would survive worse things still. "I will care for him."
The maester hesitated. "My lady, there are instructions I must give you regarding the dressing of his wounds. The risk of infection is significant, and the milk of the poppy must be administered precisely. Too much will stop his breathing. Too little and the pain will be excruciating. Do you understand?"
"I understand," you said, though you understood nothing. You understood only that your brother was alive and free, and the man who had destroyed you was lying broken on your bed, and you were supposed to heal him. You were supposed to sit beside him and tend his wounds and keep him alive so that he could continue to own you, continue to threaten you, continue to hold your brother's life in his hands like a coin he might spend on a whim.
The maester gave you his instructions. You listened with half an ear, nodding in the appropriate places, filing the information away in a part of your mind that was still functioning, still capable of processing data and making decisions. Change the bandages every four hours. Watch for red streaks radiating from the wounds. Administer the milk of the poppy in doses measured by the small copper cup on the bedside table. If he wakes, give him water. If he develops a fever, send for the maester immediately.
And then they were gone, the maester and the guards, and the door was closed, and you were alone with him.
You stood in the center of the room for a long time, staring at the bed. At the rise and fall of his chest beneath the bloodied bandages. At the hand that lay limp and pale against the silk sheets, the hand that had struck you across the face, the hand that had pinned your wrists above your head, the hand that had held your chin and forced you to look into his eyes while he destroyed you.
You could let him die.
The thought came to you fully formed, as if it had been waiting in the back of your mind all along, biding its time. You could let him die. The maester had left you with the milk of the poppy and precise instructions about dosage. You could administer too much, or too little. You could neglect to change his bandages and let the infection take hold. You could hold a pillow over his face while he slept and press down until the ragged breathing stopped forever. There was no one else in the room. There were no guards at your door, not anymore. You could end this. You could end him. You could free yourself and your daughter and your brother with a single act of will.
You looked at the copper cup on the bedside table. You looked at the pillow beneath his head. You looked at your own hands, still bruised, still crusted with your own blood, still capable of doing what needed to be done.
And then you crossed the room, and you sat down in the chair beside his bed, and you began to prepare the first dose of milk of the poppy with hands that did not tremble at all.
If you let him die now, his father would investigate. There would be questions. There had been a maester here, and guards, and they had seen you alone with him. If Aerion died under your care, the blame would fall on you. You would be executed, or worse. And Rhaenyra would have no mother at all.
Not yet. But the knowledge was there now, a small cold seed planted in the dark soil of your heart. Not yet. But someday, perhaps. Someday, if the opportunity presented itself, if the circumstances aligned, if you could be certain of escaping the consequences. Someday, you might be free of him.
—
The days that followed blurred together like watercolors left in the rain. You were not permitted to leave the room. Aerion made that clear the first time you asked, your voice carefully neutral, your eyes on the floor. He had been awake for perhaps an hour, propped up on pillows that you had arranged behind his back with your own hands, his broken arm splinted and bound, his ribs wrapped tight in fresh linen. His face was still a ruin of purple and black and sickly yellow green, his lip still split, his eye still swollen half-shut. But his voice had lost none of its edge.
"Leave?" He had laughed, a humorless sound that turned into a wince as his ribs protested. "Why would you need to leave? Everything you require is here. Food will be brought. Water for washing. Fresh bandages from the maester. You have no reason to go anywhere."
"Aerion, please. I only want to see Rhaenyra. Just for an hour. Just to hold her and know she's all right. She must be so frightened. She's only two years old. She doesn't understand why her mother disappeared."
His expression had darkened, a cloud passing over the sun. "The child is fine. She is being cared for by the nurses. She does not need you hovering over her like a hen with one chick. What she needs is a father who is not an invalid, and what I need is a caretaker who does not spend every waking moment asking to leave."
"Aerion..."
"Enough." The word was a door slamming shut. "You will stay here. You will tend to my wounds. You will keep me company. You will not leave this room unless I give you permission. Is that understood?"
So you stayed. You woke when he woke, which was often, his sleep broken by pain and fever and the strange, feverish dreams that made him thrash and cry out in the darkness. You changed his bandages with the careful precision the maester had taught you, peeling back the old linen, examining the wounds for signs of infection, applying the salves and poultices with gentle fingers. You fed him broth when he could eat, spooning it into his ruined mouth one careful measure at a time. You helped him with the bedpan when he needed it, a humiliation that made his jaw tighten and his eyes go cold, as if his body's weakness were a personal insult you had somehow engineered.
You did all of this in silence, for the most part. He did not want conversation. He did not want to be soothed or coddled or reassured. The man who had craved praise like a drug, who had turned toward your words like a flower toward the sun, was gone. In his place was a creature of pure, distilled bitterness, a man whose humiliation had curdled inside him until it became something toxic.
He had lost. That was the core of it, the wound beneath the wounds. He had been beaten by a hedge knight in front of half the nobility of the Reach, and then he had demanded a Trial of the Seven, the most sacred and dramatic form of combat the gods permitted, and he had lost that too. His side had lost. The gods themselves had declared against him, had declared in favor of the dirt-smeared giant who had loosened his tooth and spilled his blood and stolen his dignity. Aerion Targaryen, the prince who had burned a man alive for making a joke, the prince who had broken a puppeteer's fingers for telling the wrong story, the prince who believed with every fiber of his being that he was a dragon in human form, had been brought low by a nameless hedge knight with hay in his hair and dirt under his nails.
And you, who had witnessed the beginning of that humiliation, had become the vessel into which he poured all his bile.
"I should have you hanged for being related to that oaf." His hand shot out and closed around your wrist, hard enough to make you freeze. "Why would a brother fight like that? Why would a brother look at a sister like that? Tell me the truth. Was he your lover before he was your brother? Did you share a bed in the slums of Flea Bottom, before I found you?"
The accusation was so vile, so utterly, grotesquely wrong, that for a moment you could not speak at all. You could only stare at him, at his swollen face and his blazing eyes and the jealousy that was consuming him from the inside out like a fire that would not be quenched.
"He is my brother," you said, and your voice was quiet and steady and utterly without the rage that was boiling in your chest. "My brother. My blood.Nothing more. Nothing less. I have never lain with him. I have never wanted to. The very thought is disgusting to me, and it should be disgusting to you too."
Aerion held your gaze for a long moment. Then he released your wrist and turned his face away.
"Finish the bandage," he said, and said nothing more for the rest of the day.
Sometimes, rarely, they brought Rhaenyra to see you. It was never for long. Ten minutes, fifteen, never more than half an hour. A servant would bring her to the door, and she would run across the room on her unsteady two year old legs, bewildered relief of a child who did not understand why her mother had vanished from her life. You would scoop her up and hold her against your chest and breathe in the smell of her, that particular sweetness of soap and milk and sunshine that you had missed like a severed limb.
"Mama," she would say, her small hands patting your face, your hair, your shoulders, as if reassuring herself you were real. "Mama, where did you go? I looked for you. I cried and cried but you didn't come."
"Mama was taking care of your father," you would say, and your voice would be steady even though your heart was breaking. "Your father is very sick, sweetling. He needs Mama's help. But Mama loves you. Mama thinks about you every moment. Do you understand? Every single moment."
She would nod, her small face solemn, and then she would launch into a breathless account of everything she had done since she saw you last. The bird she had seen on the windowsill. The game the nurses had taught her. The dreams she had dreamed. You drank in every word like water in a desert, memorizing the cadence of her voice, the animation of her expressions, the way her tiny hands moved when she was telling a particularly exciting part.
And then Aerion would stir in the bed behind you, and the servant would step forward, and Rhaenyra would be lifted from your arms.
"No," you would say, every time, reaching for her even as the servant pulled her away. "Please, just a few more minutes. Just a little longer. She's only just arrived."
"Prince's orders," the servant would say, and the door would close, and you would be alone with him again.
The nights were the worst.
During the day, Aerion was mostly manageable. Irritable, demanding, prone to dark silences and darker accusations, but manageable. You could distract yourself with the work of caring for him, the constant rhythm of bandages and medicine and meals. You could count the hours until the next time Rhaenyra might be brought to you. You could lose yourself in the small, finite tasks that kept your hands busy and your mind from wandering to places it should not go.
But at night, when the candles burned low and the fire died to embers and the only sound was the soft, labored rhythm of his breathing, the monster in him stirred.
It started on the fourth night. You had been dozing in the chair beside his bed, your neck cricked at an awkward angle, your body aching for the comfort of a proper mattress. You were dreaming of the garden, of Rhaenyra's laughter, of pink flowers crushed beneath bare feet. And then a hand closed around your forearm, and you were jolted awake with a gasp.
Aerion was looking at you from the bed. His eyes were fever bright in the near darkness, and his hand was hot and dry against your skin. The blanket had slipped down to his waist, and you could see the bandages around his ribs, the splint on his arm, the bruises that spread across his torso like storm clouds. But you could also see, in the shadows beneath the blanket, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
"Come here," he said. His voice was hoarse, rough with pain and desire in equal measure. "I need you."
"Aerion," you said carefully, "you're injured. The maester said you need to rest. You could reopen your wounds. You could..."
"I don't care what the maester said." His grip on your arm tightened. "I've been lying in this bed for four days. I've lost everything. My pride. The hedge knight walks free, and I am trapped in this room like a cripple. The least you can do," and his voice hardened on the words, "is give me this."
"You're not well. Please, just wait until you're stronger. I promise, when you're healed..."
"When I am healed, I will take what I want anyway." He pulled you closer, and you could smell the sourness of his breath, the stale sweat of his unwashed body, the cloying sweetness of the milk of the poppy that still lingered on his tongue. "But I want it now. I have spent four days flat on my back like a turtle overturned, watching you flutter around me with your careful hands and your careful voice and your careful eyes that never quite meet mine. I know what you think of me. I know what you think when you look at me. You think I'm a monster. You think I got what I deserved."
"No," you whispered, but it was a lie and you both knew it.
"Yes," he said. "You do. And I don't care. You can hate me all you like, in the privacy of your own mind. But you are mine.Now. Come. Here."
He could not be rough with you, not in his condition. His broken arm lay useless at his side, and his bandaged ribs prevented any sudden movement. But he did not need to be rough to make you feel the weight of your captivity. He directed you with his voice, that voice you had once praised and soothed and loved, telling you where to touch him, how to move, what he wanted from you. He could not take you the way he had on the stone floor, could not pin you down and force himself inside you while you sobbed and pushed at his chest. But he could make you take him in your mouth while he lay back against the pillows with his eyes half closed and his hand tangled in your hair. He could make you straddle him carefully, carefully, moving with the slow precision his injuries demanded, while his one good hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure and pain and the strange, twisted satisfaction of ownership. "That's my good girl. My sweet girl. You know what I need. You always know what I need."
"Now you should rest." He was already drifting, the exertion combined with the milk of the poppy pulling him back toward unconsciousness.
"You're the only one," he mumbled, his voice slurring with sleep. "The only one who stays. The only one who doesn't leave. Don't leave me. Promise you won't leave."
You did not promise. You dried your hands on a cloth and returned to the chair beside his bed, and you watched him sleep, and you thought about the copper cup of milk of the poppy on the bedside table, and you thought about what it would be like to be free.
—
The servant came for you on the seventh day. You were sitting in the chair beside Aerion's bed, your hands idle in your lap for the first time in what felt like years. He was sleeping deeply, the milk of the poppy dragging him down into a place where even his dreams could not reach him.
The door opened without a knock. You turned, expecting another servant with a tray of food, another maester with fresh bandages, another summons from the nurses saying Rhaenyra was crying for you and would not be soothed. But the woman who stood in the doorway was not a servant you recognized.
"Prince Maekar requests your presence," she said. Her voice was flat, neutral, the voice of a woman delivering a message she did not fully understand. "You are to come with me immediately."
You stared at her. Prince Maekar. The man who had called you a whore to your face, who had forbidden you from speaking to his children, who had looked at you for years with an expression of cold, unwavering contempt. He had never once spoken to you directly, had never acknowledged your existence except as a problem to be managed. And now he was summoning you?
"Prince Maekar," you repeated, and your voice came out uncertain, almost afraid. "Why would Prince Maekar want to see me?"
The servant's expression did not change. "I was not told, my lady. Only that you are to come at once. Prince Aerion is sleeping. He will not miss you. Please, follow me."
You looked back at the bed. Aerion's chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. His good hand was curled loosely on the pillow beside his face, his fingers twitching slightly as he dreamed. If you left and he woke to find you gone, there would be consequences. There were always consequences. But the servant was watching you with her sharp grey eyes, and something in her manner told you that this was not a request. This was an order, delivered with the full authority of the man who ruled Summerhall.
You rose from the chair. Your legs were unsteady beneath you, your body still aching from the nights of sleeping in chairs and on pallets, from the strain of lifting and turning and tending a man who outweighed you by half.
The castle was quiet at this hour. The afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. You had not been outside Aerion's room in seven days. The world seemed larger than you remembered. Brighter. More dangerous.
The servant led you through corridors you did not recognize, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor, until you stood before a heavy oak door banded with iron. She knocked twice, a sharp, deliberate rap that echoed in the silence.
"The woman is here, my prince," she said.
A voice from within, muffled by the door, said something you could not make out. The servant pushed the door open and gestured for you to enter.
You stepped inside. The room was small, sparsely furnished. A table. A few chairs. A narrow window that looked out over the castle's eastern wall. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting the room in shadow and flickering orange light. And standing near the window, one hand braced against the wall for support, a thick piece of wood tucked under his other arm to hold him upright, was your brother.
Dunk.
You stopped in the doorway as if you had walked into a wall. Your heart seized in your chest. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands flew to your mouth, pressing against your lips as if to hold in the sound that was trying to escape, a sound that was half sob and half scream and half something that had no name at all.
He looked terrible. His face was a mess of bruises, purple and black and yellow-green, one eye swollen nearly shut, a gash across his cheekbone held closed with clumsy stitches. His lip was split in two places. His left arm was wrapped in a sling, and the piece of wood under his right arm was a crutch, crude and hastily made, the kind a maester might fashion for a patient who refused to stay in bed. He was leaning heavily on it, his massive frame listing to one side, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion and pain. He looked like a man who had been through a war and had only barely survived.
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was exactly the same as it had been when he was eight years old and lifting you from your mother's deathbed. Cracked. Hoarse. Full of a desperate, aching tenderness that made your chest splinter into a thousand pieces.
One moment you were standing in the doorway with your hands pressed to your mouth, and the next you were in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your shoulders shaking with sobs you had been holding back for years. His good arm wrapped around you, pulling you against him, and you felt the crutch fall away, felt him stagger and brace himself against the wall so he would not fall. He was so big. He had always been so big. Even broken and bruised and barely able to stand, he surrounded you, enveloped you, made you feel for the first time in longer than you could remember that you were safe.
"I've got you," he said into your hair, and his voice was breaking, splintering, cracking into pieces that sounded like your mother's laugh and your father's name and every promise he had ever made you. "I've got you. I've always got you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I looked for you. I looked everywhere. They told me you were dead. They told me they found your body in the river. They said you were burned beyond recognition. I believed them. Gods forgive me, I believed them."
"I didn't know," you sobbed into his chest. Your fingers were twisted in his tunic, gripping the rough wool as if he might disappear if you let go. "I didn't know they told you that. I thought you were still looking. I thought you would find me. I waited for you. Every night, I waited for you. I never stopped believing you would come."
"I'm sorry, i believed them. I believed you were dead, and something inside me died with you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, little sister. I should have kept looking. I should have known. I should have..."
"Stop." You pulled back just enough to look up at his face, at the tears that were cutting tracks through the blood and the bruises. "Stop apologizing. You searched for me. You believed what they told you. Any man would have believed it. I don't blame you. I have never blamed you. I only ever wanted you to know I was alive. I tried to send word. I tried so many times. But Aerion..."
You stopped. The name hung in the air between you like a curse. Dunk's expression darkened. His good arm tightened around your shoulders. "Aerion," he repeated, and the word came out like a growl. "What happened to you, Y/N? Where have you been all these years? How did you end up here, with him?"
You pulled away from him gently. Your legs were shaking. You found a chair and sank into it, and Dunk lowered himself awkwardly onto the edge of the table, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, his crutch clattering to the floor. He did not take his eyes off you. He watched you the way he had watched you when you were children, with that fierce, protective intensity that had once been the only thing standing between you and the darkness of the world.
"They sold me," you said, and your voice was quiet and hollow and did not sound like your own. "The men who took me. They sold me to a brothel on the Street of Silk. A high end place, for lords and merchants. The madam... she was cruel. She said I was special. She said I would make them very rich."
Dunk's hands tightened on your shoulders. His face had gone very pale beneath the bruises, and his jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"And then," you continued, "Aerion came, he bought me and never left me"
And then you told him about Rhaenyra.
"Her name is Rhaenyra," you said, and your voice softened on the name, the way it always did. "She's two years old. She looks like her father. But she's kind. She's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She's the only good thing that has come out of any of this. And she's the reason I can't leave."
Dunk was silent for a long moment. His face was unreadable, a mask of bruises and exhaustion and something that might have been grief. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough.
"I'll take you away," he said. "Both of you. You and the little girl. I'll find a way. I have friends now. A prince and a lord. We can protect you. We can hide you somewhere Aerion will never find you."
You shook your head. The tears were streaming down your face again, hot and silent, dripping off your chin and onto your hands. "You don't understand. He would never let me go. He would hunt me down like a dog. He would burn cities to the ground to find me. He told me... the night after the puppet show, when he came to my room, he told me the only way I would ever leave him was in a shroud. He meant it, Dunk. I have seen what he does to people who defy him. I have seen him cut a servant's hand for spilling wine on him. I have seen him laugh while a man burned alive. If I tried to run, if I took Rhaenyra and disappeared, he would never stop looking. And when he found me, and he would find me, he would kill me. He would take my daughter and he would kill me, and Rhaenyra would grow up without a mother, raised by a monster who would teach her that cruelty is strength and kindness is weakness and love is just another word for ownership."
"He would have to go through me first," Dunk said, and his voice was hard, the voice of a man who had faced seven knights in single combat and emerged victorious. "I lost you once. I believed you were dead for years. I mourned you, Y/N. I sat in that alley and I let the darkness take me because there was no light left in the world. And then I found you again, alive, here, in this place, with that man. I am not going to lose you again. I don't care if he is a prince. I don't care if he has a hundred Kingsguard. I will find a way to get you out of here. I will find a way to keep you safe. I swear it. I swear it on our mother's grave. I swear it on everything I am."
"Dunk." You reached out and took his enormous hand in both of yours. His knuckles were swollen and bruised, the skin split and scabbed over. The hands that had lifted you from the mattress where your mother had stopped breathing. The hands that had carried you into the cold morning while the other whores watched with pity. The hands that had promised you silk and lemon cakes and a world where no one would hurt you. "I want to believe you. I want to believe there is a way out of this. But you have to understand what you're risking. He will kill you. He will kill you without hesitation, without a trial, without anything but the cold satisfaction of removing an obstacle. And if you die, if you die trying to save me, I will have nothing left. Nothing. Do you understand? You are my brother. You are the only family I have in this world besides my daughter. I cannot lose you again."
He squeezed your hands. His grip was gentle, impossibly gentle for a man who had killed knights and broken bones and fought his way through horrors you could only imagine. "You won't lose me," he said. "I promise you, little sister. You won't lose me."
—
You ran. Egg had barely finished speaking before you were out the door and flying down the corridor, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth, your lungs burning with every breath. You did not care if anyone saw you. You did not care if there were questions. All you cared about was getting back to Aerion's room before he woke, before he realized you were gone, before the fragile illusion of your obedience shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.
You reached the door to Aerion's chamber and paused, pressing your palm flat against the wood, forcing yourself to breathe. You could not go in looking like a woman who had just run across half the castle. You could not go in looking like a woman who had been crying in her brother's arms. You smoothed your hair with trembling hands. You wiped the tears from your cheeks. You arranged your face into the careful mask you had worn for years, and you pushed open the door.
Aerion was still asleep. He had not moved since you left. His breathing was slow and steady, his bruised face relaxed in the depths of his drugged slumber. The milk of the poppy still held him in its grip. The bandages on his ribs were unrumpled. His splinted arm lay exactly where you had arranged it. He had not woken. He had not called for you. He had not noticed your absence at all.
You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, your legs threatening to give way beneath you. You had made it. You had made it, and he did not know, and you were safe. For now. For this moment. For as long as you could keep the mask from slipping.
You returned to the chair beside his bed and sat down, and you waited.
Days passed. Aerion healed. Slowly at first, then with the stubborn, grinding determination of a man who refused to be seen as weak for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. The bruises faded from black to purple to yellow-green. The swelling around his eye went down until he could open it fully again. The split lip closed, leaving a thin white scar that tugged at the corner of his mouth when he spoke. The ribs were slower to mend, the maester said, and he would need to be careful for weeks yet, but the splint came off his arm and he began to flex his fingers, to test the range of motion, to push against the limits of his own body the way he pushed against everything else in his life.
By the end of the second week, he could walk with a stick. You were the one who helped him take his first steps. His arm draped over your shoulders, his weight pressing down on you until your knees buckled, his breath harsh and labored against your ear. You walked him across the room and back again, step by agonizing step, your body bearing the burden of his in a way that felt like a metaphor for everything your life had become.
"Good," he said through gritted teeth when he finally lowered himself back onto the bed. “That's good. I'll be out of this room by the end of the week.”
"My father is sending me away," he had said, and his voice was flat, toneless, drained of its usual fire. "Lys. A city of whores and perfumed merchants. He calls it self reflection. A chance to contemplate my actions and return a better man. But we both know what it really is. Exile. He cannot bear to look at me. He blames me for Baelor's death, even though it was his own blow that killed him. He blames me for everything."
You had not known what to say, so you had said nothing. That was safest. That had always been safest.
"You and the girl will come with me, of course, Lys is said to be beautiful. Warm. The sea is the color of sapphires, and the women walk around in silks so fine you can see their skin through the fabric. You will like it there."
You would not like it anywhere he was. But you had smiled, because that was what you did, and you had told him that Lys sounded lovely, and you had turned away to prepare his next dose of medicine so he would not see the despair in your eyes.
After that, things shifted slightly. Perhaps Aerion felt guilty for uprooting you. Perhaps he was simply trying to secure your loyalty before the journey. Whatever the reason, he began to allow you to visit Rhaenyra in the nursery. Not for long, not unsupervised, but every day. Every single day, you were permitted to leave his chamber for an hour and go to your daughter.
It was the only thing that kept you sane. You would sit in the nursery with Rhaenyra on your lap, her small body warm and solid and alive against your chest, and you would listen to her chatter about the games she had played and the songs she had learned and the dreams she had dreamed. You would brush her hair and sing to her in the soft voice you used for no one else. You would tell her that you loved her, that you would always love her, that there was nothing in the world she could do that would make you stop loving her. And you would try very hard not to think about the fact that in a few weeks, a few months at most, you would be on a ship to Lys, and the only world Rhaenyra had ever known would disappear behind her forever.
It was on one of these days, when you returned from the nursery with Rhaenyra's laughter still echoing in your ears, that everything fell apart.
You pushed open the door to Aerion's chamber and stopped dead in the doorway. There were two guards in the room. Between them, kneeling on the stone floor, was the servant. The one who had come to you days ago. The one who had said Prince Maekar requests your presence. The one who had led you through the corridors to the room where Dunk was waiting.
She was barely recognizable. Her face was a swollen mass of bruises, her lips split in three places, her nose broken and crusted with dried blood. One of her eyes was swollen completely shut, and the other stared at the floor with the glassy, unfocused gaze of someone who had retreated so far inside herself that she might never find her way back out. Her dress was torn, stained dark with blood and sweat and things you did not want to name. Her hands, folded limply in her lap, were missing three fingernails.
You knew, in that moment, that you were going to die.
Aerion was standing by the window, leaning on his stick, his back to you. He did not turn when you entered. He simply stood there, silhouetted against the grey afternoon light, his shoulders rigid, his free hand clenched into a fist at his side.
"Close the door," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The calm of a sea that had gone flat and glassy in the moment before a tidal wave.
You closed the door. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely grip the latch.
"Aerion," you said, and your voice came out as a whisper, thin and reedy and full of the terror you could not hide. "What is this? What happened to her?"
Now he turned. His face was the face you had seen on the stage of the puppet show, cold and cruel and utterly without mercy. His violet eyes were dark with a rage that had been simmering for days, waiting for this moment, and his mouth was a thin hard line that made the scar at the corner of his lip stand out white against his skin.
"Is it true?" he asked. His voice was still calm. Still quiet. Still terrible. "Did you betray me? Did you see that treasonous bastard of your brother?"
Your heart stopped. Your blood turned to ice. The world narrowed to the space between you and him, the fire in the hearth, the broken woman on the floor.
"Aerion, please, let me explain..."
"Did you see him?" He did not shout. He did not raise his voice at all. But each word was a hammer blow, driving the breath from your lungs, the strength from your legs. "This woman, this servant, has told me everything. How she came to you while I was sleeping. How she led you through the castle. How my father, my own father, arranged for you to meet your brother in secret behind my back. Is it true? Answer me. Is it true?"
Your mind raced, scrambling for a lie, a deflection, anything that might save you. But the servant was kneeling on the floor with her fingernails torn out and her face beaten to pulp, and you knew that whatever you said, whatever excuse you offered, he had already made up his mind.
"It was not my choice," you said, and your voice cracked on the words. "The servant came and said your father wanted to see me. I did not know it was a trick. I did not know Dunk would be there. I went because I was afraid to refuse. Please, Aerion, you have to believe me. I did not seek him out. I would never..."
"Liar." He spat the word like a curse. "You have been lying to me since the moment you saw his face in the pavilion. You have been lying to me while you changed my bandages and brought my medicine and performed your little duties like the devoted whore you pretend to be. All this time, you have been dreaming of him. Planning with him. Scheming behind my back. Did you think I would not find out? Did you think I would not have you watched? Did you think I was stupid?"
"No, I never..."
"Be silent." He took a step toward you, and the stick thumped against the stone floor like a death sentence. "I have listened to your lies for years. I have listened to you whisper that you loved me while your eyes were always looking somewhere else. I have listened to you promise that you were mine while your heart belonged to another. I am done listening. Now you will listen to me."
He gestured to one of the guards. The man stepped forward, his face still grim and impassive. You barely had time to register the movement before his gauntleted hand cracked across your face.
The blow sent you sprawling to the floor. Your head hit the stone with a crack that made stars burst across your vision. The taste of blood filled your mouth. Your ears rang with a high, thin whine that drowned out everything else. You tried to push yourself up, but your arms would not hold you, and you collapsed back onto the cold stone, gasping.
"Take her away," Aerion said, and for a moment you thought he meant you. But the guard was already hauling the servant to her feet, dragging her toward the door, her head lolling on her broken neck. The other guard followed, and then the door closed, and you were alone with the dragon.
Aerion stood over you. The stick thumped against the floor as he took another step closer. You could see his boots from where you lay, the fine black leather, the silver buckles shaped like dragon wings.
"Let me tell you what happens now," he said, and his voice was soft, almost gentle, the voice of a man explaining something to a child. "You are going to Lys with me. You are going to share my bed and warm my sheets and perform your duties as you have always done. You are going to smile and praise me and tell me that I am magnificent. You are going to be exactly what you have always been. My whore. My property. My thing."
He lowered himself slowly, painfully, until he was crouching beside you. His hand came down and gripped your chin, forcing your face up toward his. His fingers were cold and hard and utterly without tenderness.
"If you ever see your brother again," he said, "if you ever speak to him, if you ever so much as learn his whereabouts and fail to tell me, I will not kill you. No. Killing you would be a mercy, and I am not feeling merciful. What I will do is make you pray for death. Every single day, you will pray for it, and it will not come. Do you understand?"
You tried to speak. No words came out. Only a thin, animal whimper that you barely recognized as your own.
"And Rhaenyra," he continued, and your blood turned to ice water. "If you betray me again, if you give me even the slightest reason to doubt your loyalty, I will take her from you. Not just for a few days. Not just to the nursery. I will sell her. Do you understand? I will sell her to a brothel the moment she has her first bleeding. She will spend her life on her back with strange men between her legs, just like her mother before her. Just like the whore who whelped her. That is what happens to the daughters of traitors. That is what happens to the children of women who forget who they belong to."
"No." The word tore out of you, a desperate, animal sound. "Aerion, no, please, she's your daughter, she's your blood, you can't..."
"I can do whatever I want." His voice was flat. Final. The voice of a god passing judgment. "She is mine. You are mine. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because I allow it. Your life is a privilege. Your motherhood is a privilege. Your identity as a mother, as a daughter, as anything other than what I tell you to be, is a privilege. And privileges can be revoked."
He rose to his feet with a grimace of pain, leaning heavily on his stick. He looked down at you, crumpled on the floor at his feet, and his expression was utterly without pity.
"Your only duty is to me," he said. "You are not a mother. You are not a sister. You are not a person with a past or a family or a soul. You are my whore. That is all you have ever been. That is all you will ever be. Everything else, every moment you have spent with Rhaenyra, every breath you have taken as a free woman, has been a gift. A gift that I gave you. A gift that I can take away."
He turned to the guard who remained. The man had been standing motionless by the door, his face a mask of professional indifference. He had watched the whole thing without flinching. You wondered, distantly, how many women he had seen broken on the orders of the men who paid him.
"Incapacitate her," Aerion said. "I want her unable to walk. Not permanently. I still need her to be able to perform her duties. But I want her to remember, every time she takes a step, what happens when she forgets who she belongs to."
The guard stepped forward. You saw him coming, saw the purpose in his eyes, and you tried to scramble backward on the floor, your heels slipping against the stone, your hands clawing for purchase. It did not matter. He was on you in three strides, his hands closing around your ankle, and you heard yourself screaming, heard Aerion's voice saying something you could not understand, and then there was a sound like a branch breaking in deep winter, and your leg exploded into white-hot agony.
The world went away for a while. When it came back, you were still on the floor. The guard was gone. Aerion was still standing over you, leaning on his stick, watching you with an expression that was almost curious. As if your pain were an experiment he had conducted and he was evaluating the results.
"The maester will come to set the ankle," he said. "You will tell him you fell down the stairs. You will not mention the guard. You will not mention this conversation. You will not mention your brother or your disobedience. You will smile, and you will thank me for my concern, and you will continue to perform your duties. Is that understood?"
You could not speak. The pain was too much. Your leg was a column of fire, and every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of agony through your body. But you managed to nod, a tiny, jerky motion of your head, and that seemed to satisfy him.
"Good," he said. "I am glad we understand each other."
He limped to the door, his stick thumping against the stone with every step. He did not look back at you as he left. He did not offer you a hand to help you up. He simply opened the door and disappeared into the corridor, and you were alone.
Dunk had promised. Dunk had sworn on your mother's grave, on everything he was. And Dunk had never broken a promise to you. Not once. Not ever.
You held onto that ember as the darkness closed in. You held onto it as the pain in your ankle pulsed and throbbed and dragged you toward unconsciousness. You held onto it as the door opened and the maester's voice exclaimed in shock and you heard yourself saying, over and over, the lie Aerion had given you. Fell down the stairs. Fell down the stairs. Fell down the stairs.
And when the maester's hands began to work on your ankle, when the world went white with pain and then mercifully black with oblivion, you held onto it still.
Synopsis ── 𖤓 ˚｡⋆ You are to marry a prince of dragon blood. Fearing for your life as your wedding night approaches, what happens when a fierce dragon wraps his sharp claws around you, leaving you nowhere to escape?
Tags / warnings: 18+ content, arranged marriage, cruel aerion, enemies to enemies, hurt no comfort, smut, stabbing oops, blood play, biting, rough sex, reader is scared of marriage, loss of virginity, aerion gets off on antagonizing the reader, aerion likes to be in control, toxic romance, angst, female reader insert, readers appearance is not mentioned, the usual targaryen weirdness, choking, the reader is not as helpless as she seems, reader is from house dayne, notes available at the end of the chapter, extreme slowburn
Word Count: 10.1k
You do not like King’s Landing.
It is dark, cold, and nothing at all like Dorne. Your body does not feel the comforting warmth of Starfall hug around you in a soothing embrace, instead it is met with inky clouds that smother any ray of sunlight that dares try to cut through the ghastly sky. Your body is not yet used to it, and you suspect it never will be, your mind is too fixated on the memory of glassy waves and sunlit stone.
Standing on the balcony, you delicately angled your gaze enough that your eyes could slip down into the small cramped and crooked streets rather than lingering in the torchlit halls behind you. The firelight feels rather ghostly, like a whisper of stone and flame. Draped in the finest silks that are perhaps too soft and easygoing for a place that smells of leather steel and smoke pale purples spill from your shoulders in gentle folds. The gold folds over your body, catching the last of the weak daylight it gleams at your throat, a quiet proclamation of your Dayne blood.
Your fingers curl around the dainty rings at your hands, turning the cool metal against your warm skin, focusing on the familiar weight of them before you let your quiet thoughts circle back to the reason you are here— which is marriage. Since young, it has been imprinted into you that it is a woman’s duty to marry and bring honor to her house. You are no fool, you have known this since you were old enough to watch brides ride away from Starfall trembling in the wind.
Aerion Targaryen is a prince, and to wed a prince of Westeros is more than simply duty, it is the highest honour you could lay at your family’s feet. The blood of the dragon runs through his veins, and your kins would be fools not to seize that. Binding fire and blood to your bloodline, silver hair and sharp imperious features, along with violet eyes would never allow tongues to cease whispering. People fear him, and you do not need to question why, the fact that they once were dragon masters was enough for you to understand.
You know you ought to feel a swell of joy and pride, yet you cannot help but want to weep, fear sitting heavier in your chest than any sense of honour. The ‘Brightflame’ is a stigma dressed in chains, a dragon with his wings torn off but its claws left sharp, and the thought of standing at his side makes your stomach fold and tuck in horror. And you are so very far from home, all that is left with you are the rings that sit on your fingers and the knowledge that you are being given to something made of fire.
You hear your fathers soft voice call your name from behind, and you cannot bring it upon yourself to turn and face him.
“It is time,” he says.
It feels as though all the time in the world has slipped away, like sand through open fingers, yet you are only eight and ten. Time was the one thing you had thought endless when you ran through the sunlit halls of home, but now it has narrowed to this single corridor as you follow behind your father. Feet falling into perfect rhythm with his, each tread is swallowed by the echoing of stone, you feel insubstantial, nothing more than a pawn on a board built by men.
“I love you, my daughter,” your father says, pride swelling in his chest, you swear you can almost see it. “You are doing the realm a great service.” He glances down at you and offers you a gentle smile you have always been used to, the one that meant safety, stories and long arms opening to catch you. Now it means nothing such.
To you, the words feel like mockery. You want, with an aching desperation, to be a child again in his arms, to bury your face in his chest and ask him not to make you stray so far from home, not to give you to a dragon and to keep you in Starfall until you become grey and old. Instead, you swallow back the heavy weight in your chest, blink back the sting of tears that threaten to fall and continue to walk beside him in silence. The words you do not voice turn bitter on your tongue.
Standing small at your father’s side, your spine remains straight and hands are folded in mirror to etiquette that was drilled into you since childhood. Even though you hold yourself in place with perfect posture, you cannot ignore your heart beating too fast against your ribs. You assumed you would have been prepared for this moment, or so your ladies-in-waiting had told you, but the nerves rising in your throat made a liar of every lesson.
The dragon prince, Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen stands opposite you, milky hands tickled neatly behind his back before his violet eyes sweep over you in idle disinterest. There is something about him that does not feel entirely human, you tell yourself it is only the Valyrian cast of him, the handsome lines of his face, the sharp bone, silver hair and inhuman calm. You find his presence to be heavy, as though it presses against your lungs with intentions to make them collapse, and you find yourself breathing a touch too quickly for a lady who is meant to be composed.
The embers in his eyes glow like the flickers of flame as he looks at you, and his calm expression shifts, disinterest becoming irritation. He has not yet said anything, but behind his glimmering daze you can see him thinking. Gaze lingering on you, unfocused, in a sudden flicker of candlelight he turns his head towards his father.
“I have no desire to take someone so plain-looking,” He says at last, and his voice is smooth and steady, and almost silky enough that for a second you do not register the words that slip out his lips.
Prince Maekar’s expression curdles and he lifts his chin up high in sharp irritation while his lips curl into something close to a snarl.
“Boy,” the Prince bites out, “do not try to be clever with me. You are to wed her.”
Aerion clicks his tongue to this, making a loud and disdainful sound. His purple eyes drag over you from head to toe in a slow and assessing manner. They are striking, you must admit, such eyes are not common in Westeros, and this is the first time you have seen them so closely. For all his cruel words, you cannot deny he is pretty in a cold, Valyrian way. Yet, his satisfying appearance does not help to ease the tightness in your throat. You decide to swallow hard, watching the two of them like some small thing caught between, absolutely insignificant.
“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sounding bored, “for a prince of the dragon to take a wife of pure blood. It is tradition. She is no pureblood.”
“Pure blood or not, you’ll do as you’re told and take what is given. The matter is settled.” Maekar grunts out, beyond tired of his son's disobedience, then he gives your father an apologetic look. Aerion does not respond but you do see the jaw his skin tightens as he clenches his sharp jaw, the lids of his violet eyes growing heavy in what you suppose is anger at rejection.
The thought settles in your chest as you take slight offence to the young prince’s words. You are a Dayne of Starfall, not some nameless girl that was plucked from a crowd, but his words make it clear that you are not what he desires. In his eyes, you are not pure enough nor worthy enough, and certainly not what he believes he was promised.
Mind circling back to the same inevitable truth, you remember he is a dragon. It does make sense that a dragon would want fire and blood, and dragons do not bear disappointment well, they would prefer to scorch it from the world. Your shoulders stiffen as you wonder with a cold creeping dread if he will lose his tempter and spill his anger on you.
A light tap between your shoulder blades signals your father’s silent command and you know it is time to perform your duty. Lowering your head at once, silk whispering as your pretty purple skirts sway forward, your hair slips forward like a curtain which veils the side of your face. You school your features into something that’s gentle and obedient, the way you were taught, the way a prince would prefer a lady.
“I hope I will prove… acceptable to you, my prince,” you speak, voice soft, the royal title scraping your throat. My prince, the words feel wrong in your mouth, it is a vow that does not belong to you, like you are bending the knee to the edge of a blade, swearing undying loyalty to it. You are expected to play the dutiful pride, to smile and obey a man who can air his displeasures as openly as he breathes, while it is looked down upon if you so much as flinch.
His expression tightens further, as though the gods above are mocking him, as though you are mocking him. To him it must seem like your very presence is a cage to be fitted around him, link by link.
“I will judge that for myself,” he says at last, each word precise. “Soon enough.”
The words feel like a threat. He licks his lips in a quick, unconscious motion, and for the first time his piercing gaze truly settles on you. It drops from your face to the line of your collarbone, to the way the slightly sheer Dornish silk clings to your body. It is modest enough beneath the sun of Starfall, perhaps, but here it feels suddenly too light and too revealing under a dragon’s scrutiny.
With a sudden shiver, you realize that he hadn’t properly looked at you before you spoke. Now he is, and his gaze lingers a heartbeat too long before he catches himself, haunting eyes snapping back up to your face. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek and he clicks it again, creating a small, irritated sound that feels like a final verdict.
The anger painted on his face does not fade. You have a sinking feeling it will not leave for some time, if it ever does. You can only hope he chooses not to sink his sharp claws into you the way a dragon might into a lamb, that he will not prove more cruel in marriage than he has already shown himself to be in court.
──
Aerion is aware of exactly who he is, the second son of a fourth son. In his family's eyes, he is too far removed from the line of succession to be given the honour of a sister or a cousin, too valuable to waste entirely, a convenient piece to trade. His father speaks of great alliances and the strength of the old blood as though that should soothe the insult. His late-mother had been a Dayne, he already paid the price of that through the blood that ran through his veins. Then why must a prince of dragon blood take a wife whose blood does not burn, whose hair does not gleam silver in the light that will not promise him babes with the right look?
During these thoughts, his mind inevitably slips to you. You seemed timid and shy, eyes lowered and shoulders held perfectly tight. A dragon can smell blood, and Aerion had smelt your fear the moment your eyes gazed upon him and you opened your mouth. Perhaps you will provide him with some entertainment in this dreary visit to King’s Landing. The whores of the Street of Silk had begun to bore him, there is no sport in flesh that yields far too easily, and definitely no thrill in maids who tremble on command. He supposes you will be different, untouched, untried yet already flinching. Your face is not entirely displeasing either, fear will suit you he thinks. A scared look on your delicate features might even be pretty.
The pre-celebration of your marriage bleeds into the evening, the last light of the sun dying over King’s Landing as lords and ladies murmur and laugh around you. You notice the sun sets much earlier here than it does in Starfall. You are dressed to be seen, Dayne’s prettiest colours draped over your frame, your gown mirroring the soft purples of the setting sky just before the darkness wraps Westeros in a black cloak.
Ladies stop you with gentle hands and sweeter smiles, offering kind congratulations as if they are gifts, mentioning what an honour it is to be marrying a prince. What a blessing it is to find such a compelling husband, asserting what a lucky lady you are. You do as you’re taught, smiling and nodding as you let the words wash over you like cold water. The idea of drowning yourself and letting the night blur into nothing slips past you, yet you cannot afford to make a fool of yourself. You cannot risk forgetting the last scraps of freedom you have before you stand beside a dragon at the sept tomorrow.
Your gaze drifts away from the cluster of smiling girls in front of you, still giggling over some lord who had just entered the hall. Your face morphs into a pleasant neutrality before you spot your beloved, Aerion Targaryen sitting alone at one of the long tables, one pale hand wrapped around a golden goblet. His fingers are restless against it, tapping it irately. If the goblet were not forged of the finest gold by the finest hands, it would already be crushed to splinters under his grip, and there is intent in the way he holds it, as though he is imagining the breaking. The lords near him cast him sidelong glances, eyes widening warily before they turn away, choosing the safety of polite ignorance over the flames of a dragon's temper.
Then, intense violet eyes find yours, and for a second you forget how to breathe. You try to shake off the fragile, trembling feeling that crawls up your spine as his gaze rakes up your face, like a hand turning a blade to catch the light. Something flickers in his Valyrian eyes, an unknown flame that sets you further on edge, then the edges of his lips curl upwards, mouth forming a sly smile.
It somehow manages to unsettle you more than his scowl ever did.
Suddenly, he hurls the goblet in his hands to the floor beside him, the crack of the metal on stone splits the room, sharp enough to pierce through the upbeat music and laughter. The sweet, dark wine spills out in a syrupy pool, sliding across the floor, soft and cloying, everything he is not. The serving girl nearest to him flinches violently as she drops to her knees beside his boot to clean up after the fallen cup with trembling fingers. When you look back, his smile drops from his slips yet he continues to stare at you, not with idle curiosity, but with the fixed and hungry focus of a predator who has chosen its victim.
You tear your gaze from his, feeling your pulse jump and stomach twist, the hall feels too small, too loud, too full of eyes. Slipping away from the intimidating grey of the dining hall, skirts whisper as you weave between lords and ladies, pushing through a door onto the wide terrace that overlooks the dark smear of the sea.
A sob catches halfway up your throat as you drag in a breath, wheezing it out in a shudder. You had not realized how long you’d been holding your fear tight inside your ribs until it started spilling over. The glass clanking against the floor may have been something he had meant to show you, perhaps it was a promise of how easily his temper shatters or a suggestion of what he might do to you when nobody is watching.
You tip your head back, forcing your gaze up to the sky, dragging in a sharp breath and holding it in, willing the tears to stay where they are. It is a star-dusted night, a faint echo of the heavens above Starfall. You fixate on them, the quiet and the distance , letting their shine stand between you and the horrors waiting for you back in the hall.
Your fists clench at your sides, silk biting into your palms as you try to hold yourself together, because tomorrow you are meant to marry Aerion Targaryen, and you are not sure how much of you will be left once you do.
The sound of boots on stone drags you back from the stars, and you see the dragon prince step out onto the terrace like a storm crossing a threshold. His dark cloak snaps in the wind and anger clings to him as tangibly as the scent of wine and smoke. His jaw is tense and his pale hair catches onto the torchlight behind him, violet eyes already fixed on you with a furious disbelief, as though your very presence here is an insult carved into the night.
“You dare,” he says, voice low and threatening, “to run from your to-be husband?”
The prince looks angry, annoyed and most of all offended, so offended it is as if the emotion has sunk into his bones. You can see it in the tight line of his mouth and the way his hands flex at his sides, as though he's restraining the urge to break something just to hear it shatter.
“No— never, my prince,” you blurt out, the words almost tumbling over one another in your haste. “I only needed some air.” Your mouth parts as you let out a breath, eyes wide with concern as you meet his violet eyes with fear racking up within your body.
“Air?” he repeats, as though finding the words and finding them rather bitter. “Tell me, little bride, are you trying to insult me, or are you merely stupid?”
Heat crawls up his spine, settling hot and ugly between his shoulder blades. He can feel everything in him tense along with it, his jaw, hands, and the muscles in his neck pull tight as your excuse echoes in his mind. What utter insolence he thinks, to leave him sitting alone before half the court, like some unloved fool, while his bride wanders off to stare at the stars.
In his eyes, it is complete disrespect. Do you not understand the insult, to walk away from a dragon prince in a hall full of lords and ladies, to turn your back on him as though he is nothing.
Your mouth opens to answer, to apologise, to say something or anything, but the prince does not give you a chance.
“Are you always in the habit of abandoning your betters whenever you please?” He cuts in, voice silk over steel.
He steps forward, and in response your body takes a step back without thinking, the movement small but unmistakable. His eyes flick down, catching your action, the retreat and the fear behind it. You cannot tell whether the sight of his eyes glimmering means he likes it, or simply files it away as something to use in the future.
“I am so sorry,” you quickly apologize, shame crawling up your throat. You suppose it is better to apologize rather than face the wrath of the dragon, “I did not mean to—”
“First I am given a bride I do not want, but must endure, and now you make me look a fool.”
You have no answer for him, the words dry up on your tongue. You are suddenly certain if you dare to say anything more, you will pay for it. When you still say nothing, Aerion shifts under his weight, tilting his head to regard you from above, like something curious caught under glass.
“Is this some little game of yours?” he asks, voice low and intentional. “Standing there mute, waiting to see when your dragon will finally lose his temper?”
He moves to close the distance between you with another measured step, the hem of his cloak whispering over the stone. This time, you force yourself to stay rooted where you are, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.
“No, my prince. That was never my intention.”
“Then why do you run from me?” he asks, head tilting slowly, eyes narrowing. “Afraid, perhaps?”
He watches the way your throat works as you swallow, the small stiffening of your shoulders. He can smell the nerves on you, they are sharp and thin, like smoke before a fire, it is instinct. You look as though you are about to murmur another sad little apology, and he almost turns away, growing bored at the sight. Instead, you lift your chin a fraction,
“No, my price,” you say in trained softness. “It is the highest honour to wed a prince of the blood.”
You fight the horrible urge to tremble, and for a fleeting moment it almost feels as though you are standing up for yourself. Aerion says nothing at first, only studies you in silence, eyes raking over your face. Whatever interest your answer had sparked fades quickly before his gaze fools and he peers down at you with an unimpressed look.
“You lie poorly.” He says. “What a shame. If you were not so bound by duty and virtue, you might almost be interesting.”
“Interesting how, my prince?” you find yourself asking quietly and suddenly. “For smiling when you insult me?”
You think you hate him. He feels like everything made of ash and ember, all heat and hurt and sharp edges, while you are of calmer waves and glassy tides that he would only try to pierce. You know you are pushing too far that you are prodding at a dragon’s temper with bare hands but you cannot bring yourself to be more careful. Everything is too much, the hall, the stares, and the weight of tomorrow, and you are not the only one being dragged into a marriage you do not want.
“Is that not a wife’s duty?” he drawls, deciding to humour you. “To smile and bear what her husband gives her?”
Aerion thinks he hates you. You pretend to be obedient, frail and soft-spoken, but the words you dare to offer him are anything but meek. Your words bite and push, his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as his lips curl into a smile that never reaches his eyes.
“Perhaps you would find me interesting if I worshipped you as devoutly as you worship yourself.”
You meet his gaze as you say it, violet eyes on yours, steady and unflinching. Neither of you move before his eyes widen a fraction, and you see something catch a fire beneath them, a flash of raw, burning fury that makes your stomach drop, regretting your words at once.
His breathing shifts, and rage seems to ripple through him like a shudder passing down a tethered beast. His shoulders tighten, fingers flex at his sides, even the line of his throat goes taut as if the anger is something barely held inside skin and bone. The prince looks as though he is vibrating with rage, every muscle in his body straining in order not to lash out.
You wish with sudden, sick clarity that you had kept your mouth shut, that you had not let your frayed emotions drive you to prod at a dragon’s pride.
The space between you closes as his pale hand is suddenly at your throat, fingers closing hard enough that the breath stumbles in your chest. His grip is iron and unforgiving, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of the side of your neck as his thumb presses against the hollow of your throat. Your back hits the cold white stone of the balustrade with a dull jult, the remaining air leaving you in a strangled gasp.
Your hand flies up on instinct, fingers donned with golden rings wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry him away, however he is far too strong. He peers down at you through dark narrowed eyes, watching the way you struggle, the way your mouth parts endlessly, the way your pulse flutters frantically beneath his palm.
His other hand almost lazily settles along your jaw, long fingers curling against your cheek, the heel of his hand pressing against the edge of your jaw as he forces your face up, angling you to meet his gaze. You try to protest, but you are pinned, held open beneath him, throat in his grasp and eyes locked onto his.
The world narrows to the burn in your lungs and the heat of his rage wraps around your neck like a collar.
“You will not shame me,” he grinds out, grip tightening. “You are mine to endure, whether you wish it or not, and you will learn your place.”
He leans in, closing the space between you until you can feel his breath hot across your face. He tilts his head, studying you, and his gaze drops to your lips— parted and struggling for air. There is a dark gleam in his eyes as he watches you struggle, something ugly that makes your skin crawl.
Your vision begins to blur at the edges and black creeps in, just before you think you may faint, you swear you see your to-be husband's lips twitch, almost forming a smile before his hand loosens.
You drag in a ragged breath as his fingers slip from your throat, but one hand remains on your sensitive skin, resting almost lightly now at the curve where the neck meets the shoulder. The contrast makes you shiver, a moment ago he was all violence and fire, but now he is close and still, leaned over you, refusing to move away— it feels almost possessive.
He looks at you as though he is taking in art work, gaze lingering on your exposed throat. You can feel the ache blooming there, the tender skin throbbing where his grip has marked you. His fingers trail over the bruising skin in a slow brush, as if he is tracing the outline of something he has carefully crafted before he finally lifts his hand away.
“Know who you belong to,” he says at last, voice low and unhurried, as though he is in no rush. “And do not forget it tomorrow.”
Your chest heaves as you fight to steady your breathing, each inhale sharp against your bruised throat. His gaze drops, following the rise and fall of your purple silks as they shift with every desperate breath, before sliding back up to your face.
It is a shame, really, you used to love the colour violet, the evening-kissed skies over Starfall, the wild flowers that clung to the cliffs. Now you find yourself growing to hate it, it is everywhere, in the dress that draped fluidly around you, in the shadowed bloom that has begun to form on your neck, in the sharp and piercing violet of Aerion’s eyes that refused to leave you.
You find yourself fearing tomorrow, after it, you will be alone in this world and only your husband’s, bound to a dragon’s temper for the rest of your life. And you cannot help but think that the colour you once adored is already beginning to dull for you.
──
The bells of the city had already begun tolling at dawn, their chime threading through the stone of the keep. The soft ringing serves as a reminder that by sunset, you will no longer be the only daughter of starfall, by sunset, you will be Aerion Targaryen’s wife.
The maid fusses with the clasp of your necklace, her cool fingers brushing the nape of your neck as you stand before a mirror, this is the last time you will see yourself as you are now, you think. Silk falls over your shoulders while the jewels catch the pale morning light, yet your gaze finds the faint purple shadow blooming at your neck. Your fingers trace the edge of the bruise, you know you are meant to be thinking of your vows, but all you can think of is the mark of his hand around your neck.
“You look beautiful, my lady.” The maid says as she finishes with the clasp and meets your eyes in the mirror, offering you a small smile.
“Thank you,” You say, yet you cannot bring yourself to fake excitement, all you can think about is the dragon prince and the work of his hands.
“Do you wish for me to cover it, my lady?” She asks quietly, almost hesitantly, her gaze following your eyes, hesitating before she shuffles a step closer.
Of course, her gaze lands on your throat. After all, what else could she possibly mean with the ugly mark sitting so brazenly on your neck, impossible to ignore despite the necklace that has been carefully placed. The thought of him, your prince, soon-to-be husband, causes tension to ripple through you, a slow tightening in your shoulders as you can almost feel his fingers there again.
“No,” you say after a moment of thinking. “It is well. Leave it as it is.”
Your eyes remained fixed on the bruise in the glass. If he can lay his hands on you before you are even officially his, then he can live with the evidence. You decide that you will let him see it, let his family see it. You want him punished in the only way left to you, you want the dragon to feel a sliver of the shame you have felt burning since arriving in King’s Landing. If you are meant to endure him for the rest of your life, you may as well make a spectacle of him before he convinces himself he is untouchable. Dragons may be fireproof, but he certainly isn’t, you think.
Your gaze drifts, heavy and unwilling, to the large bed that rests against the wall, and you can feel fear strike clean through you. Your breath grows thick in your chest, harder to pull in, harder to push out. You know exactly what you are feeling, and you would be a fool to call it anything but fear. If he is this cruel to you before the vows are even spoken, you cannot imagine how cruel he will be when the night is his by right.
The maid catches your expression and her face softens, giving you a sad, almost knowing smile. It is a look of a woman who has seen what men can do, who knows cruelty first hand. When you glance back at her, she meets your eyes and gives you a steady nod. It is an entirely fragile thing, but you almost feel comforted to know at least one other soul in this kingdom can feel sympathy for you.
“I would like to be alone for a moment.” You say as you suck in a steadying breath.
Without protest she dips into a curtsey and slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
The reality of today settles on you like lead, in heavy and uneven breaths you cross the room and sink down at the edge of the bed, curling towards it. Tears string your eyes as you stare at it, you try to imagine some way to keep yourself from further harm, some way to defend yourself and remain in slight control when the doors close and there is no one but your husband at your side.
A tear slips down your left cheek and you find yourself reaching for the drawer beside the bed, pulling it open to the familiar sight of jewellery chests wrapped in velvet. Your fingers fumble past them until they find one particular box, and you draw it out, sitting on the bed as you settle it on your lap. Swiping the back of your hand across your eye you suck in a breath, reminding yourself you are strong, and must be strong.
Opening the box, inside, Valyrian steel catches the light. A slim, beautiful blade inlaid with the crest of your house remains within, the pale metal taking on a faint white sheen where the morning sun touches it. Your brother had given it to you when you were children, a secret hidden away like a treasure, half forgotten until now.
For a moment, you wonder what your prince would do if his throat ever met its edge, would he scramble in fear, whimper like a dragon who has lost its wings? You decide that this will be your last resort, if he tries anything with you, you will not be entirely defenceless.
You tuck the blade beneath your pillow, angling it so your fingers can find it easily. It is hidden but close, close enough that if you need it you can reach for it in an instant.
──
“I trust you won’t be as defiant tonight as you were yesterday, wife.”
His words roll easily off his familiar tongue, smooth and casual, and you do not like how binding it sounds. You try to bite back every answer that tries to rise, and he seems to savour it, the taste of your shackling. You cannot help but wish he would find enjoyment in anything other than tempting your anger by simply standing in front of you.
Aerion stands before you in the reds and blacks of his house, colours cutting sharp against his pale skin. His violet eyes linger on you with a kind of idle entertainment, as if he can hear the way the word ‘wife’ grates inside your skull. He rolls the title again in his mind, you’re sure he is savouring it like a mouthful of rich wine. Stepping a little closer, his gaze drifts lower, skimming over the fall of your gown before noticing the bruise on your throat. There is a slight pause and faint narrowing of his eyes as he takes in the mark you chose not to hide.
“Why do you choose to disgrace yourself like this?” His gaze continues to linger on your throat, voice smooth as silk.
You pull yourself together and offer him an obedient smile, your head tips, lolling slightly to the side, baring more of your throat to his gaze. “Something made by your own hand could never be a disgrace, my prince.”
“I do not know where this sudden nerve is coming from,” he says, voice dropping. “But do not toy with me, woman.” His eyes narrow at you, the faint glimmer in them sharpening.
The threatening edge in his voice cuts through whatever sudden spine you had found. You take a small step back, lashes lowering, smoothing your features into practiced obedience. “I do not toy, my prince.” You say, tone soft and careful. “It is not my place to trifle with you.”
He watches you as you finish speaking, gaze flickering down to your mouth, to the way your lips tighten around the words. A quiet huff escapes him, half irritation, half something else, and he lets the silence stretch a moment longer than comfortable. Then he clicks his tongue in a sharp, dismissive sound before finally deigning to speak again.
“You know what is expected of you, do you not?”
The thought of your wifely duties alone makes you shudder, a cold tremor running down your spine while fear coils in your gut. However, you smooth over your face and force your shoulders not to quake, you nod.
“Of course, my prince.” You say, voice barely above a murmur.
He tilts his head at that, considering your words before a low hum curls from his throat. The golden light of the hall catches on his Valyrian features, gliding against his cheekbones. For a moment, you can’t help but notice how beautiful he is, like a blade forged to be admired before it spills blood.
“Good. Since you are so eager to please me, then you will do your duty and give me heirs worthy of dragon blood.” he muses before continuing, “Real heirs, not some bland little half-bloods.”
His tone is light, edged with condescension and something disturbingly similar to amusement as his gaze lingers on you. It drifts slowly down the line of your bruised throat, falling over the creases of your silks, and settles at your stomach, as though he’s already picturing it swollen with his seed.
“If the gods bless us so, my prince,” you say, eyes lowered, “I will bear you the heirs you desire.”
Your fingers move before your mind can catch up to the words that have just spilled from your lips, crossing your hands over your stomach in a swift yet awkward fold. It is as if you are trying to hide that part of you from his gaze, the gesture feels small and foolish but you try and cling to it. Dislike coils hot inside you, bitter as you continue to gaze at the dragon prince.
He seems almost pleased by your answer, as though he hadn’t quite expected you to agree. He nods once, pouting his lips before he falls into thinking as you murmur again,
“If I may be excused, my prince.”
He regards your presence for a heartbeat longer, then inclines his head. “Very well.”
You leave the hall with your head lowered, the roar of conversation and music dimming behind you in every step. He torches throw wavering shadows over your face as you bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep another sob from clawing its way out, blinking fast to prevent your vision blurring.
Fear sits heavy in your gut as you make your way into the bedding chambers, a cold knot tightens and presses at your ribs as you are walking away from the girl you will not be again. Yet, beneath it all, you think of Aerion in an unwelcome thread of curiosity, you wonder what he will be like when the door shuts and there are no witnesses.
You slip inside and close the chamber door behind you, the room is quieter than you remembered, the candlelight pooling soft and golden over the bed. Turning towards the mirror, your fingers find the clasp of your cloak, sliding the fabric from your shoulders, leaving only silk, skin, and jewels staring back at you. It is duty, you think as your gaze stays to the bed behind you in the glass, searching over the pillow where a blade lies hidden beneath, a secret waiting for your hand.
Moving towards the bed in slow steps, your fingertips brush the carved post as the door opens, and Aerion steps inside, shrugging off his cape in a smooth motion before his gaze finds you at once. The space between you seems to narrow as his violet eyes lock with yours, and that strange feeling coils in your chest again. You refuse it as curiosity, deeming it as nerves as you know you hate him, or you should hate him. Yet, your breath comes quicker and your chest rises and falls as the two of you hold each other’s stare in quiet intensity.
“Waiting for me already, wife?” He speaks as he slowly crosses over to you, eyes unmoving from yours. Your gaze tracks over him, to the pale fall of his hair and the way the lamplight falls over his face, in this light, he looks attractive. Swallowing as he draws nearer, you feel your throat tighten with every inch he closes between you.
Retreating on instinct, the back of your knees collide with the mattress and it takes you off balance. You drop onto the edge of the bed with a thud, fingers catching in the blankets as you look up at him. Aerion steps into the space you’ve surrendered, boot brushing your leg as he presses his knee forward. He parts your legs with an easy, unhurried nudge, sliding his thigh between yours until you’re forced to open around him.
You feel heat seep through the thin layers of silk as his chest looms in front of you, and your breath stutters. His gaze drags down over you, your bare face, your bared throat, and the rise and fall of your purple silks where his knee is bracketed between your legs. Then slowly, his eyes climb back up, pinning you in place.
His hand rises as you feel every inch of its approach, and it rests along the edge of your jaw. His fingers are careful this time, the pad of his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw rather than digging into it, slender fingers warm against your skin. He exhales, breath ghosting over your lips as he leans down, lids lowering as his gaze roams your face.
“You’re not so bad up close,” he murmurs at last.
His fingers tighten, just enough to remind you who is in control. “On the bed,” he commands quietly, and you obey him.
Shuffling back, silk whispering as you crawl up against the pillows until they cradle your spine. The mattress dips as he sits at the edge to pull off his boots before he follows you, knees sinking into the mattress, the frame creaking softly under his weight as he looms over you. His hands go to fasten his top, one by one he works the buttons loose before the sharp line of his throat and collarbones appear, pale in the lamplight.
You watch, unable to look away while he shrugs the garment off his shoulders until he tugs the shirt away completely and reveals lean muscle painted with shadows of old bruises or training scars that rise and fall of his chest. Heat crawls over you, prickling beneath your skin and you are not sure if it is fear, shame or something else you cannot name. He tosses the shirt aside before looking back at you, hair spilled on pillows as silk draped over you, it is as if he’s cataloguing every inch of you laid out before him.
“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” He suddenly asks, eyes lingering where the silk hitches up your thighs.
You pause, chest heaving a little too fast, fingers knotting in the sheets. “Yes,” you breathe, “I am.”
“Good,” he says, running his tongue through his teeth. “They’re always easy to get wet.”
He moves in and a startled breath slips from you as his hand finds your face again, fingers curling more gently this time along your jaw as his finger rests beneath your cheekbone. Holding you there steadily his violet eyes lock with yours before he lowers his head. His mouth finds the crook of your neck, feeling your pulse beat against his warm lips that move slowly, as if he is tasting something that he now owns. A small whimper escapes your throat before you can stop yourself, and you feel his mouth curve against your throat, a small smile pressed into your skin. His eyes open and his gaze darkens as he lifts his head upward back towards your face.
Heat pools low in your belly, and it feels shameful the way your body betrays you. You can’t help but look at him, eyes wide and full of something that feels much like guilt, as if he’s caught you in a sin you never chose.
“Enjoying this now, are you?” he asks as something shifts in his gaze, tone going cool as he inhales slowly. His eyes track over your face then inevitably down to the bruise at your throat. Like flames flickering beneath skin, his hand slides from your jaw to that mark, fingers tightening suddenly as he grips your throat and presses your head deeper into the pillow. You feel panic slam through you as the mattress seems to swallow you whole.
Your lungs burn, his fingers brand your throat, and your vision narrows to the dark blur of Aerion’s face above you.
“M…my prince—” You try to reason, but he does not hear you, only leaning in further as his eyes remain fixed on yours, and you see his other hand rising, fingers tensing as it comes towards your neck.
In fear, your body decides for you as your arm snaps sideways, diving beneath the pillow. Your fingers close around the cool steel, the familiar shape of the hilt fitting into your palm as you rip it free and drag it up in a sharp and desperate slash. The blade flashes in the candlelight and meets the flesh of his hand in a wet resistance, parting his skin a fast gash. Heat splatters across your knuckles as Aerion jerks back both of his hands with a snarl,
“Fuck—!” He yells as blood spills from the gash, dark and bright all at once, running in quick rivulets down his palm and dripping onto the sheets between you.
The dagger slips from your fingers and falls onto the mattress, your hand recoiling as though burned. Scrambling backward, your spine presses hard into the headboard while your husband stares at his hand, blood splattering onto the sheets in soft drops. His palm curls, flexes, crimson welling fresh with every twitch as you watch it trail down the line of his wrist, staining his pale skin. Aerion lifts his head, fury in his eyes blinding, violet eyes gone dark, burning straight through you. Your stomach lurches at the sight, gaze trapped onto his bloody figure.
“You whore,” he spits, low and vicious. “You dare to shed blood of the dragon?”
“No— no, my prince, I—” The words die in your throat as he looks at you through half-lowered lids, rage simmering just beneath the surface. His injured hand reaches for the dagger and his blood smears over the hilt as his fingers wrap around it.
Bringing it up, you whimper a small and broken sound as the blade comes closer, glinting in the low light. His face follows, leaning in as a warm drop of blood falls from his wrist onto your bare skin, then another, sliding hot and sticky over your collarbone as he lifts the knife toward your throat. You suppose this is the end, you’ve laid steel against the prince of the realm, there is no taking that back.
“You spill a dragon’s blood, wife,” he says, studying you with the length of the blade, voice low and calm when it comes. “And you think there will be no price?”
His gaze drops from your eyes to your collarbone, to where his blood makes a trail over your skin. He stares at it with a terrible, intentional hunger, like a man eyeing a feast laid out before him, watching each red line crawl over the sharp jut of bone.
“You must be taught the cost of that.”
Slowly, he moves the dagger that shines in the candlelight toward your collarbone, pressing the cold edge against your warm skin. His violet eyes watch intensely as your skin splits apart, blood sweeping through the slash like sweet wine dripping from a goblet, your blood swelled and mixed with the crimson already staining his hands. His thumb smeared through both as though ready to taste the liquid, his and your own mingling over your skin in a glistening streak.
“H—haah…” You whimper out at the stinging pain, a broken sound caught in your throat. At once the sweet noise you make catches his attention as he lolls his head up to your pained expression with an unnamed satisfaction.
“I was right,” he murmurs, nails dragging slowly against your neck, voice low and almost thoughtful, “You do look pretty with fear on your face.”
He leaned down again, slower this time as the heat of his mouth brushed against the bloodied trail along your collarbone. The touch made you suck in a deep breath, your whole body going taut against him as he shifts closer, closing the space between you. It feels wrong. It feels disgusting. And yet, your body betrays you as your legs tense and a restless heat gatherers low inside you, it is dark and shameful and impossible to ignore.
The warmth of his mouth traces at the thin red line at your collarbone and you feel a sudden drag of his tongue against you. You try to catch your breath, but it is of no use as the heat of his mouth is lingering and unhurried, and he continues to lick away the blood as though he is savouring the taste of it. A dark warmth pools low in you, feeling humiliating throbs between your legs, the satisfaction is so dirty you feel it makes shame rise hot beneath your skin. You do not want it, you think you do not want it, but your body answers differently as you press your hips into his thigh, aching cunt trying to press against him in some hope of friction.
His nails drag slowly where they rest against you and your breathing turns uneven, leaving you in a trembling rush. You tip your head back to look at him breathlessly, lashes heavy and mouth parted as your eyes find his, and he looks up at you in terrible focus, listening to every little hitch in your breathing. You suddenly feel him pressed against the heat of your cunt, his lips parting faintly as he pushes himself closer, almost like he’s refusing to let you grind onto him.
“You enjoy it,” he says, breath caught in a sharp hiss when he feels you move against him once again.
“I do not,” you manage, breathless as your chest rises and falls, trying to pull in another breath under the heat of his gaze.
His mouth curves upwards without warmth, taking in your ruined figure. “No?” he continues, thumb pressing against your neck before it tightens, which forces you to arch subtly towards him. “Then why are you pressed against me like a bitch in heat?”
He pulls your head back slowly as his gaze drags over your tired face, forcing your gaze up at him. You try to pull in another breath, but it only seems to amuse him as he leans closer, inhaling sharply through his nose.
“No, you do not get to move against me like that and pretend innocence,” he begins, staring you down with his violet lidded eyes before he drags them over your throat, to your jaw and then to your lips. “You must taste the blood you’ve spilt.”
Aerion leans in slowly as you feel the heat of his breath as blood continues to stain his lips, smeared at the edge of them before his mouth presses to yours and stains your lips with red. His lips move against yours as though he wishes to claim all of you, below you his hand tightens just enough to keep you in place while his lips continue to drag against yours slowly. Your lips part slightly as you let out a shaky moan into his mouth and he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes of metal and rust, and the blood continues to drip into your mouth, smearing your lips with red.
He pulls back only a small fraction, just enough to free you and see the red that is now smeared across both your mouths, branding you of him. It all feels wrong, tastes wrong, like the memory of claws biting into flesh, but the realization steals through you all the same, you want him. You want to feel the heat, you want the fire, and you want to burn.
A single dark drop of red gathers at the curve of your lip, trembling before it begins to slip down your parted lips, trailing lower to the line of your chin. His gaze follows as it falls, then his hand rises and once slowly, his thumb catches it before it can fall any further, smearing the red across the pad of his skin. His violet eyes stay fixed on your face with terrible calm before he draws his hand back, gaze locked with yours as he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it with infuriating slowness. He sucks his thumb clean without looking away, as though your reaction is the truly satisfying thing.
His hand slides down your thigh, fingers settling there before they drag a little higher, slow enough to make your breath hitch. “Your legs tremble, wife,” he murmurs, his eyes remaining on your face as his mouth curves, “Are you growing restless for me?” His voice is mocking, but you cannot find it in yourself to deny him.
You drag in a shaky breath and tilt your chin up at him, trying to gather what little pride you have left. “You speak... as though it displeases you,” your breath shudders against him, lashes fluttering before you push your head back onto the pillow behind you.
Aerion tilts his head at you, and his hands move to grab your hips without bothering to reply. He forces your back further against the bed before he presses you down into the sheets before you can move. The mattress dips beneath you and the silk twists at your legs as his grip tightens, full of possessiveness before his mouth curves faintly,
“I will not be displeased so long as you remember to obey me.”
Then he shifts closer, slow enough to shake you until the space between you begins to vanish again. His slender fingers then reach for his pants, fastening his clothes, undoing them with slow hands as you can only watch as he shoves them aside, his face does not soften before he looks at you once again, and his lips are on yours again.
You taste him and feel the heat of his body as his hands pull on edges of your dress, pulling it over your stomach, revealing your trembling cunt dripping with pain before him. Aerion hisses, hips jerking toward your soaked cunt as you feel the tip of his cock brush against your slit. You latch onto his sweaty shoulder, nails digging into his pale skin before he lets out a heavy breath.
“You weep for me, wife.” he says as you let out a whimper and brush your hips further into his hard cock, silk beginning to flatten against your stomach as he moves closer, wrist flicking as he grabs the base of cock, giving it a light stroke.
“Aerion— please,” you find yourself speaking in desperation, head lolling to the side as he lets out an amused huff and his lips brush against yours again.
“There, there,” he says softly, almost mockingly. “That is better. You should remember how to speak with me.”
Aerion then curls his slender hand around your waist, jerking his hips forward before he begins to push himself into your warm cunt. Unable to handle your bodyweight, your head slips further into the pillow as you feel him penetrate you entirely, your gaze blurs before you feel a sting, trying to adjust to his sheer size.
You gasp, throwing your head back as you feel a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, his cock stretching your walls. Aerion slips his dick in you further and your nails dig into his shoulders as you whimper, trying to bury your head into his shoulder. He snaps his hips forward, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix as you gasp, “Hah—” it's so deep in you, you swear you feel yourself seeing stars.
Aerion lets a grin out at the sight and continues to rut into you while breathily grunting, “You belong to me,” be begins, drawing out the sentence with quick huffs while he continues to thrust into your wet cunt, “all of you belongs to me.” His hand begins to trace your thigh shakily as he grunts out a quiet “fuck!” when he feels you clench around him, pressing his face closer to yours.
Tears well up in your eyes as he hurries his pace, chasing a high both of you seem to be reaching before he begins to suck at the crook of your neck where the mix of your blood begins to dry, “Tell me you belong to me.” he commands, hips dipping further into you as he continues to lick the blood dry, you can only moan in response as he drags his tongue
When you don’t respond immediately his abdomen tenses and he removes himself from the crook of your neck, earning a needy whine from you. “Say it,” he bites the words out, eyes lingering on yours with the embers of flames glimmering behind them, and you can almost see the frustration build up within him as he grips your neck, forcing you to look at him as he continues to thrust into you with slowed movements.
“I’m yours,” you say, biting your lip as tears well up in your eyes as you feel his thrusts begin to fasten again, his cock once again buried deep inside you. Your thighs burn with pleasure as his cock continues to push into your gummy walls, and his chest flushes against yours in satisfaction before you feel breathless.
He settles against you fully, skin to skin and the heat of him wraps around you like flesh giving into flame. It feels like you are being burned, it is cruel and consuming but you find yourself wanting more of it, you think this must be how a dragon leaves its mark, where you cannot tell the difference between warmth and burning.
Your hand slides into the silver of his hair, gripping it tightly before he snarls at you and moves to give you an open-mouthed kiss, and you find yourself kissing him back with similar intensity. You lewdly moan into his mouth before he speeds up again at the sound of the soft melody leaving your throat, and he suddenly bites down on your lip and you let out a choked noise.
Suddenly you find yourself slipping your arms around his shoulders and bringing his body closer to you as you feel your belly grow warmer and pleasure coils through you, “Aerion,” you breathe out, hands sliding to cradle him as his slightly watery violet eyes meet yours.
His head falls forward toward you as he ruts into you fast, like a territorial animal, and you suppose it is because dragons are territorial creatures after all, but you do not mistake the way he lets out a huffed groan. You squirm under him, feeling that coil in your stomach intensify before you desperately cling to him, rolling your hips into him slowly.
Aerion’s pace grows sloppy as he feels your cunt spasm around him and he grinds his teeth together, “Fuck— Don’t move.” Instead, you do the opposite and jerk your hips upwards earning a lewd moan from him before he throws his head back with a clenched jaw and his veins bulging in sudden strain.
Locking your legs around him you mutter his name over and over and with one last roll of his hips he spills his seed deep inside your cunt, thrusting forward once more in order to make sure a drop of it doesn’t leak. Your lips brush the side of his shoulder before the coil within you snaps and you find yourself cumming around his cock, whining while your hips stutter.
Neither of you move and Aerion makes no attempt to slip out of you, remaining where he is with heavy breaths as your bodies press together in marital bliss. The room around you remains swallowed in candlelight as his hand does not leave you. Instead, his fingers drift slowly to the bruised skin at your neck, tracing the mark, as though admiring something he has made. The touch is light, but it makes your breath hitch nevertheless.
His eyes stay fixed on the darkened shape before they lift to yours, lips curling into a small smirk. A dragon has laid claim to you, and you feel it like the claws buried beneath your skin. There is nothing more you can do now except be held here and burn.
“You are mine to endure now.” he says at last, voice unhurried. “Do not forget it, wife.”
divider made by me (please credit if used)
woahhhh this one shot was long aff hahahah and it took so long to write. i love my aerion so much he deserves all the love but at the same time he is a complete evil man!!
all reblogs and comments are so so so appreciated and loved <3
note: i had so much fun writing this and i love house dayne so much i thought it would be rlly interesting to write about it and i lowk forgot that aerion is a dayne while beginning to write it but we continue MOVING FORWARD. this was originally supposed to be a daeron fanfic actually because of the Dayne's having correlation to the dragon dreams and being of old blood (idk if this is accurate but its something like that LOL) but i might write a daeron one about that MAYBEEE lmk if u guys want it. anyway i've had an aerion hyperfixation this week so he gets the spotlight today ! this was also supposed to be uploaded saturday night but i lowk got tired and couldn't bring myself to finish it rip but its here now so ENJOYYY
note: finally get to see an early bird get the worm
⤷ ゛thank you so much for the support on Little Bluebird ˎˊ˗
summary: choosing to honor your house had never seemed like a high cost until you are pushed too far by your husband, Prince Aerion Targaryen.
content warning: please be aware there are dark themes ahead
noncon, some smut (18+ only!)
word count: 4.4K (sorry for the wait!)
Your loud whimper forced the room into silence, the hand that held yours delicately had now become a death grip that had the bones of your fingers crushing into one another. Tears burned behind your eyes as you scour the room for help—but no one dared move as the man at your side demanded you repeat yourself. His angered voice slapped against the side of your face and forced the words to out of your mouth, repeating your question in strained obedience.
The air was sucked out of the room when the man let out a scoff that morphed into a low chuckle, his head coming to shake in bewilderment at your words. He glanced over his shoulder at a knight, jutting his chin once before the armored man stepped forward and seized the elder maester by the arm, hauling him out of the room and into the hall. The man returned his wild gaze to you, his stare burning into you for a long moment before he stood and left the room without another word.
The second his boot steps past the frame, everyone within the chambers resumed their work without a seconds waste. People entered, obstructing your view as they delivered supplies while others remained hard at work. You did your best to listen in for any clue as to who the man was and why his mere presence made your heart tremble.
You could feel your face twist with anxiety as you watched the pacing body just beyond the door, violent eyes finding you with each pass in the hall. The maesters scattered whispers reached your ears as he attempted to soothe the agitated man, reaching out a hand as he said 'these things can happen' despite the scowl thrown his way.
"The memories can come back," Maester Robynn explained, his hunched frame following the pacing body. "You must approach these things with delicacy Prince Aerion"
At the sound of the man's name, your heart began to ache as you clutched the source of your agony.
Aerion stopped mid-step, pulling his gaze from the maester to scowl into the room. For a second, you thought he could feel your pain with how fast his eyes found your hands that cradled your wounded frame. His gaze reluctantly returns to the elder, who somehow remained composed when the prince reached out and snatched the linen cloth—which had once wrapped around your head—from his hands. Aerion walked close to grunt something low to the maester before he stalked back into the room and stood at the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on your face as the acolytes attended to their practice.
The maester rejoined the care team surrounding you, his face pale but fixed on you as he begin his evaluations. It was through incessant questioning and careful treading that Maester Robynn was able to determine the gap in your memories extended to months in the past—a past where your most recent memory was of you saying goodbyes to your family as they departed to Kings Landing, to present your sister for marriage to a disgraced Targaryen prince that you had yet to meet.
Your words send Prince Aerion into a silent rage, his body trembling just beneath the doublet that was dyed to his house colors. Here you sat—finally awake after five endless days and their corresponding nights—looking as alive as he hoped you would be and you don't remember him. He could almost laugh at the funny twist of fate if it wasn't for the embedded image of your cold expressionless stare at the bottom of the steps.
The image your body matching the bird he sent in jest, forever engrained into the back of his eyelids, his unwanted companion in his confinement. He recalled the tumultuous wail of your ladies maid seeing him standing over your unmoving body, misunderstandings spread until whispers accused the prince of pushing his unwanted wife down the steps. Having no other option until the truth revealed, Prince Maekar decreed the prince's confinement until news of your health arrived.
The first night was spent in outrage, demanding his status be honored and let him see his wife.
The second night was spent in destruction, furniture cracked and mirrors broken to a million shards throughout the room.
The third night was silent, the knights mentioned their multiple trips into the quiet room to ensure the prince was alive.
The fourth night was restless guilt, the slow madness making him take to the wine in his chambers.
The fifth night was spent in ruin, his chambers lost in chaos until the whisper of your regained consciousness.
Aerion had somehow rushed past his fathers' guards, quick to go against his confinement at the mere whisper of your name just outside his chamber doors. He could hear the knights murmur their small talk when one approached with news of you finally moving to wake. He didn't hesitate to pull the door aside and knock past the men, stumbling then running at combat speed through the keep to reach the maesters' chambers. He saw your hands move and he felt himself settle within his ribs.
But now, you don't remember him?
Everyone within the stone walls stayed at the ready to either flee or rush to help as they watched the young prince curl his lip, the madness of Prince Aerion already well-known. He remained at the foot of the bed, knuckle-white grip on the frame. Maester Robynn smiled despite his paling face, eyes flicking from you to the looming figure that fumed, slamming his hands on the wooden bed frame.
The maester and acolytes alike all stopped their movements once more as they watched the prince approach his wife who denied him in mind. He could hear Maester Robynn warn him of your mind needing time to settle rather than being hammered back into what he knew. Aerion half-listened to the maester explain how 'patience was necessary' before Aerion slowly gestured for the man to move, silencing the man and moving him without a word. You flinch a little at his approaching frame and that seems to anger him more as his eyes narrow a little before he spoke.
"I am Prince Aerion of House Targaryen, the blood of the dragon and you," he declared, moving forward until he was looking down at you, keeping your eyes on him. "You are my wife."
At his words, or maybe the intense stare, it caused the pain to return as the sheer force made sweat drench your neck and your hands to shake. Your eyes flood instantly, tears brimming your eyes as you can only stare at Aerion's furrowed eyebrows and sneer. You hear yourself stutter out questions, your hands flying to your hair and pulling as if the pain were an anchor to this reality. You slowly shift to a cry, your brain not registering your stuttering anxiety. Aerion's fingers move to press into your chin at the panicked look in your eyes, catching the similarity between this reaction and the one you had the night of your attempt—the two seeming too similar. Your stammers become breathy and your chest starts to huff as you hyperventilate, your face coloring paler than you'd ever been. Aerion opens his mouth to demand help when the sound of boots marching in sync come to stop just at the threshold.
There, standing with a scowl known as a physical calling card for the royal family, stood Prince Maekar Targaryen. No introduction was needed as he made his way into the room, everyone bowing as he made his way past. His severe presence seemed to rock a small sense of ease into you, the cold and prickly Valyrian dressed in black had arrived with two guards that entered the room on the heel of his boots. The white cloaked knights moved in complete extension of one another, their plated armor gleaming as Maekar took a look around the room before his violet eyes settled on his son—who had escaped his chambers and fled.
"Aerion!" Maekar's voice bounced off the walls and into your chest as you watched the older man stalk forward and yanked his son away from your side and out of the room. Aerion was compliant as his father dragged him away, the fight from before gone as his eyes remained on you. As he passed the threshold, Prince Maekar threw a stern look to the elder maester and his attendants as he commanded the gaping faces to 'do their fucking job'.
You spend the rest of the evening in the endless pain and confusion, finally soothed with milk of the poppy after Maester Robynn gathered all the information he could. After taking the small cup of sedative, you were changed by maids and left to slumber, your body succumbed to the painkiller and you were asleep once more.
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You must've been sleeping no more than a few hours when the sound of your chamber door opening woke you. Despite your desperate will to turn to face the unexpected visitor, your body remained laid out and limp from the strong sedative as you have no choice but to listen as they approached. The intruder comes in with the soft sound of footsteps until they stop just behind your turned away body, casting a faint shadow over you.
A cold ripple bursts from the center of your chest as the sheets are pulled away from your body and the mattress dips behind you, the added weight making your body follow the pressure until it meets a hard chest. No matter how hard your tried, your head remained faced away while the harsh smell of smoke left a tickle the back of your throat. Traces of warmth stroke the blood beneath your skin as the hand came out from behind and moved your hair to the rear of your ear. A deep hum comes against your ear in a whisper, the lips of the intruder brushing the skin. The visitor stuffs his nose into the locks of your hair, lingering and taking a big breath while his hand comes to cradle your neck.
The tender hold made you falter until another deep inhale comes from the nose buried in your hair. A firm kiss is pushed into your head, just missing the pulsing stitches while you remain still, your will still not seeping into the muscles when a low groan rumbles against you before you finally hear the man speak.
"You've slipped away again," the spiteful voice hissed into your skin. "You think you could just forget? You'll remember me. I'll make sure of it—"
Rough hand cup your face to squeeze your cheeks, turning your heavy head to look at the intruder with eyes that dragged open with the rough contact. The sight of Aerion's violet eyes leaves you winded as he dips his head and knocked a deep kiss into you. The feeling of his soft plump lips brushing yours in passion left a bubbling feeling to build between your legs unwillingly. His tongue brushed the curve of your mouth, a gasp forced out at the intensity of his kiss when both hands come to angle your head to his will and begin exploring your mouth deeply. His long tongue flicks against your own fumbling one, his skilled workings leaving you soft and pliant. He reluctantly pulls away, a string of spit connecting you as his eyes come to focus on your flushed face and swollen lips.
Soft breaths fill the room before his warm hands come down to adjust you, effortlessly laying you on your side to face him as he delicately brought himself against you once more. Your tangled shift separated your heaving chest from his, the rumpled cloth riding up inch by inch until your thighs are on display. Despite the cold air, you felt warm with the intense look Aerion gave you before delving into a different display of affection and leaving you winded.
"—you love me," he groaned, grinding against your lower body, his breath flush against your ear as he continuously rubbed his hard bulge against your lower half just over your nightdress. His friction making the fabric hot while you try to ignore the overwhelming dampness that soaked through. "You have alwaysloved me and you always will."
Your eyes hold the surface of his face, the short interaction from before hadn't give you a chance to really get a look at the man. His silver hair glistened in the dying fire, the shimmer of starlight somehow captured within his being. He looked ethereal, the frown on his face making him look all the more sorrowful as he leaned in close, making sure your eyes were looking directly into his as he ground his body a little slower. "In the eyes of the seven, you and I are wed. No matter what anyone says or tries to push— I am yours and you," he brings his head to rest against yours, "you are mine."
You were dreaming. You have had to be, having a prince over you and telling you that you were his just as much as he was yours. There was something in the way he was staring down at you, his eyes lined with intensity that made you internally pull back. It was as if he could sense the pull away, taking it as a snipe and drawing you closer, licking his teeth as he glowered at you. You attempt to voice your reluctance at his attentions, unintentionally letting out a moan when mentioning his true intended. His expression shifts to anger as his body halts, stopping the crescendo of sensation you were so close to welcoming. He pulled himself away from you to look down at your face, the one that was flush with unwelcome ecstasy, cursing as he stands.
Without another word, Aerion stormed out of the room and left you wondering if the prince had really come to visit or if the Red Keep had ghosts that somehow groped your body and made your body weep with confusion and questionable need. You woke the next morning with the covers up to your chin and not a thing out of place leaving you to say prayer a little louder at the sight of dark corners.
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Things changed quickly after the Hand of the King was updated of your condition. Prince Baelor manifested into your recovery room with Maester Robynn by his side the following afternoon. The two men wishing you a speedy recovery while informing their intentions to change a few things, the adjustments being for your betterment was what they would continually say. Neither one would answer your questions regarding your family or what happened to you. You were only given a fixed smile and a roundabout answer before the Hand informed you that your brother would be arriving to Kings Landing in less than a fortnight.
You hadn't seen their expression when you voiced your excitement to be reunited with your family or the look they shared when you mentioned returning home to recover. With a promise to continue visiting, Baelor Targaryen left the room with further instruction of your care, leaving a knight to ensure your protection and monitor your progress within the Red Keep.
Your new chambers were set on a lower level and you were given dresses in your house colors, the soft silks and hues of blue filling your chest with ease. The days began to blend together in routine and visits from maesters are maintained even with your protests, the only upside is when you were finally cleared to walk around so long as your new guard allows it. It takes a good while before the kind-hearted, honorable man stopped steering you away from the stone steps leading up the the Red Keep library.
Today was like any other day, you dressed in your favorite hue of blue as the sun rose over the horizon and settled a shawl over your shoulders before you exit the room to look up at Ser Donnel in his white armor. His smiling eyes greeting you as he bowed before gesturing his arm for you to take. You both knew you were good to walk but the action slowly became a part of their greeting and soon, a welcome invitation. You smile and take his arm as you both made your way through the tall standing halls, picking the latest rumor you've heard as the topic of conversation.
"I think it was quite valiant of Lord to confess so passionately," you defend, the whispers of how a young lord of the realm had come forward and declared himself upon meeting a lady through acquaintances. "He wasted no time in declaring himself before her father and all those who were around, making a complete fool of himself in the name of love. He didn't hesitate. He went after what he wanted, who he loves". You suppress a dreamy sigh as you pictured the life you longed to have, a dream of a romance so profoundly moving it made a small ache form in your chest.
A small voice in the back of your mind whispering that it would not come to pass.
"Or," Ser Donnel scoffed, shaking his head before he leaned down to whisper, "maybe he wanted to secure the lady's inheritance". You nudged the man, an elbow to the armored ribs, and scrunched your face at his harsh look at the world. "That is so sad, I'd like to believe he was moved by the spirits of love—you have such a negative outlook on the topic"
You shake your head and go to loosen your grip on his arm, when you catch sight of a man in the hall who quickly looked down and rushed away when he caught sight of you, the whisper from before coming a little louder in your ear making you stumble. The knight at your side is quick to catch you and hold you upright, his arm securing your body at your waist as the other hand comes to grasp yours to gain your balance. You apologize as he settles you against the wall and looks around for a maid until your hand comes to pat his arm in signal to stop.
You couldn't risk being placed back under supervision, the long hours of being trapped in those stone walls while your left to listen to the courtyard chatter, not allowed to move from the room. It was hellish. You were quick to reassure the slightly shaken knight, his weary gaze now fixed on your face as you both move forward toward the shelved room of books. Your silence must've shaken him as he begins to fill the silence. "I shouldn't say but," he began, looking over your face before adjusting his grip on your arm. "Word has come that your brother will be here in three days time"
Your smile is immediate as you look over to the knight, a grateful expression on your face at the sliver of information given to you. No matter how much you tried, the maester and Baelor Targaryen ensured nothing was told to you unless approved. You remain in thought until Ser Donnel seemed to crack under the quiet and confessed something else.
You learn that Maekar Targaryen had sequestered Prince Aerion as penance for his defiance, leaving his chambers despite direct orders from his father— now with double the guards and the length of the punishment. You try not to show the visceral reaction your body had at the mention of the prince's name, the dream-ish memory of him humping his body against your own spread through your mind. You swallow down a dry gasp and thank the knight as you both arrive to the library door. You leave the man and begin heading to your favorite alcove. A seat pillow rested in the spot you last left it, none of the maesters seemed to mind the small addition and simply avoiding the area you had claimed.
You settle there until the sun begins to set and dinner is called. The thought of having to interact with anyone puts a frown on your face so you decide to take dinner in your chambers. Ser Donnel silently watched over you, letting in the maids with your tray of food with a concerned stare before he escorted them out and closed the door, only popping back in once more to ask if you needed anything else before he departed for the night.
"I assure you, I am alright— go and enjoy your late evening Ser Donnel" you chastise, settling into the cushioned seat near the fireplace that crackled with flame. He nodded once and secured the door, wishing you a goodnight in a delicate whisper. You smile until the door clicks to a close and you are left alone.
When the sound of your knights feet exchanging with his alternate settle outside the door, you rise from your spot and slowly walk to the trunk that rest at the foot of the bed. You wait until the sound of Ser Donnel's unmistakable footsteps depart down the hall to finally let out a small breath and open the trunk to your dressings. Your fingers run over the embroidered cloth of your house sigil, a tickle of discomfort settling over your head at the sight of a small bird a seamstress had sown into the silk. You stare for a while before you choose to place the fabric aside and grab a novel you'd borrowed days before.
You stand upright when a knock at your door makes you let out a low chuckle, walking over as you let out a wistful sigh at the futile attempt at silence. Your mischief subsided the second you catch sight of Maekar Targaryen, your gaze lowering to the ground in a bow as he stalked into the room and commanded you shut the door. You obey and watch the man walk over to the mantelpiece, narrowly avoiding your small cushion before he turns to look you over before he speaks.
"Your brother arrives on the morrow, you are to gather your things and have them at the ready to depart with him at a moments notice"
You are sure to hide your confusion at the information, the one your knight had revealed in a soothing attempt had been wrong. You blink at the scowling man before you ask what he meant. His frown deepened, which had seemed impossible until it wasn't, and he explained you were to depart with the arriving carriage and return home before the following nights end. He takes your surprised face as confirmation that he was heard as he turns and begins to depart until you hear yourself whisper something you'd never think to ask.
"What about Aerion?"
The elder man stopped in his tracks, not bothering to face you as he gathered his bearings by adjusting his shirt. "That is no longer any of your concern. Fly out with your flock and leave while you still can"
Without another word to you, Prince Maekar left the room. You hear the man give orders to guard the door before his footsteps retreat and you are left to catch up with the events of the night. You stood frozen in the spot the prince left you in for a long while before you finally move.
With the way the news was delivered to you, you could tell this wasn't going to be a public good-bye. Your hands fly to your most precious items, stuffing them into a small satchel as you decide to take the book you borrowed, damned the consequences. You decide to put on your favorite gown that was gifted to you, knowing somehow you would need to leave with the items on your back. You were mid-disrobe, holding the cherished fabric when the door to your chambers are opened so quickly you hadn't even spun around fully when the door came to close.
Aerion stood, a few feet away with a furrowed brow, eyes glancing between your state of dress and the satchel on your bed. He tilts his head in thought before you speaks, "Are you going somewhere?"
Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie.
The voices in your head screamed as you quickly clutched your dress against your body to cover yourself, only able to shake your head as your shriek out his title. He repeats his question, this time firm in waiting for a verbal response. His eyes had narrowed into slits while his hand had come to instinctively rest on the pommel of his sword. "I asked you a question and don't intend to repeat myself a third time—" he huffed, annoyed beyond measure. You brave yourself and finally respond, keeping your eyes on his hands. "No, your grace, I've just returned from the library."
The lie slips out of you seamlessly, shocking you into a smile as you strategically make your way to your privacy screen. The screen fabric provides shelter from his vehement stare as you gather your courage and settle your clothes over your body. You give yourself a moment before stepping back out to see Aerion sat upon the bed, dangling your undergarments that were just placed into the satchel moments ago. He raised his brow at you, leaning back with a unbelieving expression. He bunched the fabric together in his palm and crossed his arms.
"It doesn't matter—gather your things, we depart now," He stands, coming before you with a small smile. He brings his finger under your chin and presses his lips onto yours before he pats your hand, hurrying you along by guiding your shoulders to turn toward your chest of dresses.
"Who departs now?" you ask, your face scrunching in confusion thinking you misheard. Your gaze follows your unconscious movements as your mind raced with the sudden turn of events. Your hands loosely grasp at the fabric as Aerion walks over to sit on the mattress. He gives his head a shake, like he's speaking with a child who said something truly silly. He smiles before he looks over and gestures you to keep moving.
"We leave. To Summerhall, as soon as you are done gathering your things," he spoke, sending you a smile that translated to a wicked grin in your eyes.
"There no one will keep me from my bride"
note: thank you so much for reading! 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯♡
⤷ ゛link to my rebellion!maekar fic here ˎˊ˗
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SUMMARY - You and Aerion finally learnt how to love one another but something happens which causes a chain of events.
CONTAINS - angst, hurt/little to no comfort, aerion is physically violent (not to reader), infidelity
A/N - can confirm my beloved friend cried after reading (hi), why do i do this to myself
For the first six moons of your marriage, Aerion Targaryen made it his task to ensure you knew exactly how little you mattered to him.
There was only silence that seemed to gather in the corners whenever the two of you were forced into the same space.
It was an arranged match, a political knot tied by hands other than your own.
To him, you were a grievance. An inconvenient obligation dressed in fine silk.
At the long candlelit tables of the Great Hall, he practiced a cruel kind of erasure. He would sit beside you and look entirely past you, engaging in chatter with nearby lords, his face sneering into permanent boredom the moment your eyes happened to meet.
If he had to speak to you, his voice carried a mocking edge specifically designed to see if he could make you shrink.
But you refused to give him the satisfaction.
You met his arrogance with untouchable detachment that bordered on utter disdain. Where he was volatile, you were a wall of ice.
You answered his biting remarks with indifference that cut far deeper than any screamed insult ever could. You learnt the exact rhythm of his moods, and you learned how to navigate them without ever letting your composure slip.
You lived entirely separate lives under the same roof. If he came into a room, you eventually found a reason to leave it. If you were seated together at court, you looked straight ahead, ignoring the dark weight of his gaze.
You drew just enough blood with your silence to keep him at bay, and he did the same.
It was a marriage built on a foundation of mutual resentment.
You hated the capricious nature of the prince, and he despised your ever strong resilience.
The shift in dynamic happened in the middle of the night during the dead of winter, driven by the horror of Aerion’s own mind.
Targaryens were plagued by blood, fire, and strange dreams. You knew that.
But this was your first time ever witnessing such a thing.
You were pulled from a light sleep by the sound of his breathing. It was frantic, much like someone drowning in a body of water.
When you looked across the expanse of the bed, you saw him. The fire in the hearth had died down to embers, and in the dim light, Aerion looked completely caught in the bars of a nightmare.
His silver hair was damp, clinging to his forehead, and his jaw was clamped so tight you could hear the grinding of his teeth. You looked down at his fingers that were buried deep into the mattress, pulling hard at the fabric.
As the dream finally released its grip, his eyes snapped open. He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he stared into the dark room, his gaze wild and confused.
He was suffering under the weight of his own disorientation, his pride violently warring with the panic in his veins.
He had expected you to say something. Perhaps something sharp or clever. He braced for you to look at him with disgust, to see the feared prince reduced to a trembling wreck in the dark.
You didn’t say a word.
You rose from your side of the bed quietly, your movements slow and deliberate so as not to startle the man beside you.
Walking over to the washbasin, you poured a cup of cool water and brought it back to the bedside.
Without forcing yourself into his space, you sat at the foot of the mattress and held the cup out to him. When Aerion simply stared at it with defensive eyes, you reached out and wrapped your hand around his, guiding it to take the cup.
Your touch was steady. Unshakable. You didn’t look at him with pity, nor did you look at him with fear. You remained there in the dark, an anchor while the remnants of his nightmare slowly evaporated into the room.
Aerion drank the water in desperate gulps, his eyes never leaving your face. He was entirely bewildered by you.
The fact that you had witnessed the absolute ruin of his composure and chose to shield it, rather than weaponize it, completely fractured his understanding of you.
It was the second time in his life he had ever felt that helpless, but it was the first time anyone had ever stood in the dark to keep him from falling apart.
After that night, the silence between you changed. It was no longer the distant quiet of two strangers sharing a cage.
A man like him did not know how to handle soft emotions. He knew how to conquer, how to hurt, how to demand submission, but he did not know how to exist alongside someone who held his trembling hands without judgement.
For weeks, he watched you with intensity, waiting for you to use his vulnerability against him. But you never did. You treated him with the same steady presence as you did before.
Once he realized his secrets were safe with you, the wall of indifference dissolved entirely.
The bewilderment warped into fierce infatuation, he became soft by his profound love for you.
The court noticed the shift almost immediately. Aerion, who used to treat your presence like an insult, suddenly became impossibly bearable without you by his side.
During long tedious feasts, he would outright ignore the high born lords trying to win his favour, turning his chair slightly just to watch you eat.
He developed a habit of resting his hand flat against the small of your back, a possessive, grounding touch that stayed there for hours.
If anyone dared speak to you with even a hint of condescension, Aerion’s gaze would sharpen into something so violently cold the offender would pale and excuse themselves within seconds.
But away from the prying eyes of the Red Keep, when the moon hung high, was where the true depth of his devotion lived.
Where it was once a freezing meaningless room, it was now a sanctuary.
Aerion began bringing his duties into your space. He would sit by the hearth late into the night, reviewing maps of the realm or cleaning his sword, extremely content so long as you were in the room.
You had both been so good at hurting each other with words that when you finally turned that wit outward, it introduced something precious.
You would sit up by the window, sharing a single goblet of wine as you both quietly tore apart the nerves of the people you had dealt with that day.
For a man who had spent his entire life surrounded by sycophants and enemies, having a wife who understood his mind was intoxicating.
Sometimes, when you could see the familiar tension creeping back into his jaw, you didn’t even have to speak. You would simply reach out and trace his skin idly.
He would lean his head on your shoulder, shuddering a sigh of pure relief. He would wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as though he was breathing in safety itself.
“You have ruined me, wife,” he had murmured one night, his fingers tangled in your hair. “The gods help anyone who tries to take you from me. I would burn the city to ash before I let them look at you.”
You had smiled, pressing a soft kiss to either side of his temples, fully believing that a man like Aerion had finally found his anchor.
You had given him your trust, believing that the fragile love you had built out of the ruins of your hatred was unbreakable.
You had never felt safer. And that was your greatest mistake.
The illusion of safety shattered when the Hall was packed with half the nobility of the realm.
You were seated beside Aerion at the high table, his hand resting warm on the small of your back, just as it always did.
But across the table, a wealthy lord from the Westerlands had spent the evening drinking too much and looking too long. It was a lingering stare that crawled over your skin, heavy with filthy intent.
You tried to ignore it, but you felt the exact second Aerion’s hand went rigid on your spine.
He rose from his chair, and before you managed to catch his sleeve, he closed the distance with the drunken lord who was still sitting down.
With swift brutality, he dragged the man from his seat and slammed him onto the stone floor. The chatter died in an instant as Aerion began breaking the man’s limbs. In a feral, possessive rage, the sickening crack of bones echoed through the hall, choking gasps as Aerion snapped his right arm, then his left, then the rest.
When the doors of your shared chambers finally slammed shut behind the two of you, the air in the room was boiling.
Aerion was pacing, wiping the lord’s blood from his hands with a piece of silk, his chest pounding. He looked at you, fully expecting you to submit to his protection, expecting you to validate the monstrous thing he had just done in your name.
But you were shaking, your face a mixture of sheer horror and confusion.
“You are insane,” you breathed, the words tearing from your throat as you backed away from him. “You broke him. You mutilated a man in front of the entire court over a look! There was no honour in that, Aerion!”
Aerion stopped pacing, his expression shifting to a defensive sneer. “He looked at what belongs to me as if he had a right to touch it,” he hissed, his pride flaring like a wounded animal. “I am a Targaryen prince. I do not tolerate vermin coveting my wife. I did it for you.”
“Do not lay your sickness at my feet!” you yelled, tears of raw fury spilling over your lashes. The image of the man’s shattered bones was burned into your mind, tearing through every ounce of peace you thought you had built with him.
“You didn’t do it for me. You did it because you are cruel. Because you love the blood.”
“I love you,” he barked back, stepping toward you, his eyes flashing with toxic pain. “I gave you everything. I let you see me. And now you look at me as if I am a monster?”
“Because you are!” you spat, the words flying out before you could stop them, cutting straight into the deepest insecurity he carried.
The room went silent.
The frantic heat vanished from Aerion’s face, leaving him hollow.
You had just used the very intimacy he surrendered to you to execute him.
He didn’t yell. His blood stained hands dropped to his sides, looking at you as if you had just ripped his heart through his chest.
You watched as the arrogant mask snapped violently back into place over his eyes, but beneath it, the catastrophic break was unmistakable.
Then, without a single word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the chambers, the doors latching shut with a final thud.
The echo of the heavy slamming door seemed to vibrate long after he was gone.
For a long time, you simply stood by your vanity, your hands trembling so vigorously you had to grip the table to keep your balance.
You closed your eyes, pressing a hand to your temple to steady yourself as a sudden wave of dizziness made the room tilt.
It wasn’t just the aftermath of the argument. It was a familiar fatigue that had been hovering at the edge of your senses for weeks, a persistent nausea you had tried to brush off as stress.
Standing there in the quiet, the pieces suddenly fell into place with terrifying clarity.
The missed courses. The heightened sensitivity to the smell of his leather and wine. The strange warmth blooming deep within your lower stomach.
You were carrying his child.
The realization hit you, completely driving the remaining anger away from your lungs. The bitter words you had just spat at him vanished, utterly consumed by a rush of overwhelming euphoria.
A baby. His babe.
The child he had subtly hinted at, the one you had both secretly begun to hope for.
Suddenly, the horrific scene, the broken limbs, the vicious screaming match—it all felt so small. So terribly foolish.
You looked at the door, your heart hammering against your ribs with the urge to swallow your pride.
You wanted him to walk back through that door, to look into his tormented eyes, take his blood stained hands in yours, and apologize. You wanted to tell him that he wasn’t a monster, because the two of you had just made something so pure.
You sat by the fire, cradling the fragile secret while waiting for the handles to turn.
Instead, the doors flew open.
It was your handmaiden.
She stumbled into the chambers, out of breath, her skirts caked in thick mud from the lower city.
“What is it?” you asked, the soft lingering trace of your smile fading as a cold dread began to prickle at your neck. “Did he ride out? Is my husband hurt?”
“My lady…” the girl choked out, as she buried her face in her hands. “I was down in the lower city. In Flea Bottom. I went to deliver herbs to my sister, and I.. I saw him.”
The coldness spread from your neck, sinking straight into your chest. “He is drinking, no doubt. He has a terrible temper, but it passes–”
“No, my lady, no,” the maid lifted her face, eyes wide with pity. “He was in a tavern, yes. Right in front of the street. The doors were thrown wide open. He was… he was with the common women. Low born girls draped across his lap.”
You froze. The air in your lungs went solid.
“You are mistaken,” you whispered, a sharp laugh escaped your lips, devoid of any mirth.
You tightened your fingers into the fabrics of your skirt, your mind fiercely rejecting the words. “He is a Targaryen, he is furious with me, but he would not do that. Not to me.”
“He wasn’t hiding in the dark, my lady. He wanted everyone to see.”
The denial snapped.
The whiplash of going from joy to the lowest, most degrading depth of betrayal shattered something vital inside your chest. The apology you had been preparing turned into ash in your throat.
Your body went still, freezing as reality washed over you.
Aerion hadn’t made a reckless mistake, he had gone out of his way to weaponize his own body, to drag the intimacy you had bled for through the filth of Flea Bottom out of spiteful vengeance.
He wanted to break you. To destroy the one thing he worshiped, completely unaware that he had just permanently incinerated his own future.
Your hand remained pressed against your stomach as the handmaiden gave you privacy. It remained not out of comfort, but in an instinctive motion to shield the innocent life inside you from the suffocating reality of the father it had just inherited.
And then, the numbness cracked.
A breathless sob ripped from your chest, so sudden and painful it doubled you over. You collapsed forward, burying your face in your hands as the tears came rushing out.
You sobbed for the hard won love that had just been ruined in the dirt. You sobbed for the child growing inside you, a life that would now be born into a broken, unfixable home.
You wept until your throat was raw, completely alone in the wreckage of your marriage.
The dawn that crept through the high windows did not bring light.
You sat exactly where the handmaiden left you, your eyes fixed on the door.
The warmth had completely vanished from your body. You were a ghost occupying a shell that used to belong to a woman who loved a prince.
When the iron latch finally clicked, the sound didn’t make your heart leap. It felt like the final stone being placed on a tomb.
The doors swung open, and Aerion stepped into the chamber.
He was disheveled. His fine doublet was stained, his silver hair uncombed, and he carried the stench of cheap tavern wine, along with the heavy, sickening perfume of the women he was with.
He had spent the night dragging himself through the dirt, driven by a desire to punish you for the words you had hurled at him.
He walked into the room, his chin tilted high. He expected a confrontation. For things to be thrown at him, for you to scream at him, to rage against the humiliation he had intentionally inflicted upon you.
He wanted to break you, because if you broke, it meant he had won.
“Are you quite finished with your theatrics, wife?” he asked, his voice deliberately casual as he closed the doors behind him.
He didn’t look at you directly, walking instead toward the washbasin. “Or do you intend to lecture me further on my shortcomings?”
You said nothing.
The absence of a reply made him pause. Aerion turned slowly, the smugness faltering as he finally looked at you.
You were staring right through him.
It wasn’t the fiery anger from the night before, nor was it the challenge you used to give him during the start of your marriage.
Your eyes were dead, flat, and colourless.
Aerion’s brow furrowed, unease piercing through his drunken self. “If you have something to say about where I spent my evening, say it.” His voice dropped the playful edge, turning defensive.
“I have nothing to say to you, Aerion,” you said.
Your voice was perfectly level. Low. Devoid of any emotion.
He expected you to know what he did—he had ensured your handmaiden saw him.
“You dare look at me like that?” he hissed, taking another step forward, “after what you called me? You pushed me out of this room. You brought this upon yourself.”
“I do not care where you go, nor whose lap you occupy,” you murmured, gaze never shifting to meet his eyes. You smoothed the fabric of your skirts. “You are the Prince. You may wallow in whatever filth pleases you. It is no concern of mine.”
“Stop it,” he snapped, the first crack of genuine panic showing in his voice. He reached out, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist to force you to look at him.
The moment his skin touched yours, a shudder ran through you. At last, you lifted your eyes to his.
Aerion froze.
He looked into your eyes and found absolutely nothing waiting for him. The sanctuary you had built together, the soft glances, the quiet nights where he had laid his head in your lap.
You had entirely extracted yourself from him. He had gone out to break your pride, and instead, he had permanently killed the only thing that kept him open.
Subconsciously, your free hand drifted down to your stomach. A quiet attempt to shield the tiny babe.
But Aerion noticed everything about you.
Even through the haze of the alcohol, his gaze dropped to your hand. His brow furrowing as a question sparked in his mind.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
He stepped closer, his boots dragging on the stone, his grip tightening on your wrist. “Why are you holding yourself like that? Are you ill?”
Your lifeless eyes met his frantic ones. But as you stared at the state of him—smelling the wretched proof of what he had done—the wall you had forced over yourself cracked.
A hot, bitter tear spilled over, slowly falling down your cheek. Your chest hitched, and a small, broken sob escaped your throat.
“No,” you whispered, your voice shaky as another sob caught in your chest. You didn’t pull away from his grip. His hands, the same hands that touched various women just hours ago.
You let your tears fall openly now, mourning the beautiful future that had just been stolen from you. “I am not ill.”
“Then why–”
“Because while you were down in the filth of Flea Bottom, finding a way to break my pride, I was sitting by the fire realizing our argument didn’t matter,” you forced the words past your trembling lips, a weeping laugh escaping.
“I was waiting for you to come home so I could apologize. Because of this, Aerion,” you looked down to your stomach, “we created this together.
Aerion was unmoving, the catastrophic weight of your words and the sight of your tears crashing into his mind.
Hearing you sob, seeing the absolute grief on your face at the exact moment you revealed the child he had secretly hoped for was real. It destroyed him.
He looked from your tear stained face down to your stomach, his hand trembling so violently that his grip on you slipped. He stumbled backward, his face going completely white.
“No,” he breathed, terror bleeding into his voice as he shook his head. “No. You… you are saying this to punish me. You are lying.”
“I have no desire to lie to you,” you wiped a stray tear from your cheek, your other arm remaining protective over your womb. “You have managed to ruin us all on your own.”
Revulsion hit him hard. He had gone out to win a petty, spiteful war of ego, and in turn he had defiled the sanctity of his marriage the moment it became extremely sacred.
“Wife…” he choked out, his own eyes filling with frantic tears. His hand reached out blindly, desperately, begging for forgiveness he knew he hadn’t earned. “My love, please–let me–”
“Do not touch me,” you shook your head, shielding your stomach from him.
Before the final, bitter whisper of your voice could fully even settle in, you gathered your skirts, turned your back on his outstretched hands, and walked out, just as he did.
By the time the doors shut, you moved through the corridors, vanishing into the shadows of a castle that would offer him no answers.
Aerion remained in that room for hours, paralyzed by the cause of his own ruin, until the remaining alcohol eventually dragged him into a heavy sleep.
When he jerked awake, it was nighttime.
There was no morning light to ease anything. Aerion sat up, his breath catching painfully in his throat as the memories of your tears resurfaced.
“Wife,” he croaked, his voice a raw, desperate whisper in the dark. His hands searched the other side of the bed, fingers searching for the warmth of your skin.
Panic, sharp and ugly, drove the remaining stupor from his veins. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tipping over his own discarded boots as he frantically threw the doors to the dressing rooms, searching the moonlit shadows.
The chamber was empty.
His personal belongings were still there, exactly where he had left them. Yet everything else—every single piece of you, was completely gone.
The wardrobe stood open, stripped of your silks and soft velvet gowns. The vanity table, where he used to lounge and watch you for hours, was bare. There were no oils, no golden hairpins, no lingering scent of your perfume.
You had taken your presence, your warmth, and the unborn child, and you had carried them all away where he could never follow.
He was entirely alone in the darkness of his own design.
Then, as his eyes swept over the empty marble of the vanity, a single ray of moonlight caught a tiny flash of silver.
Aerion approached the table slowly, his chest heaving as he reached out. Resting alone on the cold stone was a single, simple ring.
It wasn’t the Targaryen band he had forced onto your finger on your wedding day.
It was a cheap, slightly tarnished silver band.
He remembered the exact afternoon he had given it to you.
It had been weeks ago, during one of those rare, quiet days when the two of you had snuck away from the guards to walk through the lower courtyards.
A common street merchant had been selling worthless trinkets for copper, and Aerion, in a rare fit of playful mood, had bought the ring on a whim.
He had laughed, slipping the cheap metal onto your finger, boasting that even the filth of the lower city looked royal so long as it touched your skin.
You had smiled at him then, a genuine, radiant smile that had made him feel enamoured.
You had kept it and worn it every day since, it was a private token of the gentle love that had grown between the two of you.
And now, it was the only thing you had left behind.
Aerion picked up the tiny band, the metal cold against his skin, devoid of any of your warmth.
It was the ultimate, mocking symbol of the happiness he had willingly slaughtered over something so small.
A broken sound tore from his chest, a sound stripped of all cruelty, and all arrogance. He dropped to his knees, pressing the cheap silver ring onto his lips as the tears streamed.
Just the day before, he was entirely unaware that the moment he succeeded in breaking your spirit, his own mind would shatter completely.
In the quiet of your once shared chambers, clutching the only thing you had left behind, Aerion Targaryen took his first step into the agonizing madness that would eventually consume him.
Summary: Aerion was humiliated by the hedge knight, leaving him bedridden and suffering. A few knocks to the head left him forgetting much of his life— and even his ways...
Warnings: Fluff + angst, amnesia, Ooc!Aerion, mentions of bloodshed, death, cremation, grotesque wounds, mentions of infertility, mentions of blood magic, arranged marriage, Aerion doesn't like his wife(until he does), mentions of incest, mentions of consummation, it is said that Aerion mistreats his wife.
I am not responsible for the media you comsume.
I know this trope has been done many times before, but I was struck with a desire to write it myself.
Forgive me. It has been almost two years since I have written fanfiction(on a different account). This is a test to see if I should transition back into posting.
The intro is really long, I'm a yapper.
The Targaryen lineage had long since been deemed cursed, a price to pay for defying the old Gods in Valyria.
Dragon blood flowed through the descendants of those who once performed magic to control the beasts. It is said that the Gods had tried to eradicate them for their sins.
The Doom of Valyria; where the ground split itself in half and burst.
And then infertility for those who survived.
When the last dragon died, it was also said that the magic in a Targaryens veins had nowhere to go, resulting in a madness that was swiftly becoming common for the royal breed.
"Every time a Targaryen is born, the God's flip a coin."
Perhaps Maekar's line was cursed.
His brother had created two honorable young men to continue on the legacy of leaders. One to be King of Westeros and the other to be Lord of Dragonstone.
His own wretched offspring had not been as blessed upon birth, no matter how Maekar wished to shape them.
Daeron, his firstborn, had been a child who cried throughout the night. His restlessness never ceased, even as he reached adulthood. Cursed with dreams of death and destruction, he was well on his way to drink himself into an early grave.
Not a warrior.
Not a scholar.
Not a politician.
A whoring drunk.
Aerion, his second born, was worse. Capable and intelligent. Beautiful and lithe.
But above all else, he was delusional and cruel. He had been promising in his youth, but wickedness was planted when he learned of the blood he harbored. The young man fancied himself a dragon, and for that, he would one day suffer.
From torturing his own siblings to throwing cats down wells and even forcing servants to drink boiling wine, Aerion was rotten.
Out of his siblings, he was the first to be wed. The hope Maekar held arrived in the shape of a highborn lady.
With no Valyrian blood flowing through your veins, Aerion detested you. He hated the lack of silver-gold hair on your head, and he hated the lack of violet in your eyes.
He had wanted a sister and would have even settled for a cousin, but his father brought forth a complete stranger.
No traditional Valyrian wedding took place either. He did not get to bind your blood and claim that at least some dragon blood flowed through you now.
A dream he had since he was a boy was thrown out of the window the second he entered the Great Sept of Baelor and draped a cape over your shoulders instead. His Houses sigil was embroidered into it, but he couldn't help but think that you were an imposter amongst his kin.
He performed his duties that night and felt slighted when no child bloomed. He didn't visit your bed again.
It wasn't until Ashford Meadow that he finally slept beside you, forced to share a chamber.
A tourney for Lady Gwin Ashfords nameday was held in the Reach. Neighbors to the Stormlands, the journey had not been long nor tiring.
Prince Baelor and Prince Valarr rode south to join their family as well.
When Maekar left to search for his missing sons, Aerion's front finally dropped.
No longer having to deceive his father, he drove his lance through the jugular of a horse, resulting in its death and the broken leg of its rider.
That night, he broke a puppeteers fingers.
A "mockery", he claimed.
A "veiled attack" on house Targaryen.
A simple hedge knight challenged him, and the Prince would not forget that.
By the next morn, the first Trial of Seven since Maegor the Cruel was conducted.
"Fear not for me, wife." Aerion had told you when he was dressing in his armor, voice mocking. "The God's rule in my favor. They know who the true champion is."
If only Aerion actually believed in those God's.
The Trial started with a shock. Hand of the King, heir to the throne, Prince Baelor joined the opposing side, fighting against his two nephews and younger brother.
The horn sounded, and horses startled.
It was a foggy day, and the silver metal of each fighter's armor left it easy to mistake one for another. Aerion's spiked visage stood out amongst the others, even as he rolled about in mud.
Competitors fell, and others persevered.
Aerion's screams were heard when a sword caught near his groin, slicing through a weak spot in his armor. When he thought he killed the hedge knight, Ser Duncan rose again.
In the end, beaten beyond belief, Aerion was forced to withdraw his accusations, lest he succumb to a worser fate.
No real consequence came from the grounds until Prince Baelor fell, skull caved in by his own brothers mace.
Those in attendance took a pause.
In a land he did not hail from, Baelors body was laid to rest. He should have been back in Kings Landing or even Dorne, not in Ashford Meadow. Instead, his pyre was built the day after his death.
Nobody but the Septon spoke, wishing the man well in his transition to the afterlife.
Maekar, beaten and bruised, stood like a statue, unaware that his brothers last words were praises of how strong he could be. His mace struck true, and his big brother suffered because of it.
At the end of the service, only Valarr lingered.
You joined your good father and his sons back to the castle, observing the glum atmosphere as lesser Lords and Ladies packed up to leave the grounds.
The Tourney had ended.
Before the procession, Maekar had sat silent in the room while Aerion rested in a milk of poppy haze. By Baelors funeral, his last sip of the elixir had worn off while he was alone. He was awake, aching beyond belief with no help.
Daring to set your eyes upon your mangled husband, the door opened with a creak. The hinges were not oiled as well as the ones in Summerhall.
The Prince could not turn his head, laid in bed with the sheets just above his sternum, his swollen eyes were set upon the ceiling.
He was gnarled with open gashes upon his face, bruises along his forehead, and matching black eyes. Never had you seen him like this.
Your hand raised, covering your mouth as you stood over him. It was a ghastly sight, one you were sure he would not have wanted you to see. He did not want to be vulnerable with the likes of you around. It was why you had not visited him the day before.
His dry lips parted, parched for water, but also reacting to his obscured vision of you.
"Is it the Mother or the Maiden who looks down upon me?" He rasped, speaking words you had not expected. His jaw barely moved, likely sore. "Mayhaps the Gods are cruel and such a beautiful sight is really the Stranger..."
Never had Aerion described you as such.
Your mourning clothes were nothing far from the colors of his house, which you were often forced to wear. You had not expected to be attending a funeral and were unprepared when it came to it.
Surely, Aerion was jesting. It was like him to jape about such a thing, especially when Baelor had gone against him. He likely thought his uncle deserved it.
"I ache, my Lady..." He whispered then, eyebrows stringing together.
"You are healing, husband." Lord Ashfords Maesters had attended to him, and his wounds were clean, but the stench of festering flesh permeated around the chamber.
His features softened. "What?"
"You are bruised. And your leg..." You trailed off, unable to truly speak of the extent of his injuries when Maekar was the only one to truly know. Too close to his manhood with the possibility of permanently altering his gait.
"No," He tried to shake his head, but he did it with a slowness that showed the ache. "Husband. You called me husband."
Confusion struck you then. You had referred to him with the title since you wed him.
His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "My lady, I do not recall having ever seen your face before..."
You had never seen him so unguarded, so soft. Now, he claimed to have never seen you before. This time, your eyebrows furrowed. "I am your wife, Aerion. We wed late last spring. Do you truly not remember?"
You were dumbfounded upon hearing such a thing. Could Aerion be toying with you again? Or was this a serious result of the Trial?
"I am wed to you?" He questioned, his lilt gentle. Slowly, his split lips spread into a subtle smile. "Truly, my lady?"
Your head nodded, and your hand lifted, hovering, hesitating to touch the one he had resting on his abdomen.
"Yes..." You breathed.
He sighed loud enough for you to hear, looking as if his smile would widen, only for his face to twist up. His jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared while his upper lip curled.
All he knew was that he was in pain. He recalled no dragons. No blood purity.
"Do you require milk of the poppy?" Your eyes darted to the bedside table, where there was no more of the suppressant. "I will alert the Maester. Please wait here, my prince."
You were unaccustomed when it came to taking care of your husband, but when that same confused tone left his lips, you paused.
"Prince?"
Aerion often took arrogant pride in his title. He thought it to be well deserved for someone like him. The three Conquerors paved this path for dragons and in turn— him. He would not let anyone forget that.
Your skin finally met his own when your hand settled over the back of his wrist, barely touching it.
"Need you anything, husband?" Your voice was nothing more than a murmur, wary of this forgetfulness.
He continued to stare up at you before attempting to shake his head again. "Nay.... I think I would quite like to keep looking at you."
You nodded and brought a chair closer to his bed, making promises to stay by his side, watching over this alternate of your husband. A version of him you had never once seen, but would cherish.
You brought his ailment to the attention of the Maesters and helped feed Aerion more suppressants. You helped him into robes when the family had to depart from Ashford Meadow and kept a keen eye on him as he scowled from the front of the wheelhouse.
When the idea of sending this vulnerable version of Aerion to Lys was spoken by Maekar, you protested with tears in your eyes. In the end, Aerion gained his lucid state back, reminding you just how monstrous he truly was. Horrified by his recollection of softness, his tongue was sharper than a blade.
He was shipped off the second his deepest gash scarred.
A/n: I have wips for Maekar, Daeron, Aerion, and Valarr. I need motivation. Omg. This is why I was on break for two years. :P
note: this idea came to me while I was looking out the window and saw our neighborhood cat catch a beautiful bird.
summary: choosing to honor your house had never seemed like a high cost until you are pushed too far by your husband, Prince Aerion Targaryen.
content warning: dark themes ahead, some smut (18+ only!) mention of suicide // MDNI
⤷ ゛honestly just a quick blurb of the brightflame prince that may turn into a series ˎˊ˗
word count: 4.9K (be so proud of me)
// Please prioritize your mental health and well-being before choosing to read \\
There was a bluebird on the sill of your window.
You had been in the middle of your embriodery, the shiny needle coming to stop between the fabric as you came to stare at the creature in awe. Its fidgeting body had hopped and fluttered on the stone ledge, chirping away as it observed you from across the room. Excitement pulsed through you as you gently settled your embroidery hoop onto the table as delicately as you could before you began approaching the bird.
Its song filled the silence, each chirp sending a little echo throught the vast room as you dragged yourself to the creature in a crouch. Your skirts crumpled beneath your body as you approached. Your heart came to swell in your throat as you pushed down memories of your mother and sister, tears coming to collect at the edges of your eyes as you admire the delicate hues of blue on the birds wings.
You had been so captured by the bird of your family's history you didn't hear the door to your room open or shut behind you until the bird suddenly let out a hard cry and fled through the open window. You remained in a low crouch until your name being called behind you made your body instinctively straighten as you rose and turned around to face the only other person who was allowed into the room. Your fear left you with no choice but to stand still as heavy boots trudged into the room while your eyes found the floor.
"It seems my lady wife has forgotten how to greet her husband," although his tone came as a tease, Aerion's hardened gaze bore into the side of your face— your months of marriage letting you know well enough that he was not in a joking mood.
You bowed before the Prince as you spoke, "I did not expect you today, my prince". Your words coming out airy and rushed as you continued to avoid his gaze.
You knew what he had come for, its the only reason he had ever deigned to visit your secluded chambers in the Keep.
When he didn't respond, your eyes reluctantly left the stone floor and found his body a few feet from you though his gaze was now on the window behind you. You watch his eyes flicker between the stone ledge and your crumpled skirts, your hands coming to smooth your appearance despite futile attempts.
"Ah," he tutted, a smile slowly spreading to show his bright teeth that matched the color of his hair. "Let me guess. Was that your mother? Maybe it was your father?" his smile had turned wicked before he let out a chuckle as he approched until he was a step away from connecting your chests. "Or, perhaps it was your sister?"
Despite the amount of mockery or bullying he had done to you, you could still feel pure disbelief bubble beneath your skin.
Aerion knew that your family had the stories of old just as his ancestry did—how his family had dragons while your family had bluebirds that the departed would use to visit you during tough times and yet he still mocked your traditions and family legacy.
You swallow a sob as you steel yourself before the man you married.
Guilt fills you when—for a split second—you curse your sister for dying. It had originally been your sister that had been selected as the prince's intended, the waves of hapiness that had overflowed from her at the mention of becoming a princess had left your family scrambling to depart from your home and only leaving your eldest brother and yourself to stay back.
Then news came of an upturned carriage.
You could still remember the moment the scout had arrived, ears coming to ring and muffle the words of how he found the bodies of your beloved mother and father with their throats slit while your sister was found not a few feet away face down in the river.
You were only allowed a few days of mourning until a raven came with a message of acceptance of you being a suitable stand in. Your brother had come to explain how your father had owed a debt and the debt would need to be paid one way or another. The last time you had seen your brother was months ago when he put you into a carriage that arrived from Kings Landing, multiple guards attached to escort you to your new husband.
Aerion's fingers brushing your fallen tears brought you back to the present. His body had come to crouch down to look straight into your eyes that had dropped to stare at the floor. His iris' filled with unbridled lust as he shushed you, wiping away tears with false-sympathies.
"You should not cry for that old family," he whispered, the tone soundng so sweet you almost consider leaning into the falsehood for comfort. "I am your family now, the only one you should consider."
His words only make your body jolt in despair. He allows two more tears to slip before he lets out a loud sigh of annoyance and pulled himself away to sprawl onto the furs of your bed. His hands undo the strings of his shirt until his chest is exposed. Aerion adjusts his position before he looks at you and jerks his head at you. "Come."
Flashes from your wedding night peppered into your mind at the sight of him, saying the same words he did when the time came to consumate the marriage. The knot in your throat was just like the one you had then, blocking all words as you forced yourself into his lap. The fabric of your skirts seperated your body from his as he gazed up at you with boredom before he pulled a blade from the scabbard on his hip. He had done the same thing that night, the only difference was that you now knew what to expect of Aerion Targaryen when he came to your chambers.
Bringing the edge of the blade to your corset, he gives no warning as he slowly drags the metal down and tears the front of your dress. The tip of his blade skimms the surface of your chest and between the valley of your breasts while the sound of fabric tearing fills the room. You are forced to watch as the gown you had worn had now been reduced to scraps at the princes' sick attempt at seduction. His eyes found yours in bliss as he removed the top layer of your dress and left you bare.
"This is how you should be greeting me"
Your skin pebbled with the exposure to the cold air, the crackling fire in the hearth doing nothing but adding to the ambience within your chamber walls. Your chest rises and falls with each breath as Aerion comes close and brings your breats to his mouth, the sudden warmth making honey of your bones despite the distate you felt in your heart for the man. His mouth latched on as his tongue circled, pebbling your nipple until the brush of his tongue made a small whimper rip from your throat. He repeated the action on the other as his hands traveled to the strings of your skirts and pulled at the knot until the fabric loosened, he pulled away and dragged the skirts over your head.
Aerion brought the blade back to your flesh, briging the dagger to drag against your waist as he spoke. "You want to make your husband happy, yes?" You can only nod as you fix your gaze on the cherished knife of the prince. He seemed pleased with your response as he tossed the blade to the empty space beside him on the bed.
Your body felt three times heavier as he brought his hand up and grasped at your neck and forced you closer to look into his eyes. Irritation bloomed beneath his iris' as he squeezed the flesh of your throat, not hard enough to cut off your airway but enought to make your eyes widen as you looked down at him. You’re forced still as he works his stare over your face until he finally lets go and smacks your thigh hard enought to earn a small hiss from you. He comes to smile once more before he tells you to stand.
You knew better than to hope for his departure.
He had done the jest too many times.
You roll off of his body and stand to the side as he rose from the furs and raised his hands in wait. Your body moved mindlessly as you brought your hands to pull at the strings quickly, earning a chuckle from Aerion who joked about your impatience for him.
You only wanted to get this over with.
You fiddle with the string of his trousers, eyes fixed on the fabric so as to still your shaking fingers when his hands stop yours with a swat and instructions to lay on the bed. You follow instructions as your fate was sealed the second you repeated the vows back to him in the Great Sept of Baelor, so you lie down and watch as Aerion removed his pants.
As you drag your gaze up his body, you hold the speckle of attraction you felt as the target of your resentment. You hated the way your body instinctively shifted and preened at the sight of his toned body, his figure shaped from his time training in the castle courtyard, his smooth flesh making one think he was untrained. It was when you look upon his hands that you can see the years of training etched into the creases of his palms, taut skin scarred with niks and cuts. Your eyes land on his toned back that gleamed with the reflection of the flame in the center of the room.
His body turns to face you fully and you're quick to force your eyes to his face, avoiding the hardened part of his body that brought you both to pleasure and pain. His eyebrow raise at the sight of your reddened face, a low chuckle coming from his chest that came flush against yours as he brings his body over you with his entire weight. His eyes find yours as his brings his head to the side of your neck and bites down, his teeth grinding your skin in between each ridge so hard you cry.
He pulls away and you give your best smile, ignoring the tears pooling out of your eyes. He leans down again, licking at your tears as his hands come to fondle your chest. His thighs have now come up to straddle your hips, his hard cock resting against your lower belly. You can't ignore the heat he radiates or the weight of what laid between the two of you. He gives you one last glance before he pulls back off of your body and spits directly on your center, missing by a few inches but it didn't matter as his spit dripped down, his fingers come down and glide the glob of saliva up and down your lips before he pressed into you with his fingers.
The sudden intrusion makes a gasp whisper past your lips, his groan sounding over your noise. "You're so wet," he mumbled, pushing his fingers in deeper before gliding them back out. "'And you said you weren't expecting me? Was this for someone else?" his fingers come to curl inside you, your slick making a squelch sound as he curled his fingers over and over like a scratch. You shake your head at him, maybe as an answer or in protest but the response seemed to satisfy him enough to lean down and kiss your lips gently. His thumb comes to flick your clit, making your mouth open in shock before he plunges his tongue into your mouth. Simulatneously kissing and rubbing, you've no way to choose how to respond and he ends up biting you when you don't kiss back.
He hums at the sight of you, wet and undone by his fingers. He pulls his fingers from you, cutting you from reaching completion and flicks his hands of your slick before bringing his fingers into his mouth of the remnants. "My sweet girl, my wife" his breathless words mix with the lulling vibrations of your body and you can only watch as he rubs the head of his cock against you. His body rocks against you, bumping over and under your pearl all while he held himself up to hover over you and come up right to your eyeline. It overwhelmed you, the intensity of his stare. All that you bubbled down to survive in his presense had started to come up. Your gaze travels up to the decorated canopy bed, focusing on the linen sheets that resembled your family house colors, the ones that matched the sky and the wings of the birds you wished you could become.
Aerion's eyebrows furrow at your expression, not looking at him but through him. It angered him to the point of stopping to reach up and pinch your face between his fingers, your eyes zoning back in and masking once more into a loving gaze.
But he could tell it was fake, the shining eyes he had caught a glimpse of when he entered your seperate chambers, eyes on a stupid filthy bird that twittered and scraped its talons on stone—that got a look of devotion while he got antipathy. He couldn't help the snarl that came from him as he released his grip, kissing his teeth as he rose from the bed. He turned his back to dress, leaving you confused and listless as you watched his back muscles move.
You do your best to hide your relief from your face.
He would most likely return to the streets of silk.
You sit up as he pulls on his white linen shirt, your hands coming to wrap your body with the sheets when a loud chirp sounds through the room. You both still, the sound not believed to be heard until it comes again more than once.
Not a bluebird, please don't be a bluebird.
Your eyes remain on Aerion as he drops the pants he intended to put on, letting out a chuckle as he turns toward the windowsill. You follow his gaze after you see his joyous expression, seeing a bluebird fidget on the stone as it looked about the room as if invited to comment on the decor. You feel the gasp before you hear it, finding its eyes look at you often.
Aerion walked over until he came up beside you and pulled the sheets from your chest to display you to the small audience the two of you gained. Your hands fly up to cover yourself but Aerion was always faster, his hands curling around your wrist before pushing them onto the bed and coming to hover over you once more.
"I think daddy dearest wanted to check on his little girl," he jeered, not caring that your gaze remained on the bird. You protest, your eyes filling with tears as your pleas go unheard. Aerion's free hand came down between you two and lined his pulsing cock to your core and slowly inched forward. His moan filled the room as he sheathed himself in you before he let go of your hands and brought both of his to frame your face and turn your gaze to him. "Let's show him, yeah? Show him that you are all mine"
Aerion's violet eyes fix on yours as he pumps into you, each rock making the head of his cock kiss your insides. He watched you fight the pleasure he knew you felt, your lips coming to form an 'o' like it had countless times before. He let go one side of your face to grip the underside of your thigh, brining it up to angle you so he could reach deeper. His panting breaths mixed with your shallow breathing, he licked his lips before he kissed you. His hand caressed your face once before he pulled out to turn you over.
You're face down in the matress before you process what happened, the furs and sheets now rumpled beneath your two bodies coming together once more. His hands came down onto your head, fingers weaving into your hair and pulling to make you turn away from the sheets and toward the room, specifically toward the window.
"Aerion please—"
He shushes you sweetly, now petting your head as he continued his thrusts. "Your little birds gets to see what I get to do with mine"
His thrusts deepen as he holds you for balance by your head. His moans mix with the echoing slapping of skin coming together over and over. The fire continues to pop in its hearth and the bird continues to watch as your brought to completion despite your best efforts against it. He continues to thrust until he reached his rapture, filling you to the brim before removing himself from you and watched as his seed slowly glided down your leg and onto the floor.
His eyes travel to the side of your face before to the window that was now vacant. He dressed himself, relishing in his satisfaction of the start of his early morning. He watched you until you rose from the bed. You take a moment to collect your expression before you turn to gaze at Aerion, ensuring your eyes meet his. He stays quiet a moment, looking over your face a few times before he reaches out and grasps your chin in between his fingers ever so gently.
“You slipped away for a little bird,” he stated, his grip cradling your chin a little. He skimmed the edge of your jaw with his rough fingers, a mock pout stretched across his face while he forced his deep violet eyes onto yours. His face is close enough to show off his unblemished skin and sharp cheekbones. He looked princely, but you knew better.
A hiss escapes you when his fingers come and tighten on your jaw hard enough for you to know that it would leave a mark.
“Ensure it doesn’t happen again”
Giving you a pointed look, he released your face with a push and made his way out of the room without a glance back. At the sound of the door clicking to a close, your gaze lingers on the door for a moment before you feel your body jolt forward and you hear yourself let out a quiet sob.
It was hours later when a knock came at your door.
You knew it wasn't Aerion as he would've walked in without so much as a 'hello', so you stand and walk to the door. You take cautious steps toward the door, opening it a crack until you see it is a knight that usually follows your husband. His face holding a kind smile as he present you with a box wrapped in a singular red string bow.
"A gift from Prince Aerion, your grace"
Your face comes into a frown before you could stop yourself, the door creaking as you open it wider. You look behind the man expecting to see Aerion right beside him, smirking as he usually was—only, it was the lone knight and he looked confused as to why you had not responded. The question slips out before you could think of a more proper way of asking, your fear coming out a soft whisper.
"Is he on the way?"
The knight gives you a a frown of remorse, probably thinking the princess had missed her husband terribly in the few hours they spent apart. He shakes your head and relays the instructions he was given.
"I was told to present this on behalf of His Highness, the prince. He is in the courtyard just outside your window and says he wishes to see your face as you open your gift"
Aerion, in all your time wed, had never sent you a gift.
The knight entered the room and walked to the sill, placing the small box down before bowing to you once then leaving. The door closed with a groan and a click but you could only stare at the box that lay a few feet away, a deep forboding feeling filling you from your toes to the crown of your head.
A loud whistle just beyond the castle walls called out, the familiar tune letting you know that what the knight said was true. Your feet move before you realize and you are standing at the window looking down at Aerion, who was waiting for you just below on horseback. His familair steed dressed in it's riding leathers made to look like scales of a dragon that no longer ruled the great skies.
"Open it," he called out, shrugging his shoulders with nonchalance as he stared up the stone wall. "I saw this while out this morning and knew you had to have it"
Your heart thumped right on the bone of your ribcage as you dragged your gaze from the smiling Targaryen prince to the box. Your shaky hands returned as you pulled the string and fumbled with box until it opened and you let out a cry before you fell to the floor.
There, in a box on the windowsill, laid the small body of a bluebird with broken wings and a note.
A bluebird for my bluebird
—A.
The scream you let out as laughter traveled up the wall and through the window made your heart bleed just as deeply as you hurt. You don't know how long you stay there, screaming out your pain when just beyond the door, you hear the guards stand to attention and the door opens to reveal your husband.
Your eyes had swollen and your face was smeared with your tears and despair when you come to look up at the unfeeling prince. In all your time being married, this was the cruelest thing he had done. You'd forgiven him when he had your family colors removed from all your wardrobe, coming to understand that you were now under his protection in the eyes of the seven. You even forgave him when he had all your belongings removed and replaced with ones to his liking.
This was beyond forgiveness.
Aerion goes to lay on the fresh sheets that were replaced mere moments after he departed from your chambers, his eyes on you as you come to stand. He raised his eyebrow at you, the look of entitlement painted clear on his face. He adjusts himself on the bed before he jerks his head at you. "Come my little blue bird"
The wind is knocked out of you at his sadistic smile, beaming bright at the sight of your fresh tears. You are out of the room before you realized that you moved, the sight of the knight in the corridor making your feet carry you out of there faster as your name is called from behind you. You reach the flight of stairs, the long winding steps stretching out the longer you stared.
You couldn't do it anymore. It would never stop. He will never stop.
Your body had racked forward with each sob you couldn't keep at bay, your tears burning the already raw skin on your face. Your hand had come up to grasp the rail when Aerion's voice called out to you from behind.
You don't turn as you shake your head. You wouldn't go back, you'd rather—
You let out a breath and turn to face Aerion whose usual bored stance had come to attention as he gazed at you a few steps away, his brows scrunching together while he assessed your next move. It must've been written on your face because he was taking a few step forward until he was only an arms distance away.
"Step away," he muttered annoyed, keeping his eyes on yours. "If you wish to weep, you can do so in your chambers"
You shake your head and step back, stumbling until you catch yourself on the railing. He remained the bored princeling as you finally spoke. "Why do you do this?"
Aerion says nothing as he looks at you. A sob rocks your body as you ask again, your voice coming to yell loud enough to echo down the stair hall. Your hands are in your hair, pulling as if the answer will fall out along with your hair. He says something but you've come to ignore it as you cy out, hysterics taking over and making you pace until you stop and look at him.
As Aerion stands there was a dumb expression on his face, you decide then and there that the life you had dreamed of as a child would never come to pass. The image of a loving husband, who would come to kiss you the moment his eyes laid on you, would never come to pass. The laughter that echoed in your dreams of your partner and you sharing a look of love as your children say something funny or outlandish burned away along with any hope of anything getting better.
You call his name once, your voice coming out a whisper as he looks up to your vacant face. He knew it was going to happen, he could see it within your eyes that stared back void of any emotion or light. It was like you were looking at him but more like you were staring directly into his soul.
"I don't want to be your wife anymore"
Before he could say a word, you threw yourself back. The last thing you see is Aerion reaching out to you before the world goes black.
You could feel the cold fingertips on your forehead before you felt the world of pain that followed right after. You try to sit up in your bed only to be pushed down and instructed to remain still. You hear a voice whisper instructions to fetch a maester before you hear footsteps rush out of the room. Your hand flies up to your head when darkness greets you, panic of the possibility of blindness making your hands begin to shake.
A womans sweet voice reassured you that you were only bandaged for your head. "Maester Robynn will see to your bandages once he arrives but you must remain calm"
You settle yourself at the womans instruction, coming to trust her by the mere sound of her voice.
The peace only lasted so long before the sound of shouts and boots against pavement filled the halls. You had no choice but to lay there as the sounds approached until they were in the room with you. You listen as the boots come to stop at the threshold before the soft voice cuts the silence.
"Your Grace, we await the maester but the princess is awake"
You fidget before your hands grip the sheets that covered you and go to sit up once more. You hear movement before you feel a hand on your shoulder pushing you back down. "Don't move, wait for a maester" the voice that speaks sounds strained, tight with emotion as if the words were forced out.
You settle down again but notice the hand on your shoulder had not moved from its point of contact, the warmth seeping through your clothes and burning your skin. You shrug away the hand just as another set of footsteps arrive and enter the room.
You're patient when the disembodied voice explains that your stitches would heal nicely, understanding when you're told you'd be on bed rest for a while and demure when the maester tells you to rely on your ladies in waiting for any and every need as to not strain yourself.
The consultation is cut short when an irritated voice vocalized what you had been wanting to ask for since you woke. "Remove the linen before I have you replaced"
A body approached you before you felt the wrappings around your head begin to fall loose, light coming in with each wrap removed. The maester informed you that bright lights should be avoided just as the last linen cloth is removed. You blink a bit as you try to focus, seeing blobs that slowly shifted to focus to see a nurse, a maester and a few knights in the room.
All begin to welcome you back with a smile you have no choice but to return until your eyes find the only person in the room that had yet to say a word. You look around the room to see everyone giving the man with white hair a look of relief. The man lets out a low sigh as he comes to look into your eyes before a small smile spreads onto his face.
His hand comes to hold the one closest to him before he begins to speak. "You've been out for a few days now. They told me you might not make it but I knew," his voice faded into a breathy whisper as he continued. "I knew you'd wake. I knew it."
His fingers squeeze yours before he comes in close enough that you could smell the scent of wine and sharp smoke seeping off of his black and red clothes. He gave you another smile before he turned and began commanding everyone in the room to prepare a bath when you finally speak.
"I'm sorry, but who are you to me?"
note: let me know what you think! // might make this a series 𑣲⋆｡˚
⤷ ゛link to my rebellion!maekaer fic here ˎˊ˗
note- it's 2am as I write this with my fixation being back. PLEASE READ THE TAGS & SCROLL IF UNCOMFORTABLE
Aerion Targaryen is to suffer a political marriage that was made to humble him aka a forced marriage trope with Aerion
Tags: female reader, forced marriage trope, dubcon/noncon, Aerion is a warning, YANDERE, abuse, power dynamics, brief smut, lovesick!Aerion, messy timeline and inconsistent canon
Whoever catches the prince's sight would be pitied even by the devil himself. Aerion lives up to the name that was given to him. For he is so arrogant, he believes he is a dragon in a man’s body. His love, if one can even call it that, is all consuming as the fire that engulfs all.
You didn’t have the dragon’s blood, the silver hair, or the violet eyes. At least you’re not ugly. You came from a respectable house, still Aerion thought this whole match was beneath him. He was furious, livid even. Who was he to be commanded to wed some dull girl against his wishes? Aerion surely thought his father was jesting, but he has always known his father isn’t one to humor. His father’s glare was enough to silence his complaints, yet the castle was well aware of the contempt he had for you days on end, even though you have yet to utter a word to the prince.
As soon as you stepped into the red keep, you yourself could sense the prince’s displeasement. Before you were wed, the two of you were supposed forced to spend some time with one another. His mind seemed elsewhere while he showed you around. It felt as if every word, step, and breath you took irritated him further. The closest he seemed interested in you was when he spoke of the history of his house, and while you were curious, you feared inquiring may irritate him further.
The wedding was a punishment in and of itself. Aerion couldn’t wipe off that sneer in his face. He seemed somewhat satisfied with how beautiful you looked at that moment. But everyone from his family to the court can tell this whole match - this wedding - you - have slighted him and there is nothing you can do to not feel so small against him. Even as you share a dance, there is no warmth, just duty.
The bedding was extremely painful. Made you almost wish you weren’t a maiden; there was no time for you to undress with the prince laying you on the soft mattress. Climbing on top of you, his breath reeking of wine. He tugged down his pants, lifting your gown; there was no gentleness as he thrusted in and out of you. You couldn’t muffle your sobs, hand reaching to grab his arm to anchor yourself. And when the deed was done, you just stared up at the ceiling, unable to hear the words he spoke to you before leaving.
The night was a haze with all the days blurring together. Aerion had kept his distance since, it’s not long before you felt like a ghost wandering the halls. Newlyweds were the talk of the court, whispers were exchanged of the sad bride you were becoming; gossip you pretend doesn't bother you. It didn’t help that your husband would just walk in front of you, taking quick steps, and at first you tried to keep up with him, but your sore legs served as a reminder, so you remained far behind. Breakfast and supper were spent by yourself in silence, unless his family took pity on you and invited you to sit with them.
You have learned to put up with your husband, a fate you didn’t anticipate, but what else were you to do but tolerate it. Even when Aerion wasn’t angry, it always seems as if he’s mocking you. Lessons didn’t elude you, as your septa taught you; you were polite, courteous, laughing when it called for it, even tried to ask of his family’s history, anything to make the marriage more bearable.
Your husband still visited your chamber and you knew exactly what he wanted. Who were you to deny him? You could only cling to his shoulders as he thrusts into you. Times he would push your nightwear up, exposing your nips to the cold air, whimpering when his fingers touched and squeezed your breasts. His pace all the brutal, but with each visit, the pain eases and your sobs slowly turn into moans as you learn to enjoy it.
Aerion has good days, they are rare, but you learned to cherish them when they came. One could swear he enjoys hearing himself talk. You learned not to contradict him, for your husband is a man built with pride that when you gently corrected him; a misplaced name or he confused a minor house. The prince will snap at you and you’ll be given the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. If there is a crowd, he’ll even make a joke at your expense.
Every word felt like walking across glass. He is not a fool; Aerion knows every second that passes is you trying so desperately to please him. How your sweet words feed a little more and more into his vanity and when you call him my prince, something in him twitches. It all pleases him in ways he doesn’t fully understand, even in a twisted sense, arouses him. He knows you have no family nearby to protect you, no allies to speak for you, only the Targaryen prince who no one dares to defy.
Your husband who once looked at you as if you were nothing more than the air he breathed has begun to be seen more often. The quiet hours you had grown accustomed to are now shadowed by his presence. He would ask of the book you're reading that seems to preoccupy you so much, only to hum dully in response. And when you are allowed at court, able to finally exchange pleasantries with the other ladies. Your husband can’t help to corner you as soon as you take your leave, asking what has you in such good spirits. There is tiny amusement in seeing his brows furrow when you say it’s just idle talk.
Visits to your bedchambers have become so frequent, you grew to expect it. Acting gullible to his gaze while you arrange your hair in front of the mirror, pretending not to know what he’s here for either. You’ve grown shameful in how you seem to look forward to it.
It was all for duty, your only worth was to give him heir. But surely duty isn’t running through his head as you feel so good, your tight cunt squeezing his cock. It’s like it was made for him and only him. He says. And as you wrapped in the sheets, covered in sweat; you hum as he speaks on the weather, some foolish gossip he heard or an upcoming tourney. He stays the night, snoring softly beside you.
There are other nights where your husband visits because he’s restless, complaining of his family or whichever lord happened to offend him that day. He lets you pour his wine as he rambles on. He would dare not say he simply came seeking your company. His eyes follow as you light the candles, he comments on it, of course, asking why don’t you leave it to your servants instead, not long before you feel the familiar tug at the laces of your night dress. Demanding you undress and you know better than to refuse.
Sometimes he asks if you miss your family. When you admit you do, confusion flicks across his face. You have risen in station, married to a Targaryen prince; a maiden’s every dream. Aerion finds himself more annoyed than he should whenever you mention how you miss your home.
You belong to him now, your place remains by his. It doesn’t matter how tedious or late such events are. You remember all too well how furious he was when he asked where you were and he was informed you had returned to your chambers, too tired to stay. Aerion bursted into your place later in the night, blaming you for his foul mood, he had to entertain some drunk old fool all alone. As long as he is there, you must accompany him, is that not what wives do for their husbands.
Just like his love, Aerion must be the most jealous man you have ever crossed paths with. There can be no reasonings; it’s like wildfire, it spreads and there’s nothing you can do but wait for it to die down. You are stuck in its path, having to just endure it.
When tournaments are held, you are seated among the royal family watching your husband. There is no definitive proof but you feel his gaze flicker at you through the steel of his helm. And there is the semblance of proof, when he lifts his visor and you’re met with a smug smile meant only for you.
Before the tournament begins or after it, he demands you to be in his tent. He acts like he doesn’t need your praise or sweet words of encouragement. When it’s all over, he comes to you still in armor, the smell of blood, sweat and dirt clinging to him. The dirt of the field stains your gown when he pulls you close, insisting you should celebrate his victory, his mouth clashing into yours.
You’ll never forget the day when one simply asked for your favor. He was a boy from some minor house. And even if your husband was in denial of any feeling of attachment he had towards you. The mere act was seen as an insult, you pitied the boy long before and the gods must have been cruel to make him face your husband next. When Aerion struck, he didn’t target the shield but rather the legs of the horse. The boy was flinged from his horse landing face first into the ground, you gasped along with the crowd. Even from a distance, you can see the boy’s face all bloody and mangled as they dragged him away.
Aerion’s jealousy has become the talk across king’s landing, yet no one dares to say it out loud. A glance from another man across supper will have him feel a sick rage of jealousy. Tightening his hold on the goblet and you feign as you can’t feel his other hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. He’ll even squeeze your fingers a little too tightly when he thinks you’ve spoken to some other lady-in-waiting for far too long. The only reason his wrath is so restrained is due to his father.
Aerion pretends he is above it all, acting indifferent but it burns in his eyes. His jealousy sometimes can seem ridiculous even childish yet you are always there to reassure him. Yes, Lord Tyrell made you laugh, but no one can ever be as charming as him. Yes, you spoke with lady Royce for a while, but no one is more of a pleasant company than him. You’re even careful not to clap too eagerly to another during tourneys, according to your husband, none of them could perform as well as he does.
Your servants have gotten used to lowering their eyes when entering your chambers. The prince has become a common sight, laying beside you, chest bare, an arm draped around you and hair tangled. If you shift, he stirs as well. An unfortunate lesson was taught when you left your husband waking up alone, for you were informed your maid ran out in tears; met with a foul mood Aerion during breakfast time.
Aerion also being drunk is another common sight. He is far more affectionate, clinging to you. Yet you are still careful, his temper is still unpredictable, his jealousy if even possible is more intense, and his words are much harsh. Sometimes he looks at you, almost like he is bewitched, brushing your hair aside so he can take a better look.
Aerion cannot not touch you now. A hand will trail up your arm or toy with a strand of your hair yet in the same breath, Aerion insists he has no care for you. He’ll not hold your hand even when he wants you to follow, gripping your wrist instead. Do not try pushing his hand away unless you want a furious Aerion. His affection is, in many cases, rough. Gripping your face when he wants your attention or when he’s kissing you. The servants try not to stare when they are dressing you and see the hickies and bites laid across your skin.
Aerion would rather face a terrible death than admit he seeks your approval. He’ll tell stories or a jest and his head turns you, waiting for your laugh or nod. Aerion also surprisingly knows when something is wrong, it can’t be because he watches you so often. He knows how you twist your ring when you’re anxious or how you seem more lost in thought when nervous. He’ll ask, sounding more irritated than concerned. Aerion wishes to fix it, but his version of doing so is finding someone to blame for it then taking it out on them.
Silence treatment is a death wish. It didn’t matter what Aerion did. Using silence as your weapon will drive this man mad. You remember all too well when he threw a cup at the wall right beside your head when you refused to answer him. Aerion didn’t apologize, he never does. He simply moved on with the day, as if nothing had happened.
Aerion loves to spoil you. Dressed in his house colors, your dresses sewed with silks, hair pinned with adorned clasps. The first gift was a necklace with a dragon pendant, his sigil. He jests the gifts made you less plain beside him, yet his eyes linger with hunger whenever you wore them. But heaven forbid you wear anything from your own house or worse, do the offense of wearing someone else’s gift. No he doesn’t care if it was a family gift, he’ll throw it out the window or in the open sea without you knowing.
And yet, with all of this. Aerion swears it’s not love. He is too proud for that. Love is a weakness. Love is for fools and singers. He can easily replace you. Find another lady from wherever who can do the simplest task of warming his bed and bearing him heirs. Yet Aerion finds himself noticing how your eyes twinkle in the moonlight, what rings you like to fiddle with when you are nervous, and your soft scent of lavender that lingers even when you leave.
There was a time when fever struck. It seemed simple at first. Aeron didn’t even seem all that concerned, but when you became bedridden, and there was a slim chance of you not making it out – Aerion began to panic. He was truly unruly, the maesters were threatened while they worked, the servants were accused of poisoning you. There was such a scene, Maekar himself was forced to intervene, forcing his son from your bedside so the maesters could actually do their work. Dragons do not die of weakness, he kept telling himself. You must not. You will not. And when the fever finally broke, the realm seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Maekar was even unsure if you had tamed his son or drawn him deeper into madness.
There is no separating you and Aerion. What began as a cold, loveless marriage had turned into something you are unsure what to call. For now, the man, the prince you married will never claim he loves you, and he’ll always remain cruel. But you know he would kill for you. He will force a lord into his knees if he was to make a joke of your expense. He not only wants you, desires you, but he needs you, like the flower needs the rain. You must only say the word and he’ll fulfill it and maybe that is all what a person wants. And with nothing else to do, you have grown to also care and love this cruel man.
Then come the days when you feel unwell. Unable to stand the food that was once your comfort. Even the very scent of King’s landing upsets your stomach. Your body most particularly your breasts feel sore and your mood has proven to be very irritable. The maesters confirm what you have begun to suspect. You are with child.
And biggest FUCK YOU to Diana Ross for grooming Michael knowing this boy since he was what? 11????and wanna kiss on him like shit sweet she knew better. THEN a whole grown ass woman wanting to play a child in The Wiz when Stephanie mills(One of Mike's lovers) was right there and PERFECT for the roll not only did she set evb back but she took the opportunity for amazing darkskin representation in a beautiful Musical
Id run some rounds with that hoe rn
Love your daughter and hate you
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