Tomi

⋆

The first semester of the academic year was nearly over. Finals week was drawing to a close, and he wanted nothing more than a full night of sleep.

Valarr had taken off the signature black coat he wears around the campus, had the maid wash and iron it, and hung it back on his closet. Every morning and every night since the final month of the semester came, he would be buried in his studies, as routinely as he would wake up at six o’clock in the morning sharp no matter what hour he slept. He had made dozens of notes in his binder. Writing made him remember it clearer and it was easier to study when your eyes are not glued to a screen.

Spring had all but vanished. The last blossom of the flowering trees in the campus had turned over to green leaves, and the hedges and grass on the park turned greener. On Monday the sky was brighter with a blinding tint. The sun was high and the wind was strong but humid, and he had been sweating a lot.

His exams for the day have ended, all that was left was the test on his general electives: ‘Public Speaking and Persuasion’ and ‘Population Studies in the Contemporary World’. He chose those courses as it relates well to his degree program and many of the professors in the said subjects would be nice to get along with once he gets to his thesis.

He was on some secluded wynd on the more peaceful parts of the lower Oldtown. A little more than a few blocks away from the university village, where no one would hopefully catch him. The prince sat on a creaking wooden bench that was in front of a corner store where he bought the cigarette between his fingers. Normally, Valarr was not a cigarette guy. If he wanted to destress, he could always drive out for a quick getaway, and also because he was more of a cigarillo guy, cigarettes were too rough on the tongue. But there is always a first to everything. 

Lighting up the cigarette, he took the first puff—and immediately coughed. The smoke was harsh and he crushed the ash down on the bench. His hands found the cigarillo in his pocket and decided to forgo trying cigarettes.

“Hiii Valarr,” a voice purred on his bare nape, tickling his skin with the warm breath. His eyes widened and he stiffened from his seat; cigarillo almost dropped on his lap.

No one was supposed to see him like this.

Turning around he was relieved to see a familiar face. His classmate from his electives. A girl on full ride scholarship from the university, a dean’s lister—always, part of the campus publication, never participates in student organizations but is somehow known. Maybe it was because of her eccentricities or perhaps her looks. 

"It's just me prince charming," you said, patting his back, stepping to the side to crouch in front of where he sat.

“Sit down with me,” said Valarr, patting the side of the bench. The prince let out a sigh of relief, with it the smoke of his fine cigarillo, a dainty thing you would not expect the perfect Targaryen prince to ever be seen in the perimeter of. Perhaps that was what made the usually collected prince jump like a scared cat. He drew out a smoke from the tobacco.

You did not move from his request and kept crouching. Thighs close together as you look at him with wonder. He was such a beautiful thing. It was a damn shame. Shame...

"How do you do it?" he asked, gesturing to the discarded cigarette he just bought a few moments ago. 

You shrug your shoulders with a petulant smile and fished your pack of yellow Seven Point—the cheapest brand with the closest flavor you can buy in substitute of the reds you used to smoke; fucking conflict between the Lannisters and Tyrells made tobacco prices soar, Seven forbid a girl wants to smoke—from where you hide it underneath the many layers of your outfit.

Valarr tilted his head up to take another hit of his cigarillo, looking up at the afternoon sun.

Knocking down the cigarette gently on the back of your hand, "What is it this time? Is it your obsessive cousins?" Despite only being classmates this semester, you and Valarr had grown close. That is why you knew that while he does smoke, it was a rare occurrence.

He frowned, his voice firm, "They are not obsessed with me." 

"Sure," you grinned, putting the cigarette in your mouth.

Valarr leaned down, making the tip of his fine tobacco touch the tip of your low-end cigarette to share the embers before you can look for your lighter. You did not inhale to ignite your smoke the moment the fire touched, your eyes staring in that unique purple and brown.

Inhaling after a long moment, you pulled away to let out your first puff.

"I am serious. They are not obsessed with me."

"Okay pretty boy, whatever helps you sleep at night," you smiled widely, raising your hands in the air.

"You do." 

"I do what?" you asked with a laugh, inhaling the smoke from your cigarette. "Help you sleep at night?"

He nods, taking the cigarette out of your mouth to kiss you. 

"Hmm... wonder why..." you hummed, taking back your cigarette from him and taking a fat inhale. Pulling him down by the collar of his shirt, you kissed those soft lips only to exhale the cheap, crude smoke inside his mouth. Valarr immediately pulled away to cough, making you giggle again.

"You're so pretty."

He leaned down to press his forehead on yours and kissed your nose. "You always say that." 

"Doesn't make it any less true." 

"You are pretty." 

"Thanks babygirl." 

He smirked a little. "You should come with me to Summerhall."

"I will not fit in,” you said, turning to the side to exhale the smoke. It wasn’t that you did not want to spend summer with Valarr; you would do anything to spend eternity with him. It is just plain honesty that you will be a fish out of water if you came with him. Valarr is a literal royalty, the fucking crown prince of Westeros, and you are a poor kid from Dorne who happened to be smart enough to get a full scholarship on the best university in the Seven Kingdoms.

"Daeron will love you,” he said. “Did you not say you got along with him well last semester when you were sharing a course?”

You made a face. "Only because we frequent the same gig bars and local pubs I go to. Honestly I'm surprised your cousin likes getting drunk on cheap alcohol."

"Probably so he can drink as much as he used to. I'm pretty sure Uncle Maekar cut off half his allowance because of his drinking habits," Valarr thought out loud, twirling his cigarillo before taking another hit.

You thought about it, you knew Daeron was a drunkard and when you were classmates for one subject, you remembered that he would always reek of alcohol, eyes always bloodshot like he took the hardest substances and not just liquor. You are pretty sure you get along well only because you tolerated sitting beside him on a fucking laboratory class where its fucking humid and everyone could fucking smell the beer from his sweat… But that was only because you were sleep deprived and did not have the best senses during early mornings.

"Either way,” you sipped a mouthful of smoke. “It will be awkward.”

"It won't be. My dad loves you,” said Valarr.

The smoke on your mouth and throat traveled to your nose as you guffawed, your hand flying to slap your forehead. 

“What?” he points his tobacco accusingly at you. “It is true. You have met him many times whenever he comes to grant the monetary excellence awards every quarter. He admires you.”

"Yeah?” you looked up at him. “I'm pretty sure he will stop admiring me if he knows his perfect heir fucks the girl riding in full scholarship.” The sun glows like a halo on his hair and it makes you almost believe his sweet sentiments.

"He's not like that!” he defends. “Besides, how would he know we have sex?”

“So you are telling me you are going to invite me to Summerhall and there would not even be a moment you’ll touch me or try to act all sweet.” you deadpanned.

Valarr paused for a second then leaned back to the bench. He took a heavy inhale of his cigarillo before dropping back to incline down to where you crouched down the cobblestones. The smoke of his tobacco was fine.

He is fine.

You tilt forward, making your nose touch tip to tip, and blew a smoke from your own cheap tobacco on his face.

He stared at you, squinting at your audacity.

“Look,” you said with a smile, perhaps pitying yourself. Your heart throbbed, a horrible feeling formed in your stomach. You already knew the spiel you always tell your brain whenever you are alone with Valarr: DO NOT FALL FOR HIM. THAT IS THE CROWN-FUCKING-PRINCE OF WESTEROS.

You inhaled another whiff of your cigarette before continuing. You honestly did not know what to say and you are unsure if you can keep denying that face—fuck the Seven for making him look like that. “I do not belong in your circle, Valarr.”

“Since when have you been the type to care about what others think?” he asked.

Thinking hard about his question, the cigarette stayed on your lips for long. Perhaps it all started when you became acquainted with Valarr in the class for Population Studies in the Contemporary World. It was a vivid memory.

You were in a great mood. You talked steadily, your friend who you are also classmates with sat beside you and the two of you talked about the new Pokémon starters that just got released last night. You were partial to the grass-type bird, taking delight in its art and the expression of grumpiness on its animated face, and so was your friend, his childhood favorites have always been the bird starters after all. Then your chair budged making the free-flowing conversation pause.

Normally, you would roll your eyes the moment you turn to whoever the culprit was and ask them what they wanted. Perhaps even pick a well-placed insult and sharp glare to make them cower and/or say sorry to you.

Valarr Targaryen did say sorry, and in such a soft-spoken manner, before you can even curse him. You always were prideful of the fact you were not easily swayed by looks, be it man or woman. But something about his beauty made you pause. And then when the first class started, your professor already formed a pairing for the whole semester and you were partnered with the prince. The world sure hated you that day.

“It’s not that I care that much about what people think. It is just me being realistic. Your cousin and father might like me like you said but what makes you sure that it makes me welcome in your bourgeois summerhouse?”

You wondered if you were just trying to push him away by saying this, for you yourself cannot be the one doing the distancing. You were starting to get soft… no… you were staying soft with him and it was becoming a dangerous path to take. You know you have to keep your sense intact—just as how he keeps his image of perfect, faultless, flawless, heir intact—so whatever it is between the two of you would not end up hurting when it inevitably ends.

“Daeron and my father are not as false as you would assume about other nobles… which is not unfounded of course. But—” he tried to answer.

You had interrupted him. Valarr stopped his sentence and rolled his shoulders, looking straight ahead, his body stiff as he puffed on his cigarillo.

Valarr’s eyes then found you again, you could see that he is trying to figure out why you are denying his request. He probably finds it unusual as you always agree to his proposals. Then you said, "As true as that may be… either way, I'll get outcasted by your posh family friends who I know also come around your family’s summer home.”

The frown on his face made him look pitiful. "Do you really think that they will do that?" he asked.

“Well, yes. But not in front of their perfect prince.”

“That's my father.”

“Who is the king now. Don't piss me off."

He tilted his head, drumming his fingers to the bench, “I just want to spend the summer with you. Is that too much to ask?”

The only thing you wanted more than money was to spend more time with Valarr and become the center of his universe. But you are a realist, even if you wanted nothing more than to be his and him yours. His father may be a good king and an upstanding man but you doubt he would allow his son to be with a commoner, or even if he will, you are sure he would not let the relationship become too serious. And you knew Valarr well enough to know he will choose his duty and what he thinks is better for the crown in the long run than his own happiness. “No, it isn’t too much. But I would not become a stranger in a place that’s supposed to be fun just because I do not fit in.”

He sighed at your sentiment, making a sour face that look like a cute and sorry little fawn as his lips were pursed between his tobacco. “It would be fine, I will be there with you every moment, I promise,” he persuaded. Valarr took a deep inhale of the cigarillo, making the body burn until only the part he was holding onto was left. He cups your face to stare back at you, that purple and brown staring straight into your soul. If you had one. You are still debating the existence of faith so the concept of souls is getting foreign. 

“Really?” you have asked with genuine wonder, staring at the resolute look on his handsome visage. Your cigarette between your fingers, not wanting to blow another smoke on his face yet.

He stopped for a moment. Then in one smooth motion he lifted you to sit beside him, making you wince at the sudden fall of your butt on the wooden bench. He took the opportunity of your gasp to press his lips on yours, his smoke traveling to your throat. You inhaled the fumes instinctively.

“I mean it,” he said on your lips, “I will make sure you are comfortable all throughout the summer if you come with me.”

“Unfortunately for you, I got a little more self-respect than that. So that's a no thanks Val," you snort.

The two of you kissed.

You love everything about Valarr, but most especially the taste of his mouth even after smoking, that mint toothpaste and something lemony, perhaps even a distinct flavor and aromatic floral of lavender tea.

When Valarr pulled away from your lips, you studied him. How he looks at you like you are more important to him than his duties, as if he will really choose you—a very vivid hallucination on your end, of course. He liked you, that is obvious even if he is all nonchalant about everything other than his studies and responsibilities, but he liked those duties too, more than he liked to admit.

You love him, you thought, and you kissed him just a few seconds after he pulled away, so you can still exchange the taste of his cigarillo that he blew on your lungs, before you took an inhale on your almost dying cheap cigarette.

If you really agreed to go to Summerhall this coming vacation, would you and him happen? Would his family really allow the crown prince—not that there’s anyone worth crowning other than him in their generation of dragonseeds, no offense to his cousins, really—to be with the student who had to wait for scholarship finances to enter her bank and work her ass off to meet her needs?

In reality, even if it happened, you knew it would not end in a way you wanted.

There was a sign somewhere along the road that you took that said STOP in bold red letters. And maybe you should have taken that sign literally even if you were not a car because that way you wouldn’t be kissing Valarr with increasing passion while your brain and heart is already mourning the possibility of your not-break up. Because then again, you had to remind yourself that there is nothing between you two, at least nothing official yet. And most possibly, there never will be.

“I love you,” he whispered your name, holding your cheek. “You know that right?”

“That’s just forced proximity.”

“If you ever said those words to me, I would not have been trying to rationalize it. Actually, you are irrationalizing it by acting like you cannot feel anything at all. You just need to feel your emotions sometimes, it wouldn’t hurt. Besides, is being in love with you such a bad thing? Or is it being in love with me that is a bad thing?”

You took a very deep breath. You realized your cigarette was almost dying so you threw it to the ground to stomp on it before it burned your fingers or the ashes burned a hole in your clothes.

“It is not you who is the problem,” you said. “And you do not know that.”

Valarr’s hand fell from your face and looked at you, urging you to continue as he needed a clear explanation to your words, because unlike you, Valarr does not assume things. It is either ‘it is’ or ‘it is not’.

“What I am saying is you do not know if trying to feel emotions really wouldn’t hurt,” you expounded.

“But being hurt is part of growing,” Valarr points out. He tilted his head backward and covered his eyes from the glint of the sun. The sun rays made the silver streak of his hair glitter, reminding you of an angel’s wing.

“I have better things to do than be hurt, Valarr. Besides, you know how I feel even if I do not say those words back. Does having to hear me say it really hold so much importance?”

“You cannot shield yourself forever,” he tells you. “Be it whatever is between us, the future, possible job applications, your future thesis… you will get hurt. Fear of rejection will just stop you and make you stagnate in your comfort zone.” He said as if the comfort zone was such a discomfort.

You decided to light another cigarette; your brain was not copiously supplied with nicotine enough to have a conversation about the future you fear. “Listen, Valarr, I appreciate the pep talk but you seriously cannot ask me to say those words again.”

“Whatever I said in the past when you said that, I am sorry. I was stressed with my family… and perhaps you are right about my cousins being obsessed with me… and then there’s also the midterms and I was drunk for once.”

“You’re going to lose your own mind if you keep trying to make me say it again.”

His voice was so soft you almost did not hear it. Inside your head you beat yourself up because for all the denials you went through, the slogan you have plastered on your brain whenever around Valarr, you still fell in love with him. And worst, you let an inebriated flurry of emotions catch up to your logic once and confess that you loved him even though he did not reciprocate during that time. “No, I will not lose my mind,” he said gently. “I just want to hear it. I want to hear you again and give you a proper reply.”

You kissed him again. You did not like how you felt whenever he goes at you all doe-eyed and soft voice; it makes you feel like you are the one in the wrong, like feeling wary for a possible doomed love is a fault that you should repent over. Are you really that hopeless? Or is he really that good at coaxing out emotions from you that you did not know were possible? Maybe you really are the one in the wrong. Or perhaps he was a mastermind in manipulation and you were too blind to see and he’s too pretty for people to be cautious of.

“I cannot say it again when I have already said it. Not because I do not want you to reciprocate but because it will not go the way I want to. You ask me if it's too much to ask for me to spend the summer with you and I ask you: is it too much to shield my heart?”

“Why would you need to shield your heart if I will protect it?”

“And how long will that protection last? We both agreed before we even had a connection that we only liked serious relationships. That we will only entertain serious relationships. Why we had that conversation? I forgot. But I digress. You see… We are not even serious now! Let me ask you something, what are we really? Are we dating? Friends with benefits? Fuck buddies? A situationship or whatever the fuck our generation calls casual, consensual, regular fucking is… We share every other night in your high-rise apartment. You call me sweet nicknames and we go out every weekend but if someone asks if we are a couple none of us answers anything remotely romantic to call what is between us. Is there really something?”

The silence settled between you like the lingering scent of tobacco. You felt heavier, even the deep inhale of your cheap, strong cigarette did not ease the weight that settled in your ribs. You continued, “Maybe you really are asking me too much.”

“Is loving me that much of a pressure? But the way you say it, I think I understand. I guess it is my fault for not giving you enough clarity about us.”

“Yes, you definitely should have,” you were feeling lethargic from your sudden outburst. You made a face before taking a long, deep, swallow of the cigarette. The smoke of your exhale bitter and crude like the emotions that misted your brain.

The sun painted on Valarr’s profile lovingly. Or was it your love that made him look more angelic than usual in your eyes?

In an odd way, you felt like you were trapping him with you, the way one would trap an evanescent, fleeing doe. Maybe you were just painting him in a light that shines too bright as you put him on a pedestal because everyone, including you, thinks he is perfect. You wondered if he also felt trapped when around you. You wished he did, that way he would leave you because you cannot leave the warmth he exudes.

“I want to understand you,” said Valarr. “I want to understand the pressure you feel from loving me. I want to understand why you act like spending the break with me at Summerhall will spell your doom. I want so many things that you do not seem to want even if we share the same feelings.”

You liked it. You liked what he said. Not because it is the reaction you want but because it gives you a certain wave of satisfaction to know that not only you felt complicated feelings. A sense of satisfaction that maybe he is not as perfect as you thought and you could reach him somehow; even for a moment. But you wished this was easier. You wished you were not partnered with Valarr in that one fucking general elective so you wouldn’t have ended up in this situation now, beating yourself up over things that happened and yet to happen, and just being in love in general. “I also want many things but I do not have the luxury to want them,” you told him.

“Tell me about it.”

It took too much effort to not kiss him again when you saw that sorry expression on his face. And of course you managed to fail. Sometimes you really got to start using the brain that got you those scholarships whenever you are around Valarr, because clearly, it’s not functioning properly.

“What can I do to make you agree to come?” he asked as you broke the kiss.

“I don’t know. But you can keep trying, you might convince me.”

Valarr reached awkwardly for your cigarette to take an inhale of the nicotine. “This shit really tastes bad no matter how much I try it.” He hands you back the cheap tobacco which you heartily took a breath of and blew on his face mockingly.

“Can you imagine the horror of smoking it?” you grinned. “Its flavor profile is too coarse and bitter it should not even be called tobacco. Must suck for people with such refined tastes. Truly a travesty if you ask me.” You shuddered mockingly. “If only the rich cared about the poor people who had to inhale this shit.”

Valarr makes a show of yanking the cigarette from your hand only to try it again with a stone face. “My father is doing his best to make things better.”

“I know. But what he’s doing would not just erase the class divide that your ancestors and fellow nobles have so carefully crafted.”

He sighed. “Is that what this is about? I told you, none of our family friends will say anything bad about you if you come with me to Summerhall. I will make sure of it.”

“Everything is about that Valarr. For a student leader who aligns himself with activists you should know that.”

“I know what you mean. But what I am saying is, it’s just for summer break, surely it would not harm you to come with me,” he gives you back the cigarette, the skin touching made the embers seem to ignite brighter.

“I thought you love me?”

“I do. And what does our social hierarchy have to do with my love exactly? Does it suddenly not exist because I’m… I don’t know… me?”

“You know Valarr, you are a really smart guy,” you said, staring at the half-smoked cigarette before taking a generous puff. “You are very diligent in your studies. You use your privilege well and for the good as far as I know. Sooo maybe… just maybe think about what you just said. Of course, our class difference matters. Sure, it does not erase your love… or mine. But it does matter. Think about it, if someone comes into your life, who is just like me that you once said makes you feel at ease, and she or he also happens to be from the same circles that you mostly spend your time with, wouldn’t you choose them?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. He was kissing you again and you could feel his lips mark yours with his warmth. He had swallowed the lingering smoke on your lips like he needed that haze on his own system. As if he was not complaining about its taste and had been coughing it out on his first few puffs.

“I wish I could share the positivity you so believe in,” you said, turning your head away to finish the cigarette.

“You should start believing in me and not just my skills.” He gently turns your head to kiss you again, tasting the smoke again, as if he could not get enough of you.

“I pride myself on being a logical person. It will only be natural for you to be drawn to someone you will always spend time with, which, as you can aptly observe, is why we are what we are right now.”

He laughed, a light laugh as bright as the sun. “Being romantic even for a moment will not spell your doom, just so you know. You should let yourself feel your emotions sometimes.”

You really wished what he said would hold through. Even if facts and patterns are stacking against your odds, you wish he really would choose you. Even if you came from different taste palettes. Him in his grand castle playing the dutiful prince eating caviar and whatever the fuck Westerosi nobles feast on, and you a peasant that would have been his servant if you did not have half the brain you have now, which is obvious with the difference in the smoke you share. “The fuck am I smoking for then?”

“Right. Because smoking is really healthy. And we should not quit it.”

“Just because you smoke your small and dainty fancy cigars does not make you different from me princeling. That’s our similarity. Nicotine addiction.”

“Fine. Will you go with me to Summerhall then?”

“No, it's still not summer break.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Know what?” you said standing up, cigarette forgotten beneath your heel. “Fuck it, sure.”

“Sweet. I’ll let my father know,” his voice was cheerful and as infectious as a disease. He took your hand, linking your fingers tightly. “We should grab lunch and review for the tests.”

“What for?”

“Finals.”

“Huh… forgot you are so perfect you do the whole ‘studying for exams a week before until the last hour before the exam’ thing,” you shrug.

He frowned before chuckling to himself and shaking his head, kissing your interlinked hands. The loop of his fingers was warm and convincing. But the weight in your body pulled you down, back into the dingy streets you grew up with to remind you that he is the crown and you are but a subject.

✿

Aerion finished his food.

He never quite did something like that ever since the two of you went to Lys for his exile. Whenever the two of you shared a meal, he never really ate all of it. Whenever it was his favorite meal, he would only eat half and then drown on wine more than he usually would.

The summer is ending, at least in Westeros.

Outdoors in Lys always throbbed with heat. It did not matter what the season was when the pulse of the skies was always a clear blue. With every cloud fluffy and white as soft snow and whirled by with the wind; it was beautiful. You felt like swimming on the coasts for hours; floating with the currents of the sapphire waters on the many pools of Lys; forgetting Aerion.

Actually, you were unsure if it was really Aerion you wanted to forget when he is your only tether to Westeros and by extent Prince Valarr. Somehow, you knew Aerion felt the same; but it did not stop surprising you (even if he did say he does not whore around anymore) that he did not partake in indulging with the lovely Lysene bed slaves.

Aerion however—as always ever since arriving at this paradise in Essos—had taken it to himself to always browse the male courtesans. Setting himself up for disappointment and failure, that you almost wanted to laugh at him if not the fact you also pitied his plight of trying to find a male bed slave with the same angelic face as the Young Prince. Sometimes you wished he would find someone, just so you would not be the tail end of his fantasies but oftentimes, your pride made you dread the possibility. Until last night you had enough of him driving you up the wall as he complains about their lack of acceptable courtesans when it was simply because he’s looking for a man as beautiful as his cousin. “For Seven’s sake,” you turned to him, infuriation palpable, it had been long since you raised your voice at him.

“What now?” your husband walked to you in large strides. “Were you not complaining last night that I had been taking away your autonomy by fucking you every night?”

“I did not say that Aerion,” you sighed deeply. “I said: can you at least give me a night for myself for getting fucked every damn night is not exactly as pleasurable for a woman as it is to a man.” You poured your own fill of his wine in your goblet.

Aerion let out a fabulous laugh: a wild, chaotic sound that echoed like a dragon’s roar with its loudness. His purple eyes were on fire. Anger, frustration, and dare you say, sadness reflected on it. But Aerion would rather burn down the entire city of Lys before admitting that. “You should be happy I vowed to fucking you instead of wenches.”

“A vow which you would have forgotten anyway,” you answered with as much venom as his own tone. “If you have found a courtesan you think has even a smidge of your cousin’s look—which you have not and I am sure never will. Which is why we are here clinging like each other’s personal leeches.”

The conversation ended like that last night. Aerion huffing, if he was a dragon as he claims he might have been huffing out smoke, in frustration. Despite that, you knew it will not change your fate from having to share the bed with your husband again and enduring the brutal fucking he so loves to give.

You could not even call warming Aerion’s bed as anything other than fucking for there never was love shared in your relationship.

You had gradually accepted it since after your marriage to him. Always fighting the flames he blew was burning you out. Quicker than you expected too as you were sure it only took one whole moon for you to just consent on whatever he had in store… or rather in bed. And since then, the two of you clung close together in your sameness like the same scales of a dragon—the love you share for a man who will never be yours, let alone his.

You peeled away from your husband and the blankets that covered you, walking to the adjoining room to check on the baby. Something you normally would not do.

The moonlight streamed very faintly through the windows. It caught on the locks of the infant’s hair, giving the silver strands a faint glimmer. Miniature of a creature the baby was. You held out your hand, catching a patch of your son’s hair, caressing it softly.

Sometimes, every afternoon to evening, you forget the child exists even if he has been with you for the past two years. 

You wondered if the feeling of distance was because your son was a seed from Aerion.

The name of your son with your husband was Lucerys Targaryen. For you would not allow your husband to name the little one as Maegor; as you would believe that would curse your son into the same cruelty as the king from the past and your husband. Besides, who in their right mind would name a child after a tyrant? Obviously, Aerion, but then again, he is never in his right mind.

He slept soundly.

If he was not snoring you would have believed he was dead for he did not weep nor woke up as all babies would.

How strange, you thought. Your mother had told you that children often wake in the middle of the night to cry for food or wish for a warm embrace, no matter their age.

Below your palm, little Lucerys stirred. 

Some sort of blessing he was.

“Good morrow wife,” Aerion greeted when morning came.

You startled from where you were covered in your blankets, wondering when did Aerion even greet you in the morning… with such a nice disposition too.

“The rest of our things have been packed for the sail,” said Aerion, dressing up in a golden doublet. “But I did ask the servants to leave a proper dress for you to wear after your bath.”

You leaned your head forward in confusion, for both the sudden ‘sail’ and his niceness. Aerion is never nice and never thoughtful and you would be a fool to think he thinks of you differently just because of how he is acting now.

“Don’t do that,” your husband said, looking at you with an unimpressed expression. “What you should do is bathe and get dressed unless you wish to stay here in Lys. Not that I will hold it against you but I would not know what to tell your lord father and lady mother…. maybe I will simply tell them you enjoyed the bed slaves too much to come home.”

Immediately, a scowl painted over your face at his words. The audacity of the damned handsome beast, as if you were the one always visiting pillow houses to look for the face of the man you both love. “And where are we going?” you asked.

As you stood up from your bed, you rubbed your forehead. It made no sense for any of you to leave Lys, especially not Aerion when this is his damn exile that you just had to suffer with as he had ordered you to come with him and you were keen on playing the dutiful wife lest your lord father brings up in his letters that you are acting like a savage for not being ‘loyal’ to your husband.

It had not even been a full couple years yet for you to leave.

Or maybe it was one of his whims. And the world be damned if someone does not agree to the maggot that festers on the dragon’s brain. Which as of today meant disobeying his father—which in itself is unusual as Aerion no matter how wild as an untamed dragon he is, loved his father’s approval too much to just defy the exile he imposed.

You blinked your eyes at him.

Aerion’s face was clean shaven; he always is but this time it seemed he took an extra step to ensure that his handsomeness shines through the scales of cruelty he wore. Blind them with your looks is probably your husband’s motto. Not that you ever had a heartfelt conversation with him to know.

You walked to the baths barefoot and on the way, you took a peek at your son’s room. He was not there anymore, you suppose Aerion had already had the nursemaid bathe and dress your son ready for this supposed trip. Which you assume (assumption is a common occurrence when being married to Aerion as the only thing he can fluently speak other than the common tongue and High Valyrian is blood, bones, and sex—never emotions) is back to Westeros for where else would he go?

Aerion, despite the two of you not exactly seeing eye to eye and only body to body, was a man quite easily understood. He is what he claims. A dragon. Beautiful, grand, strong, and burns down everything within his atmosphere. But this decision? You definitely did not understand him at all.

You took a turn and finally ended up in the baths, already ready for your use and to your own liking. Milk, soft and cloudy with the scented oil of orris root, a tenacious fragrance of powder and florals. A contrast to your husband’s taste of a mild and slightly sweet rosewater bath that happened to also be a contrast to the smoldering heat called his personality. You dipped yourself to the liquid filling the tub.

The milk on the tub was scorching.

You almost yelped as the milk sizzled your skin—were they planning to turn you to a milk stew or something?—had it not been for the fact that you were still thinking about Aerion. And that your mind drifted to picturing him in this bathtub; there really was not much of an imagining done when you have already seen him bathing many a times in this exact pool and even ended up full of his hot seed afterwards. He liked his baths like this. Scorching. And you hated it when he would pull you in the water with him, not caring that the almost boiling temperature caused you discomfort, and kiss your neck as if he loved you all the while singing the name of his cousin with such heated veneration. 

You hated that you felt a nauseating warmth pool in your womb whenever Aerion would look at you with those purple eyes that reminded you of Prince Valarr. You hated that you loved hearing him talk filthy about you, comparing you to his cousin as if anyone could compare to Valarr-fucking-Targaryen, the ideal prince, Prince Baelor Breakspear’s cherished perfect son, and more. You hated that you always stoop as low as him despite vowing you would never. Letting him use you to feed his fantasies as he also (unfortunately) feeds yours.

You should not even be thinking about it. Not now. What you should have been thinking about according to the sane part of your mind was why in all of the Seven gods and other gods that exist in this beautiful and cruel world did your husband suddenly decide to dispute the exile his father imposed. That is what you should be thinking about. Not how his cock crammed inside your walls last night, filling your womb with his hot cum as he whispered his secret unrealities of making love to someone else, snatching your hair to pull on you as he hammered inside you from behind, crushing your windpipe as every stroke of his length had you fantasize the very same person he is fantasizing about.

Everybody but you were already dressed to set sail on the next coming hour, the slave serving you was already hurrying to help you dress and look presentable for your husband lest Aerion raises his hand for her ‘incompetence’. The dress you were being wrapped on were Myrish fabrics but fashioned in a Westerosi style, the color was of heavy reds with trims of pitch black, probably something Aerion had picked up on his many walks around Lys and had wanted you to wear to remind you that you are owned like a trinket on a dragon’s hoard.

“Finished?” you hear Aerion call from the hallways, his footsteps loud like a bad omen. You would not want the poor slave to be harmed just because your husband decided they were not fast enough with dressing you. And there was also the possibility that Aerion will yak about you not having a sense of time. “Well? Not done yet wife?” he asked wearily as if it was not only the seventh hour in the morning, looking jaded as if you have ruined all his plans in life. In Aerion’s humble opinion, you might have as well. He patted his white-blonde hair, which was as neat as if it was crafted masterfully by Myrish artisans then put on top of his head. Judging him, you have approximately ten more minutes before his patience starts to wane. And for the good of everyone, you hope he is in a good mood and not set you and the slave aflame for testing his (limited) patience. “At least you look good in that, it would have been a shame if not,” he comments as he stops on the bedside to watch you being dressed.

Everyone turned their head to look at the prince. He just had that kind of presence. Some would say it's imposing but maybe they are just flattering his scales. For you it is rather because he seems to have flown down haphazardly like a dragon, ruining an atmosphere of peace the moment they land.

“I did not know you had bought something like this; the handiwork is phenomenal. It is beautiful. Are you in the mood for gratitude or you would think that if I thank you that is me imposing myself on you in which you think that I think I am special in your royal heart?” you asked. “Either way it made me beautiful so I thank you.” The fabric did make you glow, even if it was meant to show your husband’s ownership. The black trimming made your complexion flawless and the red had hidden the pallor in your mood, making you look rosy.

“You’re welcome, wife.”

You paused from where you were lacing the silver strings of your bracelet. He is in a good mood. You obviously knew that when he greeted you so kindly this morning without making a snide comment of how late you rose that it was too good to be true. Whatever it is, the reason for Aerion’s brightness was the same reason you are both coming back to Westeros earlier than anticipated. You had the mind to ask it but you are sure it has something to do with Prince Valarr.

˖᯽ ݁˖

Lucerys seemed to be at home even as the ship rocks back and forth. In fact, the little boy was running around the deck all the while you, his mother, felt like you would get sick from the motion. “Aerion, I do not feel well, look after Lucerys.”

Your husband did not smile. In a strange voice he said, “Very well. Try not to make yourself worse.”

You walked to nearby handrail to steady yourself, your eyes following your son, right behind him was your husband. You did not expect your husband to be quite the attentive father, you wondered if it was his fondness for his own father that made him that way despite his heart being burnt to the very core, or something else. But then again for a man who seemed to live and breathe all about his House’s glory, you suppose it would make sense he would want to see the product of the daily breeding he had subjected you to. “Make sure he does not get too close to the edge. He’s still too small and he might fall over.”

“Do not make me a fool, wife,” Aerion said sternly, even if he did not look at you, you knew his brows furrowed and his gaze sharpened. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Huh… I did not take you the kind to be understanding of children. Though I suppose that is a small mercy,” you comment, tapping your fingers on the rail. “Not that I am complaining,” you add when he turns to you like a spurned beast. “In fact I am quite proud. Which of course you do not care about if I felt that way.”

“Can you stop blabbering and postulating about what I feel, wife?” Aerion’s scowl made him look scary. “You are right of course, but I do not appreciate your words.”

“Remind me again why you are blatantly disregarding the exile Prince Maekar had imposed on you?” you decided to ask. “You never quite told me.”

It took Aerion several seconds before he replied as if he did not have the heart to tell you the reason or perhaps was keeping it a secret. “Valarr is to be crowned the coming moon,” he replied. He looked at the horizon, as if the skies would help them reach Westeros faster and he would be able to see his cousin again. You would have commented about his strangeness if not your own heart was leaping in joy for the Young Prince—not that you are happy King Daeron and Prince Baelor died of course.

“What wonderful news,” you said wistfully, “I was scared for him when we received the letter from King’s Landing that he had fallen ill. Did they not say he is almost at his deathbed? Well, either way it is good news.”

(If you and Aerion fucked each other out of agony and frustration about Valarr’s situation when that letter was received, it was a secret you two will keep until the very end of your life.)

“He is a stubborn creature who would beat the odds,” said Aerion as if the word stubborn is commonly associated with such a beautiful and elusive creature like the Young Prince. You suppose he had a point, if there was anyone who would endeavor great distances to defy fate, it might be Prince Valarr. Or perhaps it was only because both you and your husband are but fools in the game of love in which your prize is not even someone who can be with you, and frankly, you doubted that the prince would even bat his pretty lashes on either you or your husband. “Now, does that answer your query?” he asked this time. “Or shall I hear more about your endless chatter?”

“What do you want me to do?” you countered as you have been slowly deflating on the handrail. “It is not like I can entertain myself by moving around the ship like you and our son.”

“You are a hopeless woman if you cannot even properly stand on a ship, this is your second time,” he scowled.

“Well I still feel sick whenever we board a ship, can you blame me?” you huffed to him.

“Yes. It is a testament that you are not the right bride for a dragon like me. I am frankly surprised you even bore Lucerys healthily.” 

The never of your husband never fails to impress you.

And here they say dragons do not exist anymore. Aerion is right there breathing and existing—a dragon in the way that everything about him is disruptive, face to personality.

˖᯽ ݁˖

Stars shimmering on the night sky in Summerhall looked like the glittering pearls sold in Lys. The castle was big just as you remember, but you feel like you got smaller. The moment you and Aerion came back, the walls of the castle, though once clear of noises if not a little lonely, was now filled by the whole lot of Aerion’s voice and your son’s.

You walked through the halls hearing the staff muttering about the sudden clearing of the weather when there had been a torrential downpour just during the morning to early afternoon that had disrupted the routine of the servants. You glanced outside the open window of the castle and looked up to the starlights. They flickered brilliantly as there were no clouds in sight. After a dinner of roasted meats and a slice of cream cake you strolled in a heavy cloak down the garden that is always maintained splendidly. You can see the dedicated craftsmanship the gardeners have put in ensuring the garden’s beauty even under the dim light of the stars.

Lately, you often feel as if you are far away, particularly when you are around your family. Maybe it was because of your son. Perhaps it is because of your husband who had no problem, nor see any consequences about voicing his blatant dislike for the child whenever it is just you two. Right now, even if you feel happy whenever around your son, you do not feel any love for the child, not even if your mind chastises you for not feeling anything towards someone you bore for nine whole moons that had your health in a bumpy voyage of ups and downs and then stable once more. Nor did you feel any kindred to the loathing your husband felt inside his heart (if he had one that is) for your child. At the same time, however, you understand what made him feel that way.

When you were bearing Lucerys, you had no idea who and where to pray to, other than hope that it would be a boy as that is what Aerion would want. It would not have mattered to you, but you did not want an eldest (and hopefully the only one created between you and Aerion) child that will be ignored by their father. On some days, you prayed the infant would be born with all the Targaryen markings as that would satisfy your husband and you would rather not hear whatever insult he manages to think of if the child you bear did not look Targaryen enough. On other days, you wished that the baby would be born with the same color as your hair and eyes so you would not be staring back at the man you loathed when looking at them.

You suppose it is the strange case of your son that truly distanced you and Aerion from Lucerys. It was not exactly odd but it has only been recorded sporadically and never under the House Targaryen. Anyone born with the signature Targaryen silver and purple always retains those colors until the very day they die. But that was not the case with Lucerys. When he turned one, some of of his hair took a darker turn—literally. Half of the locks started to lose its silver over time, transforming into the color of your hair, leaving only streaks of silver by the time there are only a few moons left of Aerion’s (and by extension as you had to come with him also your) exile. Then there was the issue with your son's eyes. The more he grows, one of his eyes starts to darken in color into a Martell brown.

Back then you were worried that Aerion would act out his displeasure to the child and raise his hand on him or worse, stop any semblance of affection to the boy (and knowing his family history and mostly him, being spurned as a child would not end well—funny how Aerion had two loving parents but still ended up like that). But all that worry was unfounded as Aerion all ever did was share his distaste about your son when both of you are alone.

Small mercies.

Lucerys was a beautiful boy with a happy smile and a laugh that brightens the whole room. Your father-in-law, Prince Maekar, despite all his sternness, was fond of the little boy, now almost three. Lucerys learned how to walk when you and Aerion were still at Lys and easily did the little tyke learned to run. But at the same time, you held little connection for the child and you keep beating yourself over that. You loved Lucerys. Yes you do. And you will ensure your son would be raised properly and with pedigree—but that’s all there is to it.

Your son adored mischief at the ‘ripe’ age of two, oftentimes, you would find the boy running around the halls when left to the nursemaid for even a second, how he was able to slip away from the servant, you wish to find out soon enough. Thankfully, whenever that would happen Aerion was not around for gods knew what might happen to the poor nursemaid if your husband learned that Lucerys finds a way to escape her.

Diya, you kept reminding yourself of the nursemaid’s name (it is only courtesy when she has been loyally serving you since she was employed on your time at Lys with Aerion), had a roll of bathing towel on her arms as she tried to catch the little boy who already had a surge of energy after eating.

The infant’s giggle rang out the walls of Summerhall. Meanwhile, everyone was in the dining hall to break the fast. “How old is Lucerys again?” Prince Daeron asked, surprisingly wide awake at such wee hours of the morning.

“He will be turning three this coming winter,” you answered.

“Tykes sure grow up fast. I swear he was only an armful when you and Aerion came back here,” the older prince said. He was about to reach for a goblet of wine when Prince Maekar stopped his hand. Daeron sank back to his chair and opted to just get a sausage.

“I agree. Back then he cannot outrun the nursemaid,” you note.

“Well, the servant better reign him in as we will need to get a move on early. I am starting to think she sees taking care of my son as a game.”

Your face contorted into a mix of exasperation and frown as you turned to your husband. You considered whether to chastise him in front of his father; not that Prince Maekar will stop it as you are his son's wife. You shuddered, imagining what fate would lie for Diya if Aerion decided that she was not doing her job well enough. “Well, she cannot just dunk Lucerys into the bath can she? I am sure if she does that and our child comes crying you will have her punished.”

“That I would,” he nods sagely.

“Then let her do her duty,” you drew a breath. “Lucerys is quite a handful and she is doing her best.”

“I did not say I will not let her.”

“No, but you threatened her.”

“She’s a slave, wife.”

“In Lys. Not here.”

“That does not change who she is.” You looked at him, sparks of his flame threatening to spill from his lips that made his handsome yet severe face almost scary. Almost. If not for the fact you have been married to Aerion for years now you might have excused yourself and hid until his expression calmed down. 

Daeron shifted uncomfortably from where he sat, downing a larger bite of the sausage to make his attention turn away. Probably to erase the cruelty that painted Aerion’s beautiful face from his brain. Prince Maekar looked at his son with a heavy gaze.

“Perhaps you should bathe Lucerys then if you are concerned of the nursemaid not doing her job properly,” you challenged.

“Fine,” he said with that infuriatingly arrogant tone and left the table.

“You still—you do not even know how to—” your hand flew to slap your forehead as you did not expect him to rise to the challenge and tried to call him back. “Never mind. Good luck, husband.”

“I am sorry about Aerion. I would not claim to know what is going on in my brother’s mind but I wish you would forgive him. I know I have always told you this but Aerion was never like that, he was once a glad child.”

“So you have said a lot of times indeed, my prince,” you replied to the older prince as you continued eating. “You do not need to ask for his forgiveness. If Aerion was ever sorry, I am sure he will have it known.”

There was a silence as each side debated whether to let the strained conversation continue, anything Aerion-related has always been a topic as sore as a burn, be it his attitude that often leaves fire in its wake or his actions that razes the atmosphere he walks in.

“I am sorry.”

“I am surprised you were able to bathe him,” you said as you entered the nursery where Aerion had deposited Lucerys to Diya’s arms to get dressed.

“Do you doubt my skills, wife?”

“No. But I doubt your ability to take care of children.”

“I was the one who had to oversee my son while we were sailing back and a couple days more after as you had been seasick,” he points out.

Your head tilted forward instinctively in questioning, “And?”

Aerion clicked his tongue and stormed away.

˖᯽ ݁˖

Aerion and you sat side by side as the retinue paused for a luncheon on a meadow. It has been a few days since the start of the journey to King’s Landing for Prince Valarr’s coronation. Prince Daeron was across from his brother; meanwhile their father, Prince Maekar was gods knew where, probably gathering his wits to ensure his sons would somehow make a good impression when they arrived at Red Keep.

“He makes me sick,” Aerion said, eyes straight onto his son, with such fire that your eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

“He’s your son Aerion, you should not be saying that to an innocent child that is your own blood,” you chastised as if that would change his feelings or even make him remorseful when it does not even change your own. “Do not even tell that to any child, at all,” you say as you lean back to the rest of your chair, nursing a goblet of wine with sweet Arbor red as the nursemaid takes care of Lucerys. Thankfully, your son was far away enough not to hear his father. You do not understand what came over Aerion’s fucked up head to say such things. And then again, the point stands. He is fucked in the head.

You knew you were a hypocrite for telling that to Aerion when you also feel distant to Lucerys. In fact, the both of you are the same, showing smiles and sweetness to your son when he comes over looking for his parents’ love and then forget he exists the next second he left. But at least, you tried to rationalize, you do not show outwardly your indifference. Meanwhile Aerion announces his dislike for Lucerys around people he believes close enough.

Ruefully you thought about your own feelings, or lack of it, about your own son.

The guilt always weighs you whenever you are reminded of Aerion’s own feelings. And in those moments of guilt, you would also remember how you felt when you first saw Lucerys.

When your child was finally out of your womb after laborious hours, the sun was already setting and the colors of the blue sky turned into a beautiful lilac hue like one of Prince Valarr’s eyes, and the rosy pinks and oranges too, blazing a burnt yellow hue on the labor room, calming your nerves from being frayed with the pain of childbirth. The midwife happily announced the baby as a boy, raising the weeping infant into your arms and you could not help but form a relieved smile.

The Lysene sunset made the tuft of Targaryen silver-blonde locks on your son look almost white and aglow. And when he opened his eyes for the first time, your newborn looked at you with an utter delight on those deep purple eyes. The babe stopped crying when he saw you, as if he knew you were his mother and despite the feelings of doubt after seeing that the boy inherited all your husband’s colors, you could not help but soften. You took him in your arms and for the first time, he made a glad giggle and then just for that moment your heart felt at peace.

“I had an epiphany. Lucerys has two colors on his hair and also two different eye colors...” Prince Daeron suddenly said despite his unease a moment ago, his voice already buzzed thus it is probably the alcohol giving him the strength to speak amidst the awkwardness he felt. “... a chimera... like Valarr.”

You and Aerion laughed so loud it hurts your stomach.

That was the problem was it not? That for all the love in the world you and your husband given Prince Valarr for free, the son you and your husband had created looked like the man of your dreams.

You wondered if it was the gods taking pity of you and your husband's terribly terrible marriage that the divine decided to intervene by giving you an amalgamation of the different ways of love you and Aerion felt for the Young Prince.

Aerion pulled his horse to the side again, belching violently on the side of the road. He grimaced at seeing the clear acid that rose up from his throat and decided to spill over. It was unlike Aerion, and everyone in the retinue looked at the cruel prince with reluctant concern as he had been hurling every now and then on mornings and evenings as if he is about to keel over. They did not know the reason why the prince was feeling unwell, the Great Spring Sickness had already passed thus it cannot possibly be the reason, especially as he spent the past couple of years with you on Lys while the plague ravaged Westeros and almost took the life of their Crown Prince. Prince Daeron stopped slouching on his horse to stop by his brother.

“Are you well?”

“I am well enough.”

“Aerion. You have been vomiting every now and then every morning whenever we resume our travels to King’s Landing.”

“Who knows brother, maybe it’s nerves.”

“Nerves? I thought… Never mind, I understand. But surely meeting him again cannot be that bad to have you vomiting like a pregnant maid.”

“Who said it was about Valarr?”

“Since when was it not about Valarr?”

“Maybe it is not about him now.”

“I doubt. Your eyes still sparkle whenever his name is spoken and it is not like I have named who is the him I am talking about.”

Aerion huffed, an almost unflattering sound from a grown prince, and not a word was exchanged between two brothers for a while. Aerion settled back on his warhorse, a pretty beast with piebald coloring, the distinct black and white a stark difference from his bright, blood red riding garments. Daeron knew he should not come up with any more comments about his brother’s anxiety of meeting the other prince again after so long, as he may be on the end of Aerion’s scathing remarks or sharp insults, neither a good way to hang with his brother right after his couple years of exile. Only a few minutes had passed but it felt quite long, and the exchange between two brothers seemed to have clouded over their mood. Not that Aerion has been in a good mood in a long time.

“Should we check on the prince, my lady?” asked Diya, leaning out to the window to look at the hurling prince being conversed to by his brother. 

“It is no use,” you remarked thoughtfully as you watched him puke his guts out from the window of the carriage, “but if it will ease your mind, you can go check on the prince. I am sure it would do him comfort to have a woman’s hands on his back at the moment.”

Your words made Diya retract back to her seat in silence. You wondered if the way you have said it may have come out sounding jealous or stern to have her diminish to the shadows of the carriage. It was not like you were worried about your pride with the possibility that your husband had been secretly bedding the Lyseni servant. Though in all honesty, you knew that he’d rather pay male whores to fantasize about Valarr than touch a woman other than you (not because he had some semblance of love in his bone but rather, he mostly feels disgusted at having to touch someone else that did not know of his otherwise sick fantasies; and the ladies tattle, or so Aerion says).

“How far shall we go today according to the prince, ser?” you asked a knight riding beside the carriage, opening the window of the carriage.

“We will pass the night in an inn before reaching the last leg of the Roseroad, if all goes well, my lady,” replied the knight. “Do you have any concerns I should pass along to the princes?”

“None. Thank you, Ser.”

˖᯽ ݁˖

The retinue arrived earlier than expected, a good three days before Prince Valarr’s coronation. Lucerys was gesturing to Aerion’s arms the moment the boy saw his father. Unsurprisingly, Aerion plastered a (fake) charming smile to show his son and hauled him to his arms the moment after he unmounted his horse.

The younger prince, Prince Matarys was out waiting for the retinue, his bright hair well-combed and sleek under the morning light. The princeling was an adorable thing with an endearing aura about him, a contrast to his older brother’s aloof charm. “Well, hello little one! Aren’t you a dear thing,” Matarys cooed at Lucerys who was in Aerion's arms. Your son giggled at the sweet tone of the prince.

You wondered how it looked for the people around, seeing Aerion with a child in his arms that is. On top of that, even entertaining the sweet things that came out from his sweet little cousin’s mouth in relation to the said child in his arms. It probably looked out of place as the things that suited your husband the most are ashes and gore. Very draconic of him if you do say so yourself. 

“Where is your brother?” Prince Maekar asked Matarys.

“He is occupied until late afternoon, and perhaps until evening, uncle,” Matarys answered.

Prince Valarr was as beautiful as you and Aerion remembered… but there is something severe about him now… it made him look more serious; it was a majestic look; the purple of his eyes seemed cooler… colder, the blue specks on his irises that always reminded you of the morning sky had now dimmed that all that was left was the Targaryen purple.

“Where’s your son?” the crown prince had asked Aerion as the dragon house dined together for supper.

“He is already fast asleep; he is too young to stay up later than early evening.” Aerion answered. Sometimes he surprises you with how thoughtful he seemed when talking about Lucerys. Though Aerion has always been good at acting proper and polite even if he was not in reality.

“Lys have changed you.”

“Did it now?” Aerion drew a breath and whispered as soft as smoke. “Maybe Lys did not change me and just the distance.”

“I did not take you to be the type to be homesick, cousin.”

“They say home is a person.”

Prince Valarr’s two-color eyes trained to look at Aerion curiously as your husband’s tone held such an unusual quality that did not even suit his image, even the one that was a charming facade.

Daeron flinched at his brother’s words. The others, you and Prince Maekar, made a noise. Yours a squeak you covered by stuffing your mouth with a slice of roast meat unelegantly and your father-in-law grunting on the rim of his goblet. Aerion’s misguided affections —according to Daeron and Prince Maekar that is what it was—is a common knowledge to the royals of Summerhall after all. To you however, what Aerion felt for his cousin can be described in one simple word: obsession. It was not some eristical passion borne out of Aerion’s jealousy or rivalry with Prince Valarr. It was mania. Plain and simple.

Not that you were any better. Sure you were not grossly obsessed with Prince Valarr like your husband but your infatuation to him never quite faded. For if it did, why did the distance between your rationality of knowing you should love your son and your growing indifference ever since Lucerys was slowly turning to look like him continued to fester like a clawed out wound?

In separate chairs, you and Aerion held each other’s eyes in the most unromantic way a husband and wife would ever share.

“Please, and here I thought your dragon delusions are the only thing you like being foolish about,” you said, rubbing circles on the side of your head. “It was an innocentconversation, Aerion. The prince does not see whatever you see. Whatever we see.”

“I think there is a problem in your cognition then, wife,” the dragon called Aerion growled. “Can you not see the way he looked at me?”

“He was wondering about your tone,” you counter, trying to snap him out of his delusions of grandeur. For what is more grand than wanting to approach and confess to your cousin (Who is married by the way!) who you used to have a rivalry with a couple of days before his coronation? “His curiosity about what your words truly mean is not consent.”

“Is this your jealousy talking?” you swore Aerion’s pupils turned into dangerous slits like that of a reptile… or dragon for Seven forbid you did not liken him to one, when he said those words.

“No! I am saving you from humiliation!” A heavy puff of air blew out from your mouth in frustration.

Something in his gaze shifted. Old times. You did not like the flames of lust starting to cloud his eyes. Not when you both were debating about Prince Valarr. Any bedding done whenever after or in the middle of talking about the crown prince was always more brutal than usual.

“No,” you decided to disagree this time. You have always humored his needs but you would not let that happen today. “We will not be doing anything in bed until you are in your right mind and not deluding yourself that you have a chance.”

Your husband giggled darkly and then took your wrists from the armrests. He pulled you up roughly, grinning down on you. “Have faith,” said Aerion reproachfully.

“Have faith in what exactly?” you glared at him.

“In me, my chances… or maybe the possibility of humiliation,” he answered without answering because none of his words made sense.

Sometimes you think the exile Aerion was subjected to was not a good thing as it made you and him cling together to your sameness like scales to a dragon.

This similarity you clung onto… this similarity he clings onto… made you tolerant of his actions. It also made you see Aerion as human and not as a dragon that was born from the wrong seed, that he is just as pathetic as you because of your sameness. It also made you more confident to answer him back and be able to say no. One would agree that the ability to say no is a good thing, but it is never good to face a dragon that can break you whole and answer it with no.

“You do not know one thing about humiliation, wife.”

“I am married to you, that in itself is a humiliation.”

A smack sounded loud and clear and you felt your cheek burn. “I told you before and I will tell you again, just because I allow you to talk does not mean you should. You are forgetting yourself, wife.”

Raising your hand back you hit Aerion’s chest as hard as you can. “Bastard!” you yelled.

“Come on, dear.” He grinned, all sharp teeth and even sharper gaze. He would look even more beautiful now if his teeth were bloodied, you thought. Seven… he really is rubbing into you isn’t he? “Do not act as if it is my first time marking that pretty face.”

“Oh yes, because slapping your wife for trying to snap you out of your delusions is truly acceptable.”

“It is not delusion, wife,” said your husband as if you were the one in the wrong. “My darling girl… Do you really doubt my desirability that much?” The affectionate nickname made you cringe and leave the taste of ash on your tongue. You were sure it showed in your face as you felt the muscles of your cheeks pull while making Aerion’s grin stretch wider. You wanted to slap him back, to make him feel the sting of a raised hand of the person supposed to stand by your side through thick and thin.

“Like you doubt mine, husband,” you said, keeping your voice firm. “I am going to need you to clear your head for once. Clearly you are not taking the consequences of your actions seriously.”

“I am starting to believe that you love me, wife.”

“Delusional,” you hissed once more.

“I think you trying to pick a fight with me is like a little girl poking sticks at a dragon to get its attention.”

“I am not picking a fight with you.”

“Of course not, fights need to be equal to be qualified as one.”

“Right. Because the puppeteers in Ashford years ago is totally your equal,” you snorted.

Aerion’s grip fell from your wrist and he started circling around you like a dragon on the hunt.

It seemed to you that your husband’s knuckles tightened and whitened. Aerion spoke again, “You seem very enthused on keeping my attentions on you.” 

“The gall of you. I am not as indifferent to you as you are to me; unlike you, I care.”

“Like you care about our son? Lucerys?” he asked with an amused tone.

“What are you trying to say here Aerion? Have I done anything untoward to our son?”

“Oh, you adorable liar, we are not in love as you so say, but I am not blind.”

“Clearly not blind but absolutely delusional… to the core.”

“You are not so different from me,” Aerion said, pressing a gentle kiss on your lips as if he did not slap you a moment ago. “You see him when you look at our son and you hate that.”

You felt like you were led to an execution with the knowing look that burns on the deep purple irises of your husband. “It is different,” you said.

The prince laughed. “Oh my poor poor unhappy wife, you are not only a bad liar but you are also bad at convincing your own self. The very least you could do if you love denying your own hatred to our son is make yourself believe you do not.”

“I do not hate Lucerys. Whatever I feel is only the lack of connection, not whatever you imply,” you said.

Your husband turned around, his eyes landing on the bed and then started to walk towards it. “Do not be ridiculous, wife. Now let’s get you a good fucking, maybe that will clear your delusions. And let us say that it is not really hatred, how do you think will it look when our son grows? Is it not you who preaches that a parent shall love their child unconditionally? Or have you forgotten that ever since Lucerys turned different.”

“You really have no right to speak about that when you make your hatred known,” you remarked.

Aerion was fluffing the pillows for comfort later. “You know,” he started, “at the very least people think I am doing everything for our son.” 

“Only because you are a terrible person, Aerion,” you sneered. “That every semblance of affection you show to the public is applauded because it is alien. People just think you have softened in your time of exile. You did not. You are the same man with fire for a heart… beautiful yes, but fires still burn everything it touches.”

Aerion stared at you.

“I am glad you think I am a dragon, wife.”

“That was not the point I am trying to make!”

“Quit your blubbering and come here,” he said, patting down the bed. “Or should I make you?”

You turned slowly, looking around the room as if that would help your decision.

“Now,” he hummed in a scolding manner. “Come here and use your mouth for good since you so want me to keep my attention to you alone.”

“That is not what I said. I said: you are delusional.”

“And I said come.”

It was an order. A roar. Indisputable. 

You found your legs moving by itself, dragging you to his flame. 

“Kneel.”

“Why should I?”

When you did not kneel as he asked, he grabbed the top of your head to push you down to your knees. “Better,” he said, swiping a thumb on your lower lips, pushing the finger in for you to suck. You would say you were reluctant but your mouth instinctively sucked around the digit, your eyes closing as if savouring the bitter taste of ash and saltiness of his skin. 

His other hand started undoing his breeches until his cock popped out, still limp. He pushed his thumb further in, his other fingers gripping on your chin to make your mouth open wider. With your mouth parted, his hold turned tighter. “Do not dare to bite this time or I will cut you up like before.”

You take a deep breath and take his length the best that you can… which is not much since he was long and you were not exactly trained for this like the whores he used to spend his nights with. Your cheeks, now red, puffed out, brows tight in concentration as you started sucking.

“How are you so bad at this after being married to me for years?” he let out an incredulous laugh. Mocking you. He is mocking you.

You glared harshly from underneath him, pulling your mouth away with an audible pop. “Then buy a whore to suck your royal prick.”

“Nonsense, you are already here.”

You clicked your tongue in annoyance at the implication of his words. Once again, the audacity of your husband never ceases to leave you in wonderment. You felt his hand clasp snug and painful on the back of your head, forcing you down on his cock. The immediate response of your body was to gag, tears making their way on the corner of your eyes from the crude manhandling. The musky scent of your husband’s manhood filled your brain with thoughts you should not think about. Making you enjoy the roughness to an extent, a warmth flooding your core as Aerion disgustingly used your mouth for his pleasure.

You were struggling not to choke, tears thankfully not shedding yet, as his long cock smacked into the roof of your mouth and the back of your throat. Lips and cheeks red, tongue flat as you tasted every vein around him, saliva started to drip down from your mouth as your moans vibrated and stifled on his member.

He snatched the locks of your hair on the back of your head, pulling and tugging to tilt your face on an angle that will have you swallow him whole until the very base. Every bob of your head, every drip of saliva dribbling down, made your eyes water and turn your thoughts into a mush of lewd fantasy.

A knock came, making your husband pause. You whined on his manhood as he kept your head still. The action flattened your nose to the base of his cock, inhaling all the afterscents.

“Aerion?” It was Prince Daeron.

Aerion surged his hips forward, the length stuffing deeper into your throat. “What?”  

“Are you…” you could hear the older prince pace in front of your door even at the lightheaded buzz the scent of Aerion’s manhood and face-fucking left you. “Can you join me and Valarr for a drink? We are planning to play cyvasse and I need you to help me beat him.”

“You should have started with that brother,” Aerion called from inside, pulling his cock out of your mouth harshly—now you are making deep inhales for air at the sudden lack of contact. He looks down at you with a good-natured smile, wiping your lips. Leaning down his lips pressed on the lobe of your ear and whispered, his smirk tactile. “Be good and ready when I come back.”

Aerion stands up then pats your cheek patronizingly, “And make sure to check on Lucerys.” With that he walked out the room and you could hear him talking with his brother.

You fell from where you were stiffly kneeling.

⋆

You are what one might simply call a nonbeliever. Generally neither the old gods or new come up in your mind since you were nearing adolescence, and as a fundamental rule you never pray even when it is expected of a lady of your status, not even to the Mother nor the Maiden. Perhaps that is why that day has been remarkable among the other days that passed you by. That was the day you woke up so early despite not having more than five hours of sleep after finishing a whole book about the history of Qohor, a handmaiden that you are sure you are not personally acquainted with arrived at your chambers, asking for you to go to the sept.

It was a boring morning along with the other boring mornings you have counted in almost nineteen to twenty or more years of your life. From out of nowhere a knock startled you awake from where you were sleepily breaking your fast.

“My lady, is the lady already awake?”

Feeling as if you got slapped into the waking moment, you removed the bread in your mouth. “Come in,” you answered.

“A pleasant morrow, my lady. I was asked by Lady Kiera to fetch you,” the handmaiden bows politely, her smile was so exuberant it blinded you. You almost had the brilliant idea to fall asleep once more just to not look at the whites of her teeth. But for propriety’s sake and the fact you have already invited her inside your chambers, you gathered the strength to face her head on. Your attendant gestured for the handmaiden to sit down, pouring her a cup of tea.

Picking up the bread once more, you found yourself trying to remember what she had said, munching thoughtfully. The feeling of being forced out of your slow and sleepy morning had your consciousness floating away.

“Greetings,” you just said, still unable to register the thing she has said.

“A wonderful morning,” the handmaiden greets once more. Then with a quizzical look, she asked. “Did I disturb you, my lady? I apologize if I bothered you.”

“Nay… nay it is fine. ‘Tis merely I am always unproductive at early hours. What was it you were here for again?”

“Lady Kiera has asked for you,” the handmaiden answered, graciously lifting the teacup offered to her to have a sip.

“Lady Kiera? Prince Valarr’s wife?” you asked to ensure you have heard it right, you were not exactly acquainted with the Tyroshi lady after all.

“Yes, yes, indeed,” the handmaiden nods, pleased, “She has asked me to come to you and fetch you… if you only wish of course. As one of the very few ladies of status her age in the court, she wishes for you to accompany her to the sept for a prayer.”

You smiled in amusement but hid it behind your teacup, “I see. I am honored to be her companion for the day then.”

“Oh, thank you for entertaining my lady’s request, my lady,” the handmaiden was very much satisfied. Meanwhile you could not help but wonder what was going on with Kiera of Tyrosh’s pretty head of pink. You were sure it was common knowledge that you held no belief towards any gods of Westeros or even out. Or maybe it was an open secret that you just assumed everyone is acquainted with, she’s only been here for a year... She probably was unaware.

“What hour shall we be seeing each other?” you asked the handmaiden.

“It may sound demanding but,” she fiddled awkwardly. “Within the next hour.”

You nod in response. The sunlight that streamed to the vast expanse of your chamber’s window seemed to be a tad bit brighter than before. You wonder if it was because summer is nearing or maybe it was the warmth bathing you that made it feel like your usual dull mornings will be fruitful today. For the first time you could feel your body agree to the socializing you consented to.

Besides, it was not like you can deny the invitation now that you already verbally agreed to it. Come to think of it, you have not accepted nor willingly taken part in your expected social calls in what felt like a five-or-more-odd-moons. 

“Well, why don’t you join me in my meal and we can head to your lady together?”

The handmaiden agreed to your invitation. All the while as you ate you thought of what you should dress yourself with as it has been so long since you properly showed yourself outside—why your lord father and lady mother kept allowing the hermitage you call as your lifestyle especially when they sent you to Red Keep for court, you do not know. 

˖᯽ ݁˖

Wasn’t there always a man like that in every fairytale you have consumed as a child? The stereotype of a prince charming. The prince who manages to melt even the heart of the coldest creature with his soft voice that never raised; the kind of prince who is perfect no matter where you look or who you ask; despite the fact that he was not exactly an impressive figure and had obvious flaws. That was Prince Valarr Targaryen, it seems, from the day he was born to who he is now. On his twelfth nameday, people have already branded him as the ideal prince. After his thirteenth nameday, people have already expected him to perform his duties as well as his father—a person that is larger than life.

You met the Young Prince when you were six (and you still remember that the sky was blue then), and it did not take long for you to find out why people adored him so. He and his father, Prince Baelor Breakspear, visited your home that time. Of course you did not know what business your parents conducted but the princes have stayed for at least a couple of weeks. The entirety of your family’s castle was in high spirits when the prince and his son were around as there was something perfect about them that elicited people's feelings into loyalty. Perhaps it was the fact they were soft-spoken and behaved so kindly from the highest figures of your family’s lands to the lowest of servants. Or maybe it was the Targaryen looks of otherworldly beauty that they have even though they had dark hair.

Prince Valarr, as you remembered the short span of visit, felt like a woodland creature. A spotted fawn turned into a human with how his dark hair was flecked in signature Targaryen silver. For some reason, you did not play with him even if you were close in age. Rather your young heart found peace in watching him from afar like he was an elusive  nymph  that would run away if you dared to step within his circle. Afraid that he will fade away and fly to the heavens.

“Do you want to play?” he had asked, looking up to you from where you climbed up on a tree.

His voice had lifted the darkness that had always followed you around.

After that visit from the Targaryens, you felt something you never felt before—a wish to be close with someone. It was obvious, at least for the people around you, that this was because you feared that you would not see Prince Valarr again. But you were still small at that time and there was always something else that occupied your little head such as your lessons and the multitude of questions you kept pondering as a curious child. Nonetheless, you grew out of the feeling, and eventually you seldom remember the prince too. It seemed to be moving its way into the area of forgotten until you turned twelve and your father said you will soon be sent to the court of Red Keep. Then the day of the packing rolled around and the strange feeling took embers into your heart once more.

Your mother and father prayed to the Maiden for your safety.

Going away from home felt the same way as being at home. The days stayed as you always think it is, slow and boring. When you told your septa you felt that way, she urged you to pray, but the indescribable lack of feeling lingered no matter the prayers and the stories of the Seven’s miracles. Heavy air has been part of your life then and it did not escape you now. It is impossible to separate you for you are one and the same.

You suppose that is the reason you do not believe in the Seven, let alone the old gods, or whatever god existed in the world. For if they exist, why does the heaviness never leave you the moment you become aware? If they exist, why did one of the horses die during your travel to King’s Landing that landed you and your traveling party in a dangerous situation, if not for the trusty knight traveling along with you; even amidst your parents’ and septa’s prayers of safety. Was their belief and devotion not enough? Shouldn't something as simple as keeping a young girl safe be easy for the gods?

Such a plain idea yet foreign to the gods.

If one’s worship were not enough no matter how hard they believed, even if they did not stop their prayers, what is the use of believing in gods when they fail you like a familiar and forgettable backdrop.

Just like the cloud that never left your head.

While walking to the sept with Kiera of Tyrosh and her handmaiden, you realise that you have once again squirreled away inside your thoughts. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact you will be visiting a place of worship after not lighting a candle inside one, let alone pray, for so long.

“Thank you again for accompanying me today,” Lady Kiera said as she readjusted the sleeves of her beautiful dress made of silk, the color of the dragon house. “I hope you were not preoccupied. It is just that there are very few ladies here in the Red Keep that are around our age that I had to impose.”

“Worry not,” you raised a hand. “I am honored you invited me.”

“Yes. Thank you once again. I have not been around other girls our age in so long,” she admits silently, looking at you for a moment before turning her gaze back to where you walked.

There, under the early sunlight, the entrance of the sept loomed like a bad omen. At first you thought to flee, maybe it was the religious guilt as you remembered your parents, or the feeling that you will forget a certain someone’s face if you started to believe in gods; but you looked at Kiera and saw the resolute look on her face. Whatever it is she wished to pray about, it seemed to be of importance that you felt bad for feeling the need to flee the holy grounds. You must look awkward right now.

Inside the sept bursted with the scent of wax and flames from the candles lit and dying, the inside was darker than you remembered a sept ever being, the last time you were inside one was when you were six, accompanying Prince Valarr as he regularly prays. Kiera and her handmaiden knelt down and you followed awkwardly. You looked around without turning your head, your eyes locking in with the statue of the Maiden, the innocent mascot of the Faith of the Seven, hands clasped down the figure. Looking at the statue through the dim light, you felt a surge of emotion, and as you wound your hands together to a prayer, the statue seemed to come closer, as if questioning why you were there kneeling when you refused to do so for the past decade and counting. Your gaze fixed on the statue, the marble it was carved on smooth and glossy. The Maiden was leaning forward, her head cocked to the side as if to quiz you.

“Oh are you praying for a match?” one of the older women in court that you did not bother to remember the name of, asked as she also knelt down with you, Kiera, and her handmaiden. “What a darling.”

You kept your position, sure that you were half dreaming of the movement of the statue as you blinked your imagination away. You gazed back to the Maiden for a moment as you registered the lady’s comment into your mind. Amid the dim morning light and lit candles and the waxy scent of smoke, the Maiden looked as if she existed, trying to criticize you for being here when you have spent many of your days alone and watching the Young Prince.

Why would a god send you a message though? Is this what they call religious psychosis? Was this the product of the inescapable and nondescript heaviness that always weighed your shoulders since youth? Mayhaps it is because you have kept to yourself for so long, the only thing close to a paragon that you know of was Prince Valarr and so your mind played tricks on you. Or did the lack of sleep from trying to read a whole book every day until you clear out the library of the Red Keep finally caught up. Clearly, the vision was trying to tell you something. But what? There had to be a reason why you had registered the unmoving statue as glancing down at you to quiz your presence. You leaned down to close your heavy eyes, your forehead resting on your clasped hand.

Just as you thought, it was the lack of sleep,

˖᯽ ݁˖

Prince Valarr was a man who seemed to wear perfection like a second skin, just like his father.

It was a scary thought.

About an hour ago, you were sure you were having hallucinations about the statue of the Maiden on the sept staring down at you as if you were trespassing the holy place. You passed out it seems. You had been staying up late for days after all and it has been so long since you truly walked outside that your body gave away from a mere few minutes into the sept.

Somehow, Prince Valarr was the one who brought you back to your room, his beautiful face the first thing you saw when you roused back to consciousness. It felt like seeing an angel guide you over, which was funny as you did not believe in gods and the hallucinations of the Maiden made you pass out. Not that you would say it out loud or anything, besides you were sure a prince like him, no matter how composed, knew the effect he had on his subjects. You suppose it would be polite to thank him for helping you, but the moment you open your mouth, an unflattering croak spurts out of your throat. Nevertheless, you forced a smile even as you felt your throat feel scratchy and your head splitting. When he turned around to you he offered a smile almost angelic.

“I don’t suppose you are going to force yourself to stand up?” the prince asked as he stood up from where he sat beside your bed. Offering you a nearby cup of water.

“Thank you,” you took the glass, downing the water. “You did not have to.”

“Kiera insisted I take care of her friend while she is busy.”

Friend. You guess you had to reexamine your definition of friendship if Kiera treats you as a friend after barely speaking for an hour. “Are you not busy?”

“I have already finished my responsibilities today.”

You tilted your head in question, “It's morning.”

“It's almost evening, my lady. You have been out for hours.” he revealed.

“Oh.”

He nods to you. “If you do not mind, I shall take my leave and tell my wife that you are up.”

Your face kept the surprised expression after learning you have led an idle day. Out of nowhere, you felt frustrated, and then you wanted to throw a senseless tantrum but your stomach made a churning sound. Before long, your energy depleted instantaneously, curling up to your bed once more. By the time it was already dark, your maid had entered with warm food. Something warm and light to the stomach but also filling, a hearty soup of chicken and some slices of fruits. You did not feel hungry despite the growl of your stomach. Over the hour, your maid argued with you to eat and it was when your stomach made another embarrassing sound did you relent.

You did not eat as soon as you agreed though. Instead you picked on your food, tossing away the pieces of chicken flesh on a spare plate. You hated any meat craved out of birds, especially chicken, it always left a bad taste in your mouth. 

Suddenly you remembered something from your childhood. It was during the time Prince Valarr came around with his father. You suppose the memory popped as you saw the prince face to face once more. You remembered being discontent then, you were never a happy child anyway. It was because of the chicken, roasted to perfection, it smelled so tasty but it made you gag. Your mother chastised you for lacking manners right in front of the guests and you tried to behave. Prince Valarr offered to carve you some meat, as if to help you change your mind. You ate it for manners sake. For his sake. For those merciful gaze to keep looking at you. But it did not change your opinion about bird meat.

What you remembered more though was the face of a young Prince Valarr. His outward appearance—his face, his hair, clothing, the smell of him, everything—how over the years it changed into something that made you look twice and thrice. A lot of people, you included, go through life with changes, but no matter how much you wrap your head around it, you swear the prince did not change. Throughout the years it felt like Prince Valarr did not stop being the nymph that you fear would disintegrate if you touched, in the end of course he aged, his face more mature and boyish, but in the end the image of the woodland deity never left your memories even now. The changes were just prefabricated to say that he aged.

When you saw him today, you revisited what you felt during your youth. Was it a crush? Was it fascination? Was it because his existence reminded you of something ethereal?

Prince Valarr, believe it or not, was an intense man, and when you met him again when you first came to Red Keep you almost thought he was older with his seriousness. He interested himself in passionate topics such as economics, politics, and the well-being of the smallfolk. Maybe that was why people called him the ideal prince.

As a prince, Valarr is an accomplished young man who had such versatility and kept a pleasant personality. Surprisingly enough, he was not exactly as great a warrior as his father, but he was not a slacker either and was proficient enough with the blade that he will not shame himself if push comes to shove. He was also an earnest person, somewhat abstract with how he felt almost cold and distant. Before, in your youth, you thought of the nymph as a gentle and soft creature, and when you met him again in adolescence, you were convinced that only his looks stayed that of an elusive woodland creature. He scared you. You figured with that perfection and coldness he was some sort of maniac. However, your time in the Red Keep has proven that the prince was just as he showed himself to be if not a little withdrawn from the public eye. You knew after staying three moons in King’s Landing that someone like Valarr was a thematically dense man. And it takes a certain brand of perfection to accomplish such identity.

After a year of living in Red Keep, you found peace by watching the prince from afar. Things stayed that way for so long childhood memories of observing him the same way resurfaced, eventually it became a habit that you forget that watching someone is improper. You hung around the places he frequented often. Just there as another inhabitant of the Red Keep without rousing his suspicion. You felt serene in his presence even if he did not notice where you hid nor did you have the gal to approach him.

A few cups of chamomile tea before bed to help you sleep at night, or even the total darkness on your eyes before you could feel sleep visit you, became your constant companion during those years. When you told this to your older brother, he was worried your habits of espying would turn into something extreme. Can a man who was far from your reach and was simply someone you gazed at on a daily basis, do such a thing to a person? As you look back, you realize that there was always an uncanny sort of feeling, the feeling of an analgesic, that you always had when he was around—a feeling that maybe, just maybe, he was something more. You suppose you never caught onto what he was because you fear that he may be what you think he is.

As you recall the saintlike face of Prince Valarr that offered you a kind smile, those two-colored irises, one a cold bluish-purple the other a warm pool of brown and pale skin, so beautiful and fragile, you realize that what you felt started long before you are breathing the same air as his again, long before you even stayed at the Red Keep.

Not one of your memories will ever be able to pinpoint when it really started, and it is impossible to know if it will keep growing or if it has already stunted from the months of seclusion you subjected yourself to. All that mattered was Prince Valarr’s radiance that made you feel repentant for things you do not know. It was devouring you, damaging and defacing you like how you wanted to break the statue of the Maiden when your hallucinations told you it was questioning you, like a piece of fruit, you were being devoured by his existence.

“I am happy you are well now, I was worried you would get sick,” Kiera said, she visited you the next morning, a basket of flowers in hand. If this was truly who she is, you wish the court would not devour her the same way the prince’s existence devours you.

“You are too kind,” you smiled. “Thank you for helping me.”

Yet it could not be that simple. Sure Prince Valarr did say his wife has called you a friend. But you both barely knew each other. It would have been plain if it was someone you already knew at court who would offer such kind sentiments to you, but Kiera was an outsider you have yet to know and it would have been foolish to trust her easily. 

But if this is some political machination, why?

You came from a respectable family. Your brother, now the head of your House, was a methodical man who did his duty with nobility. But you were not exactly on top of the food chain of Westeros.

Why you?

You were just a figure. A reminder of a House that can be allied with and have someone’s more important son marry. Even if you passed away, while some hearts may be left cold, it would not leave a notable mark in history nor would the gods you do not believe in bat an eye.

˖᯽ ݁˖

You became a part of Kiera of Tyrosh’s circle in the following days, but oddly enough you could not bring yourself to truly be integrated within her peers. You wonder if it has to do with the difference in culture.Perhaps it is because you once had the habit of watching her husband. Or maybe it was the fact that two or three days after you passed out from lack of sleep, you found yourself in the sept once more to pray with them. According to the very first handmaiden you met, Alya, Kiera is praying to the Mother. You suppose it makes sense. She is married to Prince Valarr after all, they must be expected to sire heirs as no one would know what might happen and the future of the House Targaryen must be ensured. After learning that, you tried your best to be able to stomach the boring hours spent praying at the sept.

Five days later, you found a day to yourself.

It's not that you disliked your new peers. There was just something novel about letting yourself be swallowed by the heaviness that persisted in your heart, a constant since childhood. Something you are unable to visit when you are around the other ladies, laughing gaily and snacking on dainty food. The color of the silk you and the other girls wore, the blissfulness of the spring sun, the light streaming from the vast window of Kiera’s solar, the wind that caught everyone's perfumes, mostly floral. It imprints in the mind all day that you forget to linger.

You did not know where your mind would take you, but unsurprisingly it went to Prince Valarr.

When you were new to the Red Keep, he would often offer you companionship, especially as girls your age were few and far between. You and the prince would find some shade on the gardens to read a book under and then exchange ghost stories. His dark hair streaked with silver-gold smelled like just-picked lemon. You did not want to recall those things anymore as you have befriended his wife, but the memories hit you like a revelation, striking you like thunder. As though a god decided to smite you with recollections of him.

Of course you knew you hold no control over the fickleness of mind, but it did not stop the frustration from remembering.

The sky was bright today, a clear purple with no overcast. Your eyes glued to the purple, a flock of birds passed by. You glanced over higher, where the shade of the tree shelters you to guess the hour by the way the light will dance over the spaces of the leaves. Every now and then, a sway of breeze would blow, making a soundless chime as the leaves rustled from its stem. You saw something violet, too deep to be the sky. “My lady, don’t you think you have been staying out here for too long?”

“Maybe. But I will be honest, I cannot figure out the time to know if it has been too long.”

“Why do whenever we see each other lately you lose track of time?” Prince Valarr asked. “You have been sitting here the very hour I started my practice with the blade. I have finished luncheon now.” The world around you slowly changed even though you stayed at the same place, sitting at the same spot, watching the same purple sky. It was surreal, to see that one single eye whose hue differs from the logical color of the horizon takes you in a surreal space where only that one shade of blue—truly more a violet—existed. A strange sensation, but a welcome one, had blessed your soul from looking at those eyes. 

The impression did not fade yet you got over the stupor, you got up and started walking to what you knew as the way. The shock that came over you as you stared down at his eyes was starting to fade away, and you stopped, speaking as clearly as you can, like your normal voice, “Thank you for the concern, Your Grace.” Now that you think about it, you realize you were not staring into the sky. You had not been looking at the sky for hours but rather you watched him from afar from where you sat while he practiced his blade with his father, the sky just happened to be in the view that when you lost your senses you thought you had been staring at it.

You slid down to the floor the moment you were in the comfort of your own chambers and turned to the statuette of the Maiden that Kiera had given you after seeing you always seemed to stare at it when you accompanied her to the sept. The Maiden seemed to be leaning to the window that overlooked the garden, the one where the Prince surely still stood. All at once you feel the heaviness weigh you more, and before you could stop it, the tears started to flow. You do not know why the inexplicable feeling persisted despite your weeping. And when the sobbing stopped, the world was spinning around you once more and you lost track of who was who who entered to clean your chambers and what was what they handed for your lunch. It was the same kind of nausea you get from when you did something bad and then you were asked to repent in front of a septon. You wonder why everything blue turned purple on your eyes, making you feel like crying once more. You were crying for something but it was as undecipherable as the constant weight on your heart, you were crying of guilt for feeling drunk and drugged for seeing violet, the shade of his eyes, making you lose your ability to get ahold of those rituals you swore you stopped years ago. You cried for his voice—that commands you to listen.

As you finally found the energy to get up and sit like a proper lady to have a meal, the door gently opened. Kiera smiled at you kindly.

“I came to check. The prince said you seemed out of sorts today so I decided to come by.”

“The prince… right, yes I guess he found me half-awake after I read,” you said. “It happens often. There’s nothing to fuss about.”

Kiera shook her head in disapproval.

You tried to smile, truly you did despite the way you felt tired after crying for reasons you already forgot. You think the smile you gave was convincing enough as Kiera did not continue to query.

The Maiden’s statuette seemed to twinkle to a smile.

˖᯽ ݁˖

The next time you talked one-on-one with Prince Valarr happened sometime in spring a couple of years later. It was not long before the Spring Sickness ended. For a while, the entirety of Westeros was in silence, but then it picked up again when the plague slowly waned. For the time being, you picked up someone to vigil over, praying to gods you do not believe in at least five times a week as it brings comfort to them.

It was a strange day when you were face to face with him again, the morning felt way too long. During its length you found yourself already having finished praying for a number of those who passed, but somehow it maintained a tone that kept you mournful even if you did not personally know half of the people you prayed over, that in itself left a lasting memory you will not forget.

The room you went to next was filled with the rush of handmaidens and servants coming and going, among them were a small group of healers and servants hustling about, trying to push through the crowd. 

“What is happening?” you tried to stop several people to ask, but they all managed to slip out of your questioning with how much chaos has been brewing outside the room, what more inside. Upon hearing snippets of conversations but still unable to fully make out the situation, you skillfully backed away. The unusual disorganization inside the palace, however, kept itself on the back of your mind, following you as you decided to just visit another room.

As you were about to reach the turn, a handmaiden stopped you. Her hand was soft in its grip yet it startled you. It felt cold as her hands were clammy, shaking even. You realized tears had started to dampen your hand and when you looked up at who it was, it was Alya. Her eyes lost their shine. She said something, and if you were still functional like you were before the plague, you might have understood her. But you did not. Your mind has already run away from reality to hide from the dozens of people falling ill and dying. It's something you have found intimacy on since the start of the Spring Sickness. Something just felt right to hide around the corner after you have learned your sweet prince has fallen to sickness.

So that must be it, you thought to yourself. You realized Prince Valarr was consumed by the greed of the gods, taking him too early from the arms of the waking world. They have pulled away his beauty to indulge in the otherworld. You never believed in gods, they were self-indulgent and lazy if they did exist, and now their intention of killing the sweet nymph was to spell the destruction of this forsaken kingdom. Only one aspect of the divinities are particularly admirable, a gift only the gods possessed that commanded respect and made people kneel.

The delusions of mankind.

Human delusion had more than a thousand variations, each one more intense than the last. With these beliefs towards the divine, the world has unknowingly molded things nonexistent into beings of power, and like every creation of man, gods are fickle creatures who want nothing but its own fulfillments. With such delusion, the gods were able to pluck the brave prince from his bed.

You remembered that otherworldly purple on his eyes. The soft brown on the other. The way he smiled, the distance between the softness of the curve of his lips to his aloof demeanor is that of a cloud in the high sky and the waves of the sea. He was a natural beauty, with a smile that could cause the world to weep, a pure, bright, and heavenly smile.

Even in the end—with the Spring Sickness about to take his life, all the color on his pale yet once rosy skin drained, those pink lips chapped and parched—the Young Prince still had a smile that shamed the sun. But just like everything else, the gods will take it away for themselves. You knew not believing in gods was the right thing to do as they always take everything beautiful from the world to have for themselves. You took a deep breath, looked away from Alya, before forcing yourself to push through the crowd with her.

When you arrived inside the royal chambers you saw that there was no need for your spiraling thoughts. Prince Valarr was sitting up and had color back on his cheeks. He was eating too, nothing too heavy, just some dainty food that would suit his needs. Behind him were a maester and a healer, wiping away his wife’s forehead and wrapping her in blankets. But you were too relieved to notice that, not when those bluish purple eyes had its sheen once more, reminding you of the ocean during sunset, as deep and bottomless, urging you to dive. When you opened your mouth to speak, your own heartbeat was wild.

“My prince. You are back. I am happy to see you healthy. Everyone was worried.”

The prince responded in his normal, soft-spoken, yet distant way. “Thank you, my lady. But I am afraid I am not fit to celebrate with everyone’s happiness.”

You slowly walked to him to join the small congregation on his bedside. You love that he smells like florals once more, as if the fawn just frolicked on a lavender field. It was the thing you liked second best from him, but it was Valarr so everything was the best about him. Yet up close, despite the color on his visage, he was not relaxed, everything about him looked dark. So dark you could barely see the warm brown of his eyes. Your eyes would fall to his bedside, your brain seemed to wait a minute or two before understanding the situation. The gathering of people was not to mourn the beloved prince. It was to mourn his wife who passed. Kiera of Tyrosh, a lady you had called a friend, died beside her husband. Alya bringing you inside with her made sense now. The tears that did not stop flowing from her eyes should have made that clear. Yet your brain chose the path of reacting strongly from the idea of losing the prince. 

Kiera’s pink hair reminded you of the blossoms that littered the spring gardens even during the plague—a soft whisper of a color, yet so very vibrant. The shade of brown of her skin paling as reality dawned to you, the once elegant slope of her smiley countenance contorted in pain at her deathbed. You stood there that moment staring vacantly at the sight before you, thinking just how different your reaction was to the death of your friend compared to the backlash of emotions you felt at the phantasm of the prince’s death. Prince Valarr that you are not even friends with.

“My lady,” Prince Valarr called to your name as he looked at you. You stopped staring and slowly turned your head to look over at him, stunned; by what? You are unsure yet. Was it because he suddenly called you? Or was it because you felt guilty under his gaze for not mourning his wife that is supposed to be your friend.

“Yes?”

“You should sit down. You look pale. We would not want an accident among these happenstance,” the prince said as he gestured for you to sit down on a nearby chair.

“Pale? Me? I suppose it is just the mental strain of today,” you reasoned.

“I understand. I am sorry for commenting on it,” Prince Valarr said, looking at the food he was munching down for a second. “‘Tis merely I am concerned. I can see everyone’s distress. It makes me feel tense.”

“You should rest and not concern yourself with anything other than focusing on your own health, as hard as that is,” you frowned, your brows furrowing.

“The lady is right, my prince. You shall take a break to ensure your recovery,” the maester said.

˖᯽ ݁˖

The burning of Kiera happened the next day, the morning was cool despite the incoming summer in the nearing weeks. The pace everyone took was slow, that you could listen in on every silent tattle of ladies’ tongues and men’s gossip that they facade as an intellectual conversation. You stopped, letting people lead more steps than yours and readjusted the black veil that slipped out your head so it would not fall down right in the middle of the ritual. (And of course to wait and catch a glimpse of Prince Valarr, and if you were lucky enough, strike a conversation.)

You see that they have shaved down the stubble that the prince grew when he was sick, and somehow you mourned it a little. He dressed in all black, it was nothing new but the black he wore was more drab now. The neckline was close, higher than it has always been, the snakeskin gloves on his hand also a midnight black. On the way to the meadow, the repetitive cuckoo of migratory birds added to the sullen mood. Not wishing for small talk, Prince Valarr looked up from where he was fiddling his ring and said, “Do you think it is me who should have died but people have prayed for my health that in exchange they take her away?”

His question takes you by surprise, but only for a moment.

“How can you say that?” You responded, your heart hammering. “You are alive and that is all there is to it. There is no such thing as divine intervention, my prince.”

“It is always like this. First my sons, then my father in my armor, and now my wife when I was the one who first got sick.”

“And you think throwing around such morbid thoughts does not mean anything to anyone? You are a clever man, Your Grace, you should not be swayed by the belief of divine,” you let out a heavy sigh. You did not know why his question agitated you and made your blood run cold like ice, your world spinning softly into purple. You watched as they started the fire. Every so often when you thought your view of Kiera’s final rest was clear, the smoke would blow your way, and oddly enough, it perfectly aligned with how it hid the fact you did not feel anything deep from her passing. Even though you felt guilty for not grieving your friend, there was a comfort that settled in your heart knowing Prince Valarr was the one who survived. Even if the prince’s once vibrant countenance dimmed and the melody of his soft-spoken tone dulled as loss upon loss came down to him like a methodical procedure from the gods, the calmness his existence brought to your soul did not fade.

“You should not linger,” you said, seeing that the prince had taken a seat into a boulder to watch the last embers of Kiera be tucked away. He did the same during his father’s passing, and so he did when his stillborn sons were burned too. “The wind is picking up. You will get sick, or worse catch the Spring Sickness once more. There may also be a drizzle, it has been raining every now and then for quite some time now. You just recovered. You should take care of yourself.”

“I will be fine,” he twirled the ring on his finger. A habit you noticed he picked up after his father.

“It will not be fine. You are a Prince of the Realm. If you become unwell once more you are worrying everyone around you. The whole of Westeros could not function properly when you and the King were sick. You would not let your people suffer, would you? Or have you forgotten your duties?”

“I do not.”

“Then go inside. Please, my prince. I worry for you and your health and your stability—the realm worries for you. Think about it—your grandfather, our good king, is still unwell. The people need you. You should stand strong.”

“I did not take you to be the one who will give me this talk,” Prince Valarr said silently. “It is great to know that people do care about me. That some people are truly loyal to me. It is wonderful to know that I have an impact to make people care. The ones who will need me to keep running.”

“What do you mean?”

“Please just leave me for a while my lady,” he said, staring into the horizon, the ashes long dead now.

“I will not. Not when Westeros needs a functioning monarch.”

“I am sure the Hand can handle it.”

“You are the Hand!”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I have already seen you do it. Once is enough. Suck it up.”

You felt repentant for what you had to tell him that morning but your heart has gone through something really intense the moment he asked you if he should have been the one who died; that the world and your soul felt like it became shambled completely. Every now and then you could still feel red bleeding to the purple of your sky. 

You can only hope he does not take it to heart. Or else it will be your doom.

Moving your eyes, you saw that the middle of the day has already passed and the sunset will color the horizon soon, and the bright, shining sun that lit up your room will fade into the darkness. But the sunset reminded you of the prince, the purples of the many hues of sunset—intense in its coolness.

˖᯽ ݁˖

A full calendar rolled around like a tumbling cabbage cart downhill. Prince Valarr ascended the throne just a month after the past spring after King Daeron bit the dust as his health had gone frail by being plagued by the Spring Sickness. The realm had celebrated during his ascension, eager to see what the Young Prince, now the Young King, had in store for Westeros. In his short time as the Hand for his grandsire, he was like a star that had shone brightly. His duties done with such chilling efficiency, word about him on the streets of Westeros was like the pale sweet smell of the spring as there was little ill they could say about him. His reign came down like a thin coat on the body, wrapping around like a mellow night. Saying goodbye to the past regime sadly but with nothing but good hope.

“Does this please you?” he asked.

“What pleases me, my king?” you asked back.

He walked to the Iron Throne, stopping by the end of it. “Our arrangement. You do not mind being engaged to me, do you?”

“No. It is an honor of mine to be able to give my family’s loyalty deeper to the crown. One could only be thankful that you have approved this arrangement.”

“I did not mean that.”

“What do you mean then, Your Grace? Surely it is not to break off our engagement when our union is near. While I cannot disagree if you make it a royal decree… I am more concerned about my family’s reaction if you did so and my own reputation. They must think I did something questionable to have someone like you suddenly cease the arrangement. Is that it, did I do something wrong?”

“I am startled that the first thing that came in your mind is that you did something wrong,” he tilted his head at you in surprise. He slowly approached you, placing a soft hand on your cheek, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin. His skin was warm, warmer than normal but it was not because of fever. This was the closest he ever was to you that you could see the shadows of his long lashes. The minute details of his heterochromatic eyes, the bluish purple deeper almost like lavender and the brown was almost amber, and the fragrance on him actually had a hint of honey.

You tried to speak calmly even from the unexpected touch. “No, not really,” you answered. “I feel it has been too long since it has been made and I have already gotten over the suddenness of our engagement. I have always known I will not marry for love. Why?”

“I see,” his hand falls to the side.

With that, you and Valarr left the throne room.

˖᯽ ݁˖

You suppose he was right. That the engagement was awkward and too quick, especially since it was decided just three months after he ascended to the Iron Throne. You had been Kiera’s friend, his wife’s confidant, and yet the council urged him to give you a chance and have him marry you. Based on what you heard, this urging was because the women in your family line are often very fertile and it may help with bearing children, something the young king needs in order to secure his line.

“You are tired. You look as if you are about to pass out and if you do it will cause a full-scale panic in the Red Keep,” you said as you stopped him from standing up before you finished tea.

“I am fine, truly.”

“Are you sure? Just sit over here for a few minutes, Your Grace. It will not hurt to rest.” You urged, pushing a plate of sweets and fruits onto his side.

“Will it make you unhappy if I refuse?”

“No. It will make me worry. Can you not sit down for a while? Surely the realm can function while you rest for a moment.”

“Okay,” he agreed. Meanwhile you watched him as you ate, he was languid in his motions, cutting up the pastries in small equal triangles, as if eating it whole will disrupt his perfection. He peeled the orange slices on his plate one by one, an almost tedious task.

Actually, you feel sorry for the king, not just in the sense that he had been pushing himself to exhaustion in order to exceed the expectations everyone had on him, but also because he had to be engaged with you. And there was also the fact he would not talk to you other than what is deemed polite. Ever since his grandfather’s death, the late King Daeron, and even before that, even before Kiera’s passing; you could conclude that it truly became plain in sight when Prince Baelor died, but has truly started when his sons were born death, that he seems to always be dulled. A sense of death that he had hid himself beneath practiced charm and respectable proficiency in his duties. He has always been dressed well and proper but by this time too, he seemed to never show his skin, as if even the slightest touch will harm him. His resemblance to an eternally mourning man was frightening.

You thought for a moment. Is it not strange that you do not feel sad, not on your friend, Kiera who was the person who coaxed you out from your hermitage, as long as he is around? Just thinking about it made the heaviness you always felt come back.

As you continued to observe his habits, you turned to the Maiden’s statuette still among the trinkets in your solar and looking at it told you you should not find a deeper meaning on your lack of grief, for Valarr’s sake, because one mourner is enough in two. Debating whether to break the silence that continued growing, you heard a blast of sound. A crash into your pier table and the sounds of trinkets falling came together and echoed for a while. Everything felt like it was in the background as you stared at everything drop to the floor. The statuette of the Maiden plummets harshly and loudly, enough to shake the marble with its vibration and shatter the stone it was carved upon.  

“What exactly happened?” you asked, surprisingly calm despite yourself, your hand not leaving the sandwich you were nibbling on while you were watching the young king.

“Umm… There seems to be a cat that somehow managed to climb into your window and decided to land on the table. Shall I have someone catch it?”

Valarr kept talking, but his words did not enter your mind. You have been taken once more in a different time and place, some deep emotion that you cannot understand causing it.

The purple of his eyes seemed clearer now, clearer now that the statuette of the god has been broken. His gentle hands started to help the servants in innocently picking up after the mess that the stray feline left. Why? Out of all the times you could be subjected to that heaviness it has to be now? 

You wondered if you could express the feelings that the broken statuette elicited from you despite the hundreds of other feelings as undistinguishable as the last. You wanted to stop him from picking up the pieces; stopping him felt like cheating him for touching something that was given by his late wife. You did not understand why you suddenly felt this way, it was those kind eyes perhaps, or the sudden crash that broke the peaceful silence that stretched, or because you were thinking about how you did not feel grief for your friend, or the tiredness in his bearing randomly thrown together to make you feel that heaviness once more. If this was your soul crying from the very bottom of the crevices of your heart you did not know existed, then perhaps you should let it come back to you like an old lover.

In a confused array of intangible feelings and lightheadedness from not catching up to what just happened, perhaps something deeper was opened to remind you that you have always been a melancholic atheist and all the lightness you have experienced in the past was simply a romantic sort of way to remind you that you have always had a wretched fate. That your incoming marriage in a few days is nothing but a painful decision for the young king as he needed a certain couple things such as having an heir to protect his line.

Amid the turmoil of your heart you swear you heard a familiar voice.

“You seem to always pray to the Maiden and so I decided to bring you this.”

It was Kiera. 

She had come to visit you outside of your usual days of hanging out with her circle once more. She asked why you liked praying to the Maiden. You could not tell her of course that you felt like you are always hallucinating the god seemingly talking to you, as if pushing you to love. What kind of love, you obviously do not know of. When you revealed these fever dreams to a septon-in-training after one vulnerable day, they said it must be the way the gods are communicating to you. Urging you to perform your duty as a highborn lady by marrying. Out of all the things he could say, it was one that pissed you off.

When the two of you were sitting together, you decided to tell her that it was because your parents always prayed to the Maiden for your own good. Your tones were hushed down, and the autumn sun was up and soothing as it streamed to your chambers. She whispered, that maybe with this statuette you will find love too. 

“It's fine,” you slowly returned to the present. “It’s just a cat. It did not mean harm.”

“If you say so. You seem to be in shock though,” Valarr points out.

His voice, that soft-spoken tone. It came through clearly as you slowly surface from the memories. It sounded like a divine voice pulling you away from the melancholy.

“That statuette was from Kiera.”

“I did not take her to actually buy idols.”

“She noticed me always staring at the Maiden whenever I went with her on the sept,” you said as you bent down to lift the head of the statue, removed from its body. You see him smile. In the confusion in your heart, your recollections shadowed, his smile reached through the blur. Such a simple and melancholic smile yet it was the greatest and priceless smile you have seen.

“That is just her way of being thoughtful, she probably thinks you were a devotee,” he said.

Still looking at the head of the Maiden, you opened your mouth and said, “I never had the heart to tell her I do not believe in such things.”

He covered one of your hands with his… the warmth of his touch made you feel feverish.

“Oh I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you suddenly blurted out. “I am so sorry.”

At that point, as if you were before a god, you looked up to his gaze. He was amazing at that angle, far better than any you had ever seen him. His profile glowing under the natural sunlight that filtered inside. The contours of his face lightened giving him a clear and innocent disposition like the nymph you knew he was. His deep eyes were vibrant, as if he was seeing a vision. The silver locks of his hair were longer now, dangling on his short sheared hair, the strands shimmering golden. His hand, so warm and welcoming like an embrace from the heavens, the rings on his fingers a cold contrast to his hold.

His hand that was on yours lifted to your cheek, and you found your face being turned to stare directly at him. “Why are you saying sorry?”

You do not know, that was the plainest answer you could muster without losing more control in your already frayed emotions. He just sat with you on the floor, looking at you with those doe eyes patiently.

“I do not know, I apologize, my king,” you said, it felt like a lie in your tongue even if you truly did not know why you were crying. It wasn’t long before he helped you up, removing the head of the Maiden from your grasp.

You were sure that when Valarr left your solar that afternoon, all alone, his true reaction underneath that calm countenance broke through.

˖᯽ ݁˖

Your marriage with the Young King was not consummated on the wedding night as he had passed out of exhaustion from the events leading up to the ceremony. Tonight was different, surprising even himself, Valarr entered your shared bedchambers before nightfall. You were shocked to see him standing there so early as he often only came to bed when it was already time to sleep—which was almost always at midnight. You were drinking some sweet Arbor as you read a letter from your brother, waiting for the servants to bring dinner. Getting over your surprise, you stood up and offered him a respectful nod.

“My king, I did not know you would be joining the table,” you said.

“Please ease yourself,” Valarr said with a polite smile. “I do not mind waiting for dinner with you.”

Valarr was dressed in a way that bewildered you, it's the second time he had left you astounded today that it's starting to ring bells. His doublet, a deep crimson velvet, was not fastened until it covered his neck, his skin was showing. He also did not wear one of his snakeskin leather gloves that he often covered his skin with. 

“Forgive me if I had been neglecting my duties as a husband to you, I wish I had not offended you. I figured you might have been uncomfortable as I have not exactly been a welcoming match. That is why I did not… I have assumed things which I should not have done. I was reminded today that I have duties to perform as a husband, not just as a king,” he said, rolling a ring on his finger. You don’t think he could sound more repentant. “I should not have presumed what you felt.”

With that you poured him a goblet of the Arbor you were indulging in. It felt strange to hear him sound ashamed as the certain coldness of his soft-spoken manner could not be detected this way. You decided to answer in a diplomatic manner.

“A king can forget his wife and the world will move on, Your Grace,” you told him honestly. “You will still receive bows from the realm as long as you keep taking care of them.”

“That is true,” he said, his face contorted into an emotion you could not catch as he sipped on the goblet.

“May I ask why you have decided to retire early today? Not that I am unhappy. In fact I believe it is good that you are going to take a break,” you spoke with unbridled curiosity.

Valarr looked at you. “Well, I suppose it is not exactly a break but to do my duties and it will help me unwind, theoretically, at least that is what most men do to unwind. I personally find pleasure in it too but I find my time meager.” He said it as if trying to convince himself and not you.

“Well, you can try acting enthusiastic if that is the case,” you advised.

Not wanting to continue the conversation about his enthusiasm, or lack of it, in the duties as husband and wife, he changed the subject. “Actually,” he said. “I am more interested in what you do with your waking moments without me, my lady. Do you still read and make tapestries often and confine yourself in your solar? If so, I must say I am jealous.”

With a silent smile you thought about what you do most of your days. “Oh, just the usual. As you said, I do still read and make tapestries, sometimes I go to the garden when my maidservant thinks I have been cooped up inside for too long. And then when I am outside I will be bombarded with not-so-subtle questions if we have consummated the wedding because apparently the servants tattle that we have not done the deed on our wedding night. So I will go back inside.”

“Pardon,” Valarr said, grimacing. “I did not think they would be prying. I was too selfish thinking of only what I feel since we got married that I forgot what my inactions can cause you.”

“Its only good to ask to be unburdened of the fruits of your actions when you are doing something to mend it,” you said, sighing.

The king leaned over, his eyes finding yours and with a serious tone, said, “Then please allow me to do something about it, my lady.”

He was warm. You always knew that. Every dragonseed was warmer than a normal person. But this warmth was different.

Your lips and his, now locked together, it was a gentle touch, but a fire is still a fire.

So this is what it felt like to find serenity, the frustrations from being questioned and the weight that always followed you slipping out of your shoulders as his lips moved with yours. His long lashes tickled your cheek, different from the way other things would leave a funny tingle upon your skin. When he pulled away his eyes were shining, as if he found reprieve from his duties and found his youthful vitality once more.

He held your face with both his hands and it felt holy. He pressed his lips with yours again. Those soft, pink lips. He was setting you on fire and you are hungry for that burn. Sweet as the special incenses on the sept.

You swear you were ascending to heaven.

He did not break the kiss even when his arms snaked around your hips before pulling you gently to his lap. One hand moved to the nape of your neck to keep your lips on his when you tried to pull away to catch your breath as you were already panting. The dance of your lips with his was slow like a ritual. Warm as the flames that light up a holy ground, the heat between the two of you kept rising. Your heaving was swallowed by his mouth as he did not allow you to pull away yet, his other hand on your lower back to keep you closer. The once cold early evening air was suddenly so thick and hot that you felt dizzy from it, but when your hands found his neck to hold onto him he was quite cool—as cold as a Targaryen’s temperature allows them to be. You were sure you were being delirious if you felt like you were burning.

“Breathe, my lady,” he reminds you when he lets you go. His hand rubbing slow and comforting circles on your back that should not feel intimate but it did to you.

“Yes.”

“Shhh shh, breathe.”

“Thank you.”

You did not know why you were thanking him, his hand kept caressing your back and the one on your nape moved to brush on your lower lip. You suppose you are thanking him to remind you to breathe (as if he controlled your bodily function), or maybe you were thanking him for kissing you, if it was the latter it was embarrassing yet understandable as that was your first kiss.

You wondered how Valarr sees you at that moment. You wonder if that shine on those purple and brown eyes and his breath fanning your skin like a breeze meant he also felt the intensity you felt.

It wasn’t long before he started to move again. His hands slowly slide down to your arms, leaving a trail of heat on your limbs. “Are you still comfortable? If not, we can stop. I will not force you.”

You wanted to slap his angelic face for asking that. Is the passion you felt when he kissed you merely on your end and not his? “Do you find having to touch me so repulsive to suggest that?”

“What?” Valarr stopped his hands. “That is not what I said. Where did that come from?”

“If this is just a duty to you then you should not do it,” you told him.

He sighed and his hands cupped both your cheeks, his forehead resting on yours, eyes locking with yours. “I thought it would be better to ask for your comfort as it must be your first time. I merely wish to assure you that even with our arrangement, I will not force you to make love to me. That is different from not wanting this. From wanting you.”

You stared back at his eyes to see any sort of deception, but there was none. “Then please continue.”

He regarded you for a moment and then his hands found your arms again, his lips on your lips. “Thank you.”

His kiss did not last long when he tilted your head in order to peck your chin, then underneath it, a chaste peck on your neck and then between your collarbones, “You smell very sweet, my lady.” The kisses were innocent if not for the burning heat it stirs on your stomach.

You felt his fingers ghosting the fabric of your dress and then pulling and tugging on the laces. You were sure he asked you if he could remove your dress and you just nodded. His touch was asking you to surrender to the gentleness. You did not know something so soothing can make you give in. You do not even know what you were abandoning to him, was it your skin or your very soul? His kisses persisted downward along the silk that slowly slipped away from your chest. His hair now under your chin as he pecked the valley between your breasts, his smell, the fresh, sweet and sour fragrance of lavender and lemon clouded your senses.

Valarr’s lips were somewhere on your chest, until you felt it on the side of your breast. The kiss made a path towards the center, capturing your nipple on his warm mouth. You whined, hands grabbing onto his hair and tugging. His wet tongue flicked to the bud, making it pucker on the warmth of his mouth, his hand massaging the other breast. 

The breath that came out from you was almost manic as the kissing and tonguing and sucking scraped onto a part of your brain that turned your body gelatinous.

“Hold on.”

Your eyes opened as you whined after he pulled his mouth and hands away, wondering what might make him stop this time around, brows furrowing in curiosity. His hands were suddenly on your waist and ass as he lifted you.

“What—”

“Bed.”

“Right.”

“Unless you want to stay here? It might be uncomfortable for your first time.”

“I see…” you awkwardly fidgets as he walks you to the bed you share, laying you down gently. “Please take care of me.” Asking him to take care of you feels redundant as you knew he would not do anything to actively harm you. But it felt only right to ask someone greater than you for mercy.

He pecked on your lips, staring at your eyes as his nose nudged on yours. His hands are busy with fully removing your dress off of your body.

He pulled away, pushing you back down when you tried to chase after his lips. It was cruel. So very cruel. Until the same mouth was now breathing between the apex of your thighs. His mouth capturing your cunt. The softness of his lips lapping up your slit, his tongue deft with its wanderings inside you.

“Valarr.”

He answered by burying his face deeper, licking a stripe before he found your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue on the bud. You gasped, loud enough for you to hear through the haze of pleasure that numbed you down when you felt something press inside you. The cold silver of his ring burying deep inside your heat had your hand tug to his locks, trying to pull him away as you felt something hot strike your womb like lightning. You were dripping. You could feel the dampness of your arousal sticky on your thighs.

But he did not budge, instead he added a finger and then curled those digits into a spongy spot that turned your sounds and expressions into different shades you did not know you were capable of. His mouth and fingers continued—sucking and licking, pumping and curling—and you could only shut your eyes as the sensations assaulted you and made you see purple.

Your back arched as your other hand found solace from the mind-numbing ecstasy by gripping the sheets tightly. “Val- Valarr—” A white hot feeling washed over your entire body as waves of pleasure blew out of you like a tidal wave.

The feeling was transcendent. But it was not merciful. 

Your limbs shook, out of your control, and you could still feel Valarr’s lips and tongue devouring you like the slick that spilled on his mouth was fine Arbor red. 

He surfaced from your pussy with a kind smile that would have looked cherubic if not for the fact his perfect face was glistening with your juices. “Are you alright?”

“Very,” you answered, breathless.

“Do you still wish to continue or was it too much tonight?”

“I can take it,” you nod to yourself. You wondered if he thinks of you pathetic for having climaxed already, that's why he offered mercy from your already sopping and swollen cunt. 

His lips found yours again, making you taste yourself on his tongue. You could not even taste yourself for the sheer force of his kiss, keeping you pinned down on the bed from the crushing force of it all. Your hands found his neck, holding onto him as you tried to peer on what he’s doing through heavy eyes.

 “Look at me,” he said, one hand steadying your face. 

You met those mismatched eyes that continued to stay aloof and unmoved. Consuming you whole.

“There you are.”

“Thank you,” you breathe out as you feel his fingertips running down your slit once more. To tease. Or to check whether you were still sopping wet.

And yes you were.

“Why do you keep thanking me?” he asked as he kissed your forehead gently.

Be damned if you know. But it only felt right.

“Don’t be scared, hmm?” he whispered in your ear, littering kisses on your face as you felt something fat poke in your entrance. 

You looked down and almost panicked at his size, its difference with the whole expanse of the space between your thighs was stark. Theoretically, you knew it would fit… somehow… even if he’s quite bigger than what you thought. But you were not ready to try. At least half of your brain is not. But the rest of you was so so needy; your pussy fluttering around nothing as you saw his cock. 

“Shh, it's alright, it's alright,” he said in that soft-spoken voice that lulled you to heaven, one hand gripping you firmly as he lined his cockhead, the other hand stroking your cheek to reassure you.

He slides himself inside slowly, breathing in deeply. 

You blew out a heavy breath as your walls spasmed with his intrusion, feeling like you are being split in half. It hurt but you were wet enough to welcome all of him even as you writhe and mewl.

“See? You’re doing great, my sweet,” Valarr smiled down to you kindly as he let you adjust on his size, his smile blinding you through your half-lidded gaze. “It’s not too much, is it not?”

“No… no,” you answered, panting as getting used to the penetration was taking too much of your energy, your eyes kept shut. You need him to teach you to breathe again for you are starting to forget.

“Then open your eyes, I want to see you,” he coaxed you out of where you hid in your brain from the splitting pain that was slowly but surely turning into pleasure. Pressing a kiss on your forehead, he did an experimental thrust.

“Valarr! Wait… wait ‘s too—” a moan burst forth your lips as you opened your eyes, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.

“You can do it,” he encouraged as he started a slow pace where you can feel every vein and crevice of his cock sliding in and out of your wet walls. Squelching shamelessly as the plain ebbs away.

The young king kissed you again with those soft, soft lips, one hand cupping your cheek as he swallowed every mewl and every whine that came out, his tongue masterfully dancing inside your mouth. 

Thankfully he was doing that for you were unsure if you were able to control yourself, let alone the noises that spilled out of your lips as his pace picked up. His cock reaching places you did not know was possible. The pleasure was indescribable, no words can properly explain what you felt other than it was divine.

“You are doing so wonderful, my sweet,” he murmured, looking down at the transcendent expression painted on your visage as the noises you made created a song of lust with the hard and steady rhythm he kept while pummeling inside your soppy cunt.

He was addicting. Every thrust was heavenly as it brushed on the spongy spot that made you see the pearly gates (that if you were still sober and not cock-drunk would be impossible as you did not even believe in the Seven). You could not think properly even as he praised you for being ‘so good’ for him, not when your mouth was hung open and your eyes kept shut to savor the heavenly rapture.

“Still good?” he asked while his assault on your womb molded your world into the beautiful shade of purple of his eyes.

“Mhmm,” you nod, feverish, his pace still hard and firm. “More.”

However, Valarr slowed down his pace, kissing you once more.

“Nooo! I said more!” you whimpered.

“I know,” he said as he lifted your hips, the angle making him reach deeper than possible, kissing your g-spot and also what felt like the very end of your womb. Your pussy on his pelvis, his hands keeping you in position as your slick squelched all over your skins.

He pulled out until only the tip was inside, your arousal flowing out freely, before he pushed inside again, setting a faster pace than before. And with your hips lifted by his hold, his head bruised into that perfect spot over and over. 

Valarr’s name spilled out of your mouth like a perpetual prayer as every stroke of his cock ramming inside you guided you in the steps of your high. Another climax was ascending its way in your abdomen as the waves of pleasure came nonstop, making you spasm.

He increased his pace but the pressure of the way he pounded was still as heavy as it was before. “Good girl. So very pretty too,” he praised quietly as his fingers found your swollen clit, circling it with the same urgency as his pounding.

You were pushed down to heaven. Or more aptly, heaven rained down on you as your climax took over all your senses.

All you could see was the purple of his eyes as your walls clenched down on him hungry for his seed, warm juices from your cunt splashing onto his skin and the sheets. You were screaming, but you could not hear yourself anymore. Not when he looked down on you like he’s passing a judgement while his rhythmic thrusts continued to fill you up even amidst the wanton squelch of your orgasm.

He slowly descends to you, to kiss and moan in your ear as he chases his own release, keeping you in place even as your hips shake, encouraging the overstimulated whimpers that fall from your lips, your fingers digging on his shoulders.

Valarr’s seed was warm, so warm as it spilled and painted all of your insides white, leaving you breathless from the hot liquid, your well-used pussy still flexing and unflexing to milk him all he’s worth. Your combined juices gooey as it overflowed from inside you.

“Did it feel good?” he asked with a benevolent smile with that soft tone as if he did not watch the pure ecstasy that formed in your face.

You nod, unable to properly find your voice as you feel your thighs sore and legs unresponsive.

“Shame I cannot ensure all of my seed stays inside,” pulling out slowly as your cunt twitches, his fingers finding you again to push back some of the thick seed he stuffed in you back inside. The excess of your shared release spilling on the sheets.

Something about what he did and said made you embarrassed, an unflattering squeak sounding out your mouth.

“Hmm?” he tilted his head innocently, almost like a sweet little fawn, at the noise you made as he stood up to look for a cloth. “Why? One needs to ensure our lovemaking bears fruit.”

“...right,” you gulped as he kissed your forehead once more. You are starting to get used to it.

Valarr wiped the dampness between your thighs. “Can you stand?”

“Why?”

“I am sure supper is served now,” he answered.

You did not reply, letting him dress you up again when you did not answer and helping you off the bed to walk down to the dining hall.

They say surrendering your belief to the gods meant always being guided by your hand. Not having to worry for they will help you down whatever path you wish to take and shield you from the worst.

You did not believe in gods for you never once felt that way your septa and your parents had said. You never had and you know you never will.

But it felt good not to think for once. To not feel the heaviness of whatever indescribable feeling always weighed on your mind. To succumb yourself to the hands of the divine being named Valarr. You suppose this is what they all feel when worshipping the gods. It was a novel experience.

No… 

✿

You rubbed the side of your neck, feeling the soft silk scratch irritably into the bruise your husband left last night under the guise of leaving a love bite.

There is a world's distance between the feeling of indifference and loathing, but neither of those words could aptly describe how you feel about your husband.

You would not sugarcoat it by saying Aerion Targaryen was a decent husband nor a decent man in any way that mattered.

At first, when you were told you would marry him, you thought he was just misunderstood. As being proud of oneself is not exactly a flaw. As a matter of fact, you did not believe any of the rumors about the prince, after all, how could someone related to Prince Baelor Breakspear or his son, Prince Valarr be so comically immoral. Your mindset was always about seeing the good in everyone. But it turns out proud was an understatement when describing Aerion ‘Brightflame’. He was for the lack of better words, but aptly can be called, a piece of shit; and in an essence an arrogant bastard who thinks he is the most important creature the gods have ever breathed life upon. 

Aerion did not suit you. You discussed this realization with your father. You sat down with your mother in an untimely hour for high tea to address this. You even wrote the most heartfelt letter to your dear oldest brother who was out for some business as the heir of the family to ask him to persuade your parents to break off the engagement. Unsurprisingly it fell into deaf ears.

Aerion is like a dragon that he claims to be—a dragon in all but his handsome face and human body. With those sharp canines that never fail to draw blood from where he bites you and those deep purple eyes always aflame with loathing. Perhaps his eyes hold such contempt because of being married to someone like you who has no drop of the blood of Old Valyria, or perhaps he simply just hates anyone that is not himself or his father and a secret second person. A dragon that would burn the things that he thinks stand in his way. How he always smells like blood that has dried on the steel of his sword and the lingering smoke from a snuffed out fire even underneath the sweetness of the rosewater he bathes with on a regular basis. He always tastes bitter, like the flavor of ash on the tongue after you bite on the burnt skin of a grilled fish; a flavor that lingers even after he would occasionally indulge on lemoncakes or in a more probable instance, drink the finest of the sweetest Arbor reds he gets his hands on when his favorite has unfortunately ran out. How his lips never fail to sear on your own like a fresh burn; to the long, almost serpentine tongue of his that slithers down your throat whenever he kisses you, if it can even be called a kiss with how it felt more like a punch to the lips.

Even in your marriage bed, he was a beast. Not in the way maidens would fantasize their future husbands-to-be—passionate and carnal, full of loving caresses, hot kisses on the neck and chaste pecks on the lips at every stroke, early morning loving and sweet nothings whispered on the ear as they take and please—but rather in an Aerion-esque way. That being cruel and senseless. Leaving marks and bruises on his wake that you did not wish nor yearned to brand you. But like a dragon, he never fails to miss his catch, and you are the poor prey that’s his to be devoured.

He was the worst humanity has to offer in your own very valid and also very much proven and tested opinion as you unfortunately have the honor to be his wife.

Yet you could not form in your head what you truly felt about him.

What you feel is nothing like love.

And he does not feel anything deeply like love for you either.

Perhaps it was because he was not truly and utterly evil when it came to you, at least not in the way he is to everyone else. Or maybe it was because he protects you from wandering eyes of less savory men and ensures your safety even if it was part of his controlling tendencies. It could even be the fact he gives you anything you wished for if you remember to tell him something you liked to have. It could be the most precious pearls to the finest silks from Essos and he would still go his way to procure exactly your wants. Realistically, it could just be because he's buying out your obedience. And sometimes he is successful with that.

Truthfully, the reason you are still undecided about your own feelings is probably because of the sex.

It's not like you are particularly fond of the manhandling and the roughness of coupling with Aerion. But rather it is the closeness with your husband that makes you feel like you are close with him, not Aerion, him—Prince Valarr Targaryen. Your husband's cousin.  

Your husband's obsession.

Your own brand of longing.

Being skin to skin with someone of the same blood feels the same when you convince yourself enough.

The Young Prince was such a beautiful man with an equally beautiful temperament. A fine specimen of a man from looks to manners. Your father once said he is 'a perfect example of a noble youth' and as you spend your time often in the court of Red Keep, you have learned that he really was a prince charming. He takes great interest in the smallfolk and in politics and economics, he does not think of the ladies as vapid for liking fashion nor did he see women as mere breeding cattle, he was soft-spoken too. He entertained the ladies who would come up to him with such politeness and gentleness, you included, and you would spend hours discussing about the poetry you read with him and go on walks on the garden under the balmy sun of King’s Landing (it could even be the hottest summer day but you would not feel anything about it as long as your arms interlocked with him) where you could smell something like lavender and sandalwood from the prince’s skin. 

Of course you were bound to fall in love.

And of course you were bound to have your heart broken the moment you learned he is betrothed to another. 

Yet you yearned for him even from afar for it would not be a beautiful life without him.

You rubbed the side of your neck, still so very aware of the bite Aerion left last night, you swore it bled. And maybe still bleeding up to this hour. But the silk of your collar said another story as it stayed dry.

The early days of your marriage, as you look back on them, seem to fly away in a flurry of withered leaves fallen from this large oak tree near the edge of Summerhall, just a little shy away from the walls of the castle. This is your favorite spot, not the one that Aerion pisses on when he could not be bothered to find a proper place to take a leak after a day's ride and also because he knows that you like to read under the trees when you need solace. It was less of a kink of his but more a way to simply antagonize your very existence.

You looked up from the book on your lap, the afternoon light dimming slowly to give way to a colorful sunset hue of oranges and pinks and purples. Sometimes the purple of the sunset was the same color as the purple of Prince Valarr’s heterochromatic eyes, deep and almost always urging you to drown in his serenity.

"Wife," you heard his voice call you, smooth as molten steel and cold like the steel of his sword. Aerion never called you by your name. You reckon he does not even remember it other than if he heard his brothers or his father call you by your name.

He just came back from hunting down a large buck he saw yesterday, or maybe off to terrorize the local populace near Summerhall. Knowing Aerion, he could find time to do both and more. He was still on top of his precious chestnut warhorse, his silver hair almost shining golden under the sunset, the red doublet he wore seemed to be a shade deeper than it was this morning before he left. You opt not to ask for your own sanity.

"Come."

You stood up, smoothening the fabric of your dress, knowing it will make no difference if you asked why he needs you to come with. Even if you speak of other things and let alone asked him about his day, it would make no difference as he would either regale you with whatever monstrosity he managed to cook up in that pretty head of his or perhaps talk about himself once more. For what is a more interesting topic for Aerion Targaryen than Aerion Targaryen himself?

"No greeting?" he asked as he dismounted, looking at you head to toe as if judging why you wore your house colors today and not the reds he ordered you to wear. After all, as he liked saying, you are part of the dragon house now (not as a mate but as one of the trinkets a dragon hoards) thus you should dress like you are one.

"Greetings, my prince," you nod politely and catch your hand before it could rub away the tingling sensation that continued to haunt you on your neck since last night; even the otherwise mellow fabric kept irritating you. You bent down, picking up your book and hugging the hulking piece into your chest to carry it inside without tiring yourself. You knew damn well Aerion would not help you carry the heavy tome. 

He looked at you intensely for a minute.

"Smile," he ordered, gesturing for you to follow him inside the castle. "Your sulking pisses me off."

"I am not sulking," you said, trailing behind him just a step behind as to ‘show’ your ‘deference’. Walking beside him was disrespectful, according to him, as it meant you think too highly of yourself for someone who was only married to him because you are the only daughter of one of the Great Houses. Walking two steps or more behind him was also disrespectful as it meant you do not regard your wedding vows properly... whatever that meant.

He turned to face you, those eyes blazing with the intensity of a wild grassland fire, "What do you call that then?"

Finally rubbing the side of your neck to ease the sensation that did not dare fade even as you massaged it, "A reaction."

"A negative one."

"It can mean differently if one looks at a different perspective, my prince. Such as not letting one's own prejudice cloud their own judgement. Especially to their own wife."

"I do not like your tone."

"You do not like me at all," you countered, steeling yourself for what may come.

It did not come.

Instead, Aerion kept walking through the halls of Summerhall. Following behind your husband as he expected of you, you could smell the hint of sweat and rosewater from him along with the usual scent of ashes and iron as you were close by, your nose scrunched as the mixture of fragrances made you dizzy.

"Strip," Aerion demands as you enter the bedchambers you share. The room smelled of scented candles: mint and lavender, a relaxing fragrance to the otherwise tumultuous marriage with the tempestuous prince you call as your husband. The bed was made and it seemed that new sheets had been laid on it as you could smell the freshness of the laundry and not the stale scent of daily fucking you are subjected to by your ‘dearest’.

Without even an illusion of choice, you started to unlace your dress. "Perhaps a little help instead of just watching?"

"You should learn to be more pleasant. A woman who is unpleasant makes an unattractive wife." Aerion unsheaths his sword and cuts down the fabric with ease, removing the scabbard from his hips and putting it down on the side.

The cool air of the chambers makes you shiver and instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, covering your breasts for some semblance of propriety. "I am pleasant to pleasing individuals."

He hummed softly before pulling you harshly by the hair that you could feel your scalp burning. The pain is enough to make you react in surprise despite being used to his usual roughness, your mouth involuntarily opened to let out a soundless gasp that made his lips curl into a dark and wicked curve of a smirk.

"Why? Do I not please you, wife?" he asked, staring down at you with that condescending expression.

"No," you answered honestly as you stared back into those deep purple eyes. There is no use in lying when you both know the marriage never even had a honeymoon phase and you both interest yourselves with the same man. "Why? Do I please you, husband?"

"Of course not," he spat on your mouth, seizing your chin to close your lips and have you swallow his spit. "You are not him."

You could feel the fluid travel on the tip of your tongue down to your throat, the taste of Arbor lingering with the tang of his saliva. Fighting the urge to puke it out, you shut your eyes tight. Under your eyelids you could see him. Prince Valar, with that aloof smile and mismatched bluish purple and brown eyes. 

"Even if you were a woman, he would not look at you," you said as you finally looked at him again, the taste of his spit now leaving your tastebuds.

"And you are a woman yet he did not choose you," He tossed you to the bed as if you were a mere pillow. Uncaring where you might have landed or if you landed wrong as long as it was on the sheets.

"At least one of us has a chance."

"Your belief in your own desirability seems to be endless," Aerion snorted, biting his lower lip to stop from laughing like you have told him the funniest joke in his lifetime, the sound like scraping wood with your bare fingers. He moved to the bedside table, grabbing onto the dagger he kept there and idly drawing it out of its sheath. He tapped the tip of the blade on his chin repeatedly as if contemplating what to do next before stopping by the foot of the bed to fully look at your naked form now laid bare on your marriage bed. His shadow loomed at the edge like a predatory beast. His movements were slow as he took his sweet time to climb up. The soft mattress dipped and you shut your eyes instinctively, holding your breath. You could feel his weight and his gaze, before he even caged you beneath him.

He raised the hand that held the dagger, the spine of the blade caressing the side of your face, the steel frigid like ice, a stark contrast with the almost fiery warmth of his body. It was the same intensity as Prince Valarr’s that you could not help but wonder if all dragonseed are just warmer than any normal person. "A pretty face is not enough to get Valarr interested. You surely understand that?"

Your eyes locked into the steel currently pressing on your cheek as Aerion dragged it in a leisurely manner. A part of you knew Aerion would not dare to press the edge of the dagger to even put a little wound on your face as one tiny speck of imperfection on your visage will make you instantly unfuckable in his eyes. Besides, when he first used it on you, you cried for hours that it irritated him and he promised to never use it again. Surprisingly, he followed through. But the more realistic part of you knew that your husband is Aerion Targaryen and that meant he will use that blade one way or another as he would always do. 

"And a cousin does not interest him either."

Aerion deliberately moved the dagger until the sharp tip poked right under your lower eye fold, the dull back of the blade dug deeper into your skin, the coldness of steel feeling hot from the force. The power which he pressed on your cheek would not wound but it would leave a faint red line for a good hour. You gulped, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing the cold terror you felt.

He pressed his lips on your forehead then to your nose a gentle peck, stopping a mere breath away from your lips as he whispered, "Just because I let you speak does not mean you should abuse that right."

"Does the truth hurt that much?" you challenged, staring into those deep purple eyes that remind you of Valarr. 

Being with your husband like this makes you feel like you are close to the man you truly loved. And that in itself is the upside of marrying Aerion Targaryen.

"No. I refuse to rise to your bait, wife," he sits up, the spine of the dagger finds itself between your collarbone, pressed with a force that feels suffocating, different, and darker. 

The cruel glint in his purple eyes is unlike anything you've ever been on the other end of and the smirk that grew wider felt like smoke invading your lungs. Your sight darkened in panic and you immediately screeched when you processed the situation, trashing beneath him. Your legs trying to find the power to kick him away. "Fuck! Fuck you! Aerion, don't you dare use that blade on me! You promised! You prom—" 

His grin turned wider if that was possible, his free hand grabbing onto your legs and pressing your limbs down until you were folded in half, stretching your body with suddenness that had you whining in pain, your body only staying put with how his torso pinned your upper half down into position. "I won't," Aerion hushed you, as he pushed a thumb into your mouth. He continued on, despite saying he would not. Because once again, he had to remind you he is Prince Aerion Targaryen, the Monstrous. Not Prince Valarr Targaryen, the prince with a calm temperament and soft voice that you and your husband both love. 

The edge dipped into your skin, not deep to wound fatally but enough to cut and sting, the pain like a thousand paper cuts and you can feel the warmth of your blood blooming out on the end of the slash. 

A pained whine erupts from your lips when your soft skin breaks into a line, causing you to bite on his thumb, your eyes watering.

"You're pretty like this," Aerion praised. He liked it when you bled, eyes closed in fear and pain. That way he can imagine his perfect cousin instead of you—as he would not be able to see your eyes and be reminded that you are not Valarr. His dagger continued to trail from between your collarbone to the middle of your chest until he sank the dagger a little deeper once he reached the valley between your breasts, the blood dripping along the line of your new mark, following the path of the steel. 

Your whole body went rigid in pain that you could not even react, whether to weep or scream or thrash. Your lips quivered and when you looked down to see where the blade caressed your skin you could see Aerion’s vicious smile, admiring the red.

"I wish I could make you as pretty as him though," he sighed deeply in disappointment before running his wet tongue on the cut he had carved, lapping up the blood that flows as crimson as the red of House Targaryen.

The warmth and wetness of his tongue on your skin tasting your blood elicit an involuntary shiver that had you curl your toes from the feeling, "If I was, I would have declined this arrangement." You squirmed in shame as a drop of your arousal trickled down.

His face contorted into an expression of absolute disgust at feeling your wetness but he did not bother to reply, pressing the blade deeper into the wound to have more of that beautiful crimson blood flowing.

“Stop, you promised,” you hiccupped as tears started to stream down your face. The burning ache you felt was unbearable now, the valley of your breasts felt like it was on fire. Your heartbeat sounded too loud in your ears. “You said you wouldn’t,” you felt your face warm with stray hot tears, both your hands on his shoulder blades trying to shove him off of you. But you had no more strength as this kind of agony inflicted on the flesh was not common to you.

Aerion stayed firm from where he was on top of you, chuckling at your fruitless endeavor. He kisses you, parting your lips slowly with his tongue as he pets your hair in a cavalier manner, hot breath right inside your mouth and his hand starts kneading your tits, playfully flicking your nipple until you made a sound, the action making your skin stretch and more blood flowed, “Oh, you act like you have never been cut open before.”

“You sure get your cock wet by torturing people, don’t you?” you tried to sound defiant but you knew it sounded pathetic with how you were sobbing from the pain that persisted in your chest and your neck and the fact that you could feel your cunt throb despite the distress he caused. 

“Stop yammering, wife, you are making this harder for me,” he said from where he licked hot strips on the wound he made, lapping up the blood like it's the finest wine he ever tasted, peppering soft kisses in between to soften the blow. Blade now forgotten on the side as he fondled your breasts and pressed and tweaked your nipple.

Try as you might to protest and escape, everything that came out from your mouth was profanities and reluctant moans of pleasure. You were furious that he broke his promise, disgusted with yourself that you got aroused by looking at his eyes even though he was not exactly the prince you wanted even if those eyes are the same hue. 

His thumb circles your hardening nipples, your body burning up with the onslaught of sensations, flicking his tongue back and forth until he catches all the blood. 

When Aerion finally surfaced from between your breasts, he sat up and the light from the candles made his face look soft and it reminded you of Valarr. Aerion looked beautiful in that angle that it made your pussy throb, hot and hungry. You tried to remind yourself it was not him and Aerion would never be him but you were also and has always been desperate enough for Valarr that Aerion being of close age and had eyes the same color as Valarr’s left eye was enough.

“You’re fucking pathetic,” his face contorted into disgust, clicking his tongue, as he could see your imagination getting into your head. Acting like you thinking about his cousin would ruin Valarr’s identity.

You hid your excitement by glaring at him with a mocking grin. "Oh I don't know, I'm not the one who gets hard by being called cousin."

At your words, Aerion roughly spun you around, pushing your face down the pillows, muffling any protests that may slip out of your lips. An involuntary sob of arousal croaked out from your mouth, the manhandling and the dulling pain of your wound pressed on the blankets tickling your senses in a sadistically arousing way. His hand kept the hold onto the back of your head, keeping you down while you could hear him undo his trousers. It took a moment or so before he finally let you go but only to forcibly pry your legs open that caused you to shriek.

“This is not your first time, wife, do not act like you are a bashful maiden,” he chastised, one hand delivering a loud smack that caused your ass to jiggle. You bit your lips, not wanting to make a noise as it would only cause Aerion to raise his hand again. 

Even if you couldn’t see him, you could feel his eyes on your body. He pried your backside open until your labia parted wide enough to be in his full view. A shiver traveled to your spine as the cold air hit your dampness, shooting straight to your core. You knew that much to your reluctance and the pain, your cunt is already glistening with wetness.

The next thing you registered before you could even squirm in embarrassment is pain once more. Aerion has pushed all of his cock inside in one stroke without even bothering to prepare you. 

Something inside you crumbled as a moan that sounded more like a scream erupted from the very back of your throat, your eyes squeezing shut before blowing wide. It hurt and it felt too much, like an invasion inside you that tore your walls wide open. You could feel every vein of him inside you. Aerion was not thick but he sure was long and it filled you until the very end of your womb. 

You did not even have the chance to get used to him inside you when he started a pace that felt like a punishment. You tried to move but having your husband’s cock inside you while you weren’t thoroughly soaked felt like being nailed to a wall by the blinding pain and the way your cunt felt full and is getting oh-so-desperately sopping from his pounding. Your fingers clutched onto the pillows as if it was your lifeline, as if it would help you brace with the deep thrusts that did not fail to make you see stars. 

You tried to pay attention how much time has already passed by staring at the candle on the bedside but you felt too fucked out—your brain was imagining someone else while your husband rammed his length hard and fast, the pain of the wound now forgotten, replaced by the deliciousness of the quick pace Aerion has set on pumping your soaked cunt. He moved your hips and legs around to find a deeper angle as you clenched around him hard, your body trying to keep his cock deep within your walls, his balls slapping onto your clit. Each thrust brings you to an ecstatic state that leaves you unable to think, your body burning, sweating down as much as the fluids that sloshed out of your pussy.

“Try not to enjoy this too much,” Aerion bent down to kiss the bruise he put on your neck last night, his other hand coming down to clamp down your throat tightly, making you choke out whines and spots dance around your vision. He does not stop his pace, in fact he kept fucking into your cunt faster that your slick started to overflow inside and spill down on his length down to your pussy lips until it soaked your thighs. His balls kept slapping onto your clit making your juices splatter all over your skin and his, making the sound of skin to skin more lewd than it already is.

You gasped for air as his hand closed onto your neck tighter, struggling to maintain your focus as the lewd squelching of your copulation was the only thing loud enough for you to understand, too dizzy from the feeling of his cockhead kissing your cervix. The filthy sounds in the air and the movement of his cock inside you felt hypnotic that you grinded yourself onto him for more.

"Fuck, Valarr,” he groaned as his thrusts became more erratic, letting your neck go before you could pass out and so he could focus more on his own release. His cousin’s name spilling out of his mouth over and over like he’s reciting a spell. 

An overwhelming heat flooded inside you as he painted your insides white, making you explode and come from the sheer hotness of his seed. His dick continuously pressed onto that spot that made your eyes roll to the back of your head at every stroke.

Aerion pulled out quickly as soon as he finished, not even letting your cunt finish spasming around him. You felt used and exposed with how easily he pulled away from your leaking pussy, your slick and his cum oozing out, staining the new covers.

You slowly turned around and saw him already standing up and leaving the bed. “Where are you off to?”

He paused from where he was busy with putting on his breeches, “Do not be concerned, I shall not be fucking some wench afterward.” 

You made a surprised noise, “Since when have you found the restraint?”

He looked at your face with that signature questioning look, as if you were being unreasonable for not believing his words. “Since we got married.”

“Why?” you reached to run the side of your neck.

He snorted as he walked to the mirror to check on his face like he was the one held on a knifepoint and had his neck almost crushed. “You are not special.”

“I never said I was.”

“Yet you question.”

“I merely did not expect you to have some morality left on your bones.”

“Valarr is coming to Summerhall,” he said, as if that answers the question. Somehow it does. Aerion may be a piece of shit but he does behave a tiny bit when his cousin is around if it meant Valarr would tolerate his improper japes and smothering attention.

“I see,” you bit your lip, trying not to smile at the thought of seeing the prince once more. You missed staring at him from afar (gods knew your husband also had the same habit). “Can you pass me a rag?”

“Do it yourself,” he said even as he carelessly tossed the fabric to you. It landed on the foot of the bed miserably. “You should be thankful I even touched you.”

“You make it sound like I chose this,” you sneered as you crawled on the bed to reach out for the rag. His words made you hate how you finished from his touch (even if in your mind it was Valarr—makes the two of you). How he made you feel dirty for also feeling pleasure in the intimacy you just shared even if it was just a biological reaction to pleasure.

“Did you not?” he looked at you from the mirror, his purple eyes fiery with such intensity. “Ladies like you desire for nothing more than to be part of the royal family to elevate your family’s status.”

You blinked at his audacity, a stray drop of blood dripping from the slash between your chest, falling onto the fabric, mixing with his and your fluids. He is literally the second son of the fourth son yet he acts with such importance it astounds you that you stopped wiping your thighs. “I have less choices than yours, Aerion. At the very least you could acknowledge my sufferings as your wife.”