the problem started, as most problems do, with something perfectly innocent.

you’d mentioned it offhand one sunday afternoon, sprawled across the cashmere blanket daeron had laid out on the 10th fairway for your “picnic.” the sun was high, the grass was impossibly green, and daeron was three-putting his way into a quiet, brooding mood.

“i think i’d like to try tennis,” you’d said, popping a grape into your mouth.

daeron, lining up a five-foot putt he’d already mentally missed, didn’t look up. “hmm? why? it’s just running and hitting. no artistry.”

“it looks fun. dynamic. and i need the cardio,” you’d shrugged, watching a group walk by on the adjacent path, tennis racket covers slung over their shoulders.

he’d finally sunk the putt with a sigh of relief, as if he’d just conquered a dragon, not tapped a ball into a hole. he walked back to you, his smile returning. “if you want to run around, darling, i’ll chase you. much more fun.” he’d leaned down to kiss you, his lips tasting like sunscreen and iced tea. the subject was dropped.

but the idea stuck. it festered. watching daeron practice for hours, a study in still, focused perfection, started to feel less like watching a master and more like watching a statue. beautiful, but immobile. you wanted to move.

the solution presented itself at a targaryen family gathering at summerhall, the sprawling estate that served as the clan’s sporting playground. there was a grass court. and on it, moving with a predator’s grace, was valarr.

you knew him, of course. daeron’s cousin. the “other” sporting targaryen. where daeron was dreamy and languid, valarr was intense. every serve was a thunderclap, every volley a knife’s edge. he wasn’t playing his opponent; he was dismantling him.

you stood at the edge of the court with daeron, who was swirling a gin and tonic, looking vaguely bored.

“valarr’s form is off,” daeron murmured, not taking his eyes off his drink. “he’s opening his shoulders too early on the backhand. he’ll have a chronic shoulder issue by thirty.”

“he looks incredible,” you breathed, without thinking.

daeron’s eyes snapped to you, a flicker of something dark in the depths. then it was gone, smoothed over by a practiced, lazy smile. “he’s all brute force. no subtlety. golf is a mind game. tennis is just… noise.”

after the match, valarr approached, a towel around his neck. sweat dampened his silver hair at the temples, and his sharp, handsome face was flushed with victory. his eyes, a shade darker and colder than daeron’s, found yours.

“you watched,” he stated, his voice lower, rougher than daeron’s melodic tone.

“you were amazing,” you said, feeling daeron’s arm tighten around your waist.

“she’s thinking of taking up the game,” daeron said, his voice light but with an edge. “i told her it’s a waste of time for a beginner. all that running for nothing.”

valarr’s gaze didn’t leave you. he took a slow sip of water. “beginners are the most rewarding to teach. you have no bad habits to unlearn. just… raw potential.” a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “i coach at the kingsguard club. i could give you an assessment. see if you have the instinct for it.”

daeron laughed, a soft, dismissive sound. “she doesn’t need the instinct for tennis, valarr. she’s doing just fine.”

but you were already nodding, a strange thrill buzzing in your chest. “i’d like that. thank you.”

the look daeron gave you then was complex—a mix of surprise, betrayal, and a cold, dawning calculation. he covered it with a chuckle, pulling you closer. “if my girl wants to play tennis, who am i to stop her? just don’t let him work you too hard, sweetheart. he has a reputation for being… demanding.”

the first lesson was a revelation.

the kingsguard club’s indoor courts were hushed, cavernous spaces smelling of lemon polish and new tennis balls. valarr was a different person here. the cold intensity remained, but it was channeled into a terrifying focus on you.

he didn’t smile. he didn’t offer empty praise. he stood across the net, his eyes missing nothing.

“your stance is too narrow. widen it. shoulder width.” his voice echoed in the empty space. you adjusted. “now, watch the ball. not me. the ball. from the moment it leaves my hand. follow it with your eyes until it hits your strings.” he fed you gentle, easy balls. you missed the first ten, swinging wildly. he didn’t sigh. he didn’t get frustrated. he just kept feeding them, a relentless, patient machine. “again.”

and then, on the eleventh try, there was a solid, satisfying thwock. the ball sailed back, clearing the net with a foot to spare.

valarr didn’t move to return it. he let it bounce past him. he just nodded, once. “there. that’s the feeling. remember it. that is control.”

it was nothing like the dreamy, distracted golf lessons with daeron, where his attention was always half on some internal vision. valarr’s attention was a physical weight, a laser pointed directly at you. it was unnerving. it was exhilarating.

after the hour, muscles you didn’t know you had were screaming. valarr handed you a bottle of cold water, his fingers brushing yours.

“you’re a quick study,” he said, his tone giving nothing away. “you have good hand-eye coordination. and you’re not afraid of the work.”

“it’s harder than it looks,” you panted, wiping your face with a towel.

“everything worth doing is,” he replied, his dark eyes holding yours. “same time next week?”

“yes,” you said, without hesitation.

daeron’s reaction that evening was a masterpiece of passive aggression. you’d met him at his penthouse, still buzzing from the lesson.

“so?” he asked, pouring you a glass of wine. “how was the great valarr? did he bark orders at you until you cried?”

“it was great,” you said, taking the glass. “really hard. but great. i actually hit a few.”

“wonderful,” he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. you could smell the sandalwood of his cologne, the old paper scent of the books in his study. “sweetheart, i’m proud of you.” he kissed your neck. “but don’t forget your first love, hmm? the greens are waiting for us this weekend. i’ve booked us a tee time at dawn. it’s magical.”

you’d agreed, but your mind was already on your next tennis lesson, on the clean, sharp lines of the court, on the sound of a perfectly struck ball.

the weeks began to tessellate into a new, dual rhythm life.

mornings with daeron were soft and slow. the mist over the fairways, his quiet, rambling monologues about the philosophy of a swing, the way he’d kiss you senseless behind the maintenance shed when he got bored. it was familiar. it was comfortable. it was a lined cage you knew the contours of by heart.

afternoons with valarr were brutal. the stark white lines of the court, the punishing pop pop pop of ball drills, his voice cutting through your fatigue. “move your feet!” “prepare earlier!” “that was sloppy. again.” there was no coddling. no dreamy poetry. just cold, hard improvement. and when you achieved it—when you finally got your serve to consistently land in the box, when you won your first point off him in a rally—the reward was a single, slight nod from him. it felt like winning a war.

you started to change. your body grew leaner, stronger. you carried yourself differently. you bought tennis skirts and sleek dri-fit tops, a silent rebellion against the lazy, elegant golf course dresses daeron loved to see you in.

daeron noticed. of course he did.

“you’re always tired now,” he commented one evening, tracing circles on your bare arm as you lay in his bed. you had a lesson with valarr early the next morning and had yawned twice. “it’s a good tired,” you murmured, already half-asleep. “is it?” his voice was soft, dangerous. “you used to have energy for me. now you come home smelling of sweat and that cheap clay court dust, and you just pass out.” you turned to look at him. his beautiful face was shadowed in the moonlight, his expression unreadable. “i’m just trying something new, daeron. it makes me happy.” “he makes you happy?” the question was a razor blade wrapped in silk. “the sport makes me happy,” you corrected, but the distinction felt thin, even to you. he sighed, a long, wounded sound, and pulled you against his chest. “i just miss you,” he whispered into your hair. “i feel like i’m losing you to a… a racket.”

the jealousy, once a subtle scent in the air, became a thick fog.

he started “dropping by” the kingsguard club. he’d lounge in the viewing gallery above the court, sipping an espresso, watching your lessons with valarr with a detached, amused expression that was anything but amused. his presence was a star, warping the gravity in the room.

valarr ignored him completely. if anything, daeron’s presence seemed to make him more intense, more physically demonstrative in his coaching. he’d step in close to adjust your grip, his chest against your back, his hands covering yours on the racket handle. he’d linger. he’d point out the mechanics of your swing, his voice a low murmur right by your ear. it was clinical. it was also undeniably intimate.

“your elbow is dropping. it needs to be here.” his hand would slide from your hand to your forearm, positioning it. his touch was cool, firm. “like a lever. precise.” from the gallery, you’d feel daeron’s stare like a physical touch, hot and angry.

one day, after a particularly grueling session of serve practice, valarr handed you your towel. you were both breathing heavily.

“you’re getting strong,” he observed, his mismatched eyes sweeping over you in a way that was purely analytical, and yet… “thanks to you,” you said. “no,” he shook his head slightly. “thanks to you. i just provide the direction. the will has to be your own.” he paused, looking up at the empty gallery—daeron had left halfway through, slamming the door. “he doesn’t like you having a will of your own, does he?” the question was so blunt it stole your breath. “he’s just… protective,” you said weakly. valarr gave a short, derisive sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “i know my cousin. what he calls protection, the rest of the world calls possession.” he picked up a stray ball, squeezing it in his palm. “be careful. dreamers have the sharpest teeth when their dreams are threatened.”

the confrontation finally erupted not on the golf course or the tennis court, but in the sterile, echoing parking garage of the kingsguard club.

your lesson had run late. valarr had been teaching you how to handle a volley at the net, which required you to stand very close to each other, reacting in split seconds. there had been a lot of sudden movements, collisions, his hands on your shoulders to steady you, your laughter at your own clumsiness.

you walked out together, your racket bag over your shoulder, still buzzing with adrenaline. and there, leaning against the driver’s side door of your car—his car, the one he’d bought for you—was daeron.

he looked like a fallen angel. his silver hair was messy, as if he’d been running his hands through it. his eyes were bright, too bright, and his perfect mouth was set in a thin, cruel line.

“well,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “look at the two athletes. all sweaty and… coordinated.”

“daeron,” you started, your heart hammering. “what are you doing here?”

“waiting for my girlfriend,” he said, pushing off the car. “who seems to have forgotten she had plans with me tonight. but that’s okay. you were clearly… busy.” his gaze sliced over to valarr, who had stopped walking, his expression turning to granite.

“the lesson ran over,” valarr said, his tone flat. “my fault.”

“i’m sure it was,” daeron purred, taking a step toward him. the air crackled with familiar tension. “you always were so thorough, cousin. so… hands on.”

“daeron, stop it,” you said, stepping between them. the smell of his cologne was overpowering, mixed with something sharper, like fear or rage.

he looked down at you, and the mask of calm finally shattered. the hurt and fury in his eyes were raw, terrifying. “stop what? stop noticing that my girlfriend spends more time with you than with me? that she comes home smelling like him?” he jadded a finger toward valarr. “that she talks about topspin and footwork with more passion than she’s talked about anything with me in months?”

“it’s just a sport!” you cried, tears of frustration springing to your eyes.

“it’s not!” he roared, the sound echoing off the concrete pillars. he grabbed your upper arms, his grip tight. “it’s him! it’s always been him! you’re choosing him! over me! in my own family!”

“let her go, daeron,” valarr’s voice cut through the echo, cold and deadly quiet. he hadn’t moved, but he looked ready to spring.

daeron laughed, a wild, unhinged sound. he released you, shoving you back slightly as he turned to face valarr fully. “or what? you’ll give me a tennis lesson? teach me about control?” he spat the word. “you have no idea what control is. your life is a series of reactions. a ball comes, you hit it. my life—our life—is a creation. a dream. and you’re trying to shatter it with your fucking backhand.”

he turned back to you, his chest heaving. the anger bled out of him, leaving something worse: a desperate, shattered vulnerability. his eyes swam with tears. “why?” he whispered, the word breaking. “why is he better? tell me what he gives you that i don’t. please. i’ll give you more. i’ll give you anything.”

you were crying now too, torn in two. “daeron, it’s not a competition…”

“everything is a competition!” he screamed, then pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. when he lowered them, he looked exhausted, hollow. “just… get in the car. please. let’s go home.”

he didn’t wait for you. he got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door.

you looked at valarr. he stood like a statue, his face impassive, but his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

“go,” he said, his voice rough. “he’s right about one thing. this was always going to end here.”

you wanted to say something, to explain, but no words came. you just got into the passenger seat. daeron peeled out of the garage, the tires screeching a painful lament against the concrete.

the drive to his penthouse was a silent, pressurized chamber. you felt the words he wasn’t saying crowding the air between you, thick as the city smog. he didn’t touch you. he didn’t look at you. his hands on the steering wheel were the only things moving, pale and tense. when you finally stepped into the cool, silent expanse of his home, the door clicking shut behind you felt like the sealing of a tomb.

he didn’t speak immediately. he walked to the sideboard, the slow, deliberate click of crystal as he poured two fingers of amber whiskey the only sound. he stared into the glass, his back to you, his shoulders rigid.

“i want you to quit,” he said, his voice low, stripped of all its usual melodic lilt. it was flat. final. “no more lessons. no more valarr. no more… anything that isn’t us.”

“daeron, you can’t just—”

“i can.” he turned then, and the look on his face stole the rest of your protest. it wasn’t the wild, tear-streaked fury from the garage. this was worse. this was a resolution. the dreamer had woken up to a nightmare, and his eyes were clear with a terrible pain. “i have to. or i will lose my mind. do you understand? it is not a request.” a single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his cheekbone. he didn’t seem to notice. “you are the only real thing in my world. the only thing i didn’t dream up. and i feel you… slipping into someone else’s story. a story with no room for me. so i am begging you. choose. the court him… or me.”

the ultimatum hung in the air, cruel and honest. you thought of the satisfying thwock of a perfect return, of muscles burning with honest effort, of valarr’s silent, approving nod. you thought of freedom.

then you looked at daeron. at the beautiful, shattered prince who built you a gilded world and was now watching its foundations dissolve. who loved you not like a man loves a woman, but like a drowning man loves air—with a desperate, all-consuming need that left no room for anything else.

the choice wasn’t between a sport and a man. it was between a version of yourself you were just discovering, and the obliterating force of his love.

your surrender wasn’t a walk. it was a collapse. a sob broke from your throat, and your knees buckled. you didn’t move toward the door. you took one stumbling step toward him, and that was all the answer he needed.

he moved then, not with the frantic energy from before, but with a certainty. he caught you before you fell, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. he didn’t kiss you. he just held you against his chest, your face buried in the soft cotton of his polo shirt, smelling his familiar scent of sandalwood and grass. he carried you, not to the bedroom, but to the vast, dark living room, to the plush, oversized rug before the cold fireplace

he knelt, laying you down upon it with a reverence that felt like a funeral rite. the city lights bled through the windows, painting his honey blond hair in streaks of cool neon

“look at me,” he commanded, his voice a soft, ragged whisper. “only at me.”

his hands went to your clothes, but they didn’t tear. they worked with a slow, deliberate precision. the buttons of your tennis top were slipped free, one by one, the sound unbearably loud in the silence. the zipper of your skirt was lowered with a hushed, metallic sigh. he peeled the fabric from you as if unwrapping something sacred and fragile, his fingertips brushing your skin, leaving trails of fire. his eyes never left yours, drinking in every shiver, every hitched breath.

when you were bare before him, he didn’t immediately cover you with his body. he knelt back on his heels, his gaze a physical caress that felt more intimate than any touch. he was memorizing you, reclaiming every inch of territory he felt he’d lost.

“mine,” he breathed, the word not a growl, but a prayer. “every part. always mine.”

then, with that same slow intensity, he began to remove his own clothes. the polo shirt lifted over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso. his belt buckle clinked softly. each movement was deliberate.he was shedding the boy, revealing the man beneath—the one capable of this dark, all-consuming devotion.

when he finally lay beside you, skin to skin, the heat of him was a shock. he didn’t push into you. he worshipped you with his mouth.

his kisses began at your temple, soft as moth wings. they trailed down your jaw, to the frantic pulse at the base of your throat. he mapped your collarbones with his lips, his tongue tracing the hollow there. he moved lower, with agonizing slowness, paying homage to every curve, every plane. when he took a peak into his mouth, his touch was not greedy, but reverent, a slow, sucking pull that drew a broken moan from your lips and made your back arch off the rug. he soothed the ache with his tongue, then moved lower, across the trembling plane of your stomach.

his hands joined the pilgrimage, skating over your hips, your thighs, learning you anew. his fingers traced the inside of your knee, then higher, a feather-light touch that made you jerk. he parted you with care, and when he finally lowered his mouth to your core, it was not with frantic hunger, but with a devastating, focused intent. he tasted you slowly, learning the rhythm that made you gasp, the pressure that made you whimper. he was an artist, and you were his medium. he built the pleasure not in a sudden wave, but in a slow, rising tide, layer upon exquisite layer, until you were trembling on the edge, your fingers tangled in his ashy blond hair, begging without words.

only then, when you were liquid and mindless with need, when his name was the only thought in your head, did he move over you. he braced himself on his elbows, cradling your face between his hands. his eyes were pools of dark violet, shimmering with unshed tears and a possessive love so deep it bordered on madness.

“tell me,” he whispered, his voice thick. “tell me you choose me.”

you were beyond words, beyond thought. you could only nod, a frantic, desperate movement.

he entered you then, but not with a thrust. he pushed forward with a slow, inexorable pressure, a claiming that was as much emotional as it was physical. he filled you completely, stretching you, overwhelming you, until you felt him etched into the very core of your being. he stopped, fully sheathed, and dropped his forehead to yours, his breath coming in ragged gusts.

“do you feel me?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “do you feel where you belong?”

you could only whimper, your body adjusting to the profound, slow fullness of him.

he began to move then,it was not fast, but it was deep. each withdrawal was a sweet agony of loss; each return, a profound, grounding possession. he moved not just with his hips, but with his whole being, his eyes locked on yours, pouring his soul into yours with every measured stroke. the pleasure was a slow, coiling burn, building from your joined core, spreading through your veins like molten gold. it was not the sharp, frantic climax from before.

“my dream… my only dream… you are everything…”

you felt yourself coming apart not in a shatter, but in a slowunraveling. the orgasm bloomed through you, warm and deep and endless, pulling a long, sobbing cry from your throat. it seemed to go on forever, each wave milking him, pulling him deeper into you.

he followed you over the edge with a broken, gasping cry of your name, his body shuddering as his own release was drawn from him by the pulsing grip of yours. he collapsed onto you, his full weight pinning you to the rug, his face buried in the curve of your neck. you could feel the hot spill of his tears against your skin, the frantic beat of his heart against yours.

for a long, long time, you lay there in the silence, tangled together, the only sound your mingled, slowing breaths.

finally, he stirred.he lifted himself off you, gathered you into his arms, and carried you to the bedroom. he cleaned you with a damp, warm cloth, his touches gentle now, almost shy. he pulled you into the bed, wrapping the duvet around you both, and then wrapped himself around you, his body curving to fit yours perfectly. he held you so tightly it should have felt like confinement, but it felt like the only solid ground in a world

“sleep,” he murmured into your hair, his voice hoarse but calm. “i have you. i’ll always have you.”

and as you drifted into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, you knew he was right. the tennis racket, the court, the approving nod of another man—they were already fading, distant memories of a life that wasn’t yours. your life was here, in this bed, in this gilded cage held together by daeron. he had taken you back, slowly, completely and in the doing, had erased every part of you that dared to dream of anything else.

“you trust me, right?” is the first thing cousin!daeron asks before kissing your inner thighs.

you’re not entirely sure you can trust cousin!daeron, he’s been pushing you to do things you know a princess shouldn’t do. but with his head between your legs and your skirts pushed up over your thighs there isn’t much else you can do. besides every time you try to protest against this, or push him away he speaks over you and gently pushes you back down.

a princess should keep her virtue, that’s what the septons have always told you, the faith, your family— cousin!daeron promises you can keep your virtue in tact as he pushes you down onto the pillows behind you.

cousin!daeron chuckles as he looks up at you, noticing how scared you look. “you’re trembling,” he notes, before parting your thighs apart. “i’m not going to hurt you.”

cousin!daeron kisses your thighs first, gentle as he pecks at them before his tongue darts out his mouth and he licks. you hands tremble by your sides and you clench them together as his lips trail up nearing your bare—

you yelp when cousin!daeron nips at your subtle skin. your hand goes to push him off but his hand catches it, slipping his fingers between yours as he sucks on the mark.

cousin!daeron chuckles once again at the way you thighs clench around his face, his breath fanning over your bare cunt. you tense at the feel of it, letting you let out a shaky breath when his lips hover over you, feeling his breath once again when he tells you to, “relax.”

you try your hardest to lie still on the blankets, nails digging into the palm of your hands to keep you from wriggling. you even take a breath to calm your erratic nerves, sucking in a deep breath and trying to visualise your muscles untightening as cousin!daeron kisses the cress between your thigh and your cunt.

your fingers tighten around his own when cousin!daeron kisses over your folds, his lips there for a brief second before he ventures further down, kissing gently before he reaches to your most wet area.

cousin!daeron lets out a low chuckle before you feel his tongue slip out, licking up the liquid that has spilled from your hole.

you can’t help but wriggle when cousin!daeron’s tongue shoves itself deep inside of you, trying to push yourself away. only he doesn’t let you, hooking his arms around your thighs and holding your thighs tight so your cunt is flush against his face.

cousin!daeron tells you to “keep quiet” while he licks unapologetically at your clit, making the most obscene noises that fill the room. you can’t tell him how this feels strange, can’t tell him to stop because you’re too busy biting back moans from the back of your throat.

cousin!daeron feels proud when you scream his name between clenched teeth, how he can tell you’re desperate to tell him something but in the heat of your climax all you can manage to get out is his name. he feels a rush of pride when he kisses all the way from your soaked mound till your begging for respite, pushing him off with weak hands.

cousin!daeron adores being the one to pull you into his chest after you’ve come down, to quieten your sobs as he holds you to him. he’s good at telling you it’s alright, telling you that it’s okay to enjoy this. he enjoys corrupting you, destroying those ideas the septas have built in your brain, watching the guilt wreak havoc on your body when ever he even looks your way.

sunlight was already filtering through the blinds, casting long, lazy shadows across the room, but the warmth radiating from the body next to you felt much more potent.

bobby was awake before you were, which was a rare sight, pressing soft lazy kisses against your forehead and the nape of your neck. it was a grounding, intimate sort of wake-up call that had you melting back into the pillows, not quite ready to face the day ahead. when he finally pulled away, you felt the sudden emptiness of the space beside you, but you were still too sleepy to protest.

he slipped out of bed, the mattress springs creaking softly in protest, and padded barefoot toward the bathroom. you trailed after him a few minutes later after you slipped into the oversized t-shirt he’d left draped over the back of the chair. it swallowed you whole, smelling unmistakably of him, and you felt a sudden wave of domestic contentment wash over you.

in the bathroom mirror, you stood practically staring at him shirtless, blonde hair still messy from sleep.

you leaned against the sink counter next to him as he brushed his teeth, watching him in the reflection. he hands you your toothbrush without even asking, the gesture is so automatic that neither of you think about it anymore.

soon you're both standing side by side at the sink, brushing your teeth in comfortable silence. the morning light spills through the small window above the bathtub, painting everything gold.

he finished quickly, spat into the sink, he turned off the water and turned to you, “gonna go make breakfast,” he says, his hand rubbing over hip in soothing motions, “you want coffee, or you good?”

“no coffee, thanks,” you mutter, he gives you one last look before reaching back to give your ass a firm, playful slap then wandering out to make breakfast.

you finish up and pad back the bed, sliding back under the covers. you’re not quite ready to fully start your day yet, not when the world outside feels so far away. the bed dips as he returns, a bowl of cereal in his hand, and you watch him from the blankets.

he’s shirtless, the morning light catching the lines of his chest and the dusting of hair that leads down toward the waistband of his pajama pants. he’s slurping the cereal loudly, the sound loud in the quiet room, but you barely notice. you can’t take your eyes off him. he looks so good like this. so effortlessly handsome.

you watched him finish his cereal, the spoon scraping against the ceramic bowl, the sound echoing in the quiet room. he set the empty bowl on the nightstand, his movements languid, still heavy with sleep.

“you are so sexy.” you say straight up, his eyes found yours in the dim light, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.

"am i?" he drawled, the corner of his mouth ticking up into a smirk. he set the bowl down with a soft clink and shifted, turning his full attention to you. the languid sleepiness evaporated from his eyes, replaced by a sharp, predatory glint.

“mhmm” you hummed as he leaned closer.

then he reaches out, hooking a finger into the collar of the oversized t-shirt you wore, his shirt, and gave it a little tug. “why don't you come over here and show me just how sexy you think i am?"

he didn't wait for an answer. he closed the remaining distance, his lips crashing against yours.

"come on," he muttered against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. "put in a little work for me babe." he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and intense. "get on and ride me."

he guided you, his hands strong and sure as he positioned you to straddle his lap. you could feel how hard he was already, his arousal pressing hot and heavy against you slightly.

"that's it," he praised, his hands gripping your hips, encouraging you to move. "grind that wet pussy on me, yeahhhhhh. just like that."

you started to move, a slow roll of your hips that had him groaning, his head falling back against the headboard. his eyes had a look of pure, unadulterated lust.

the oversized t-shirt was now rucked up around your waist, every nerve ending was on fire, screaming for his touch, his weight, his anything. his pajama pants doing a piss-poor job of hiding the now full on erection straining against the fabric.

"get your cock out, bobby-" you demanded, your voice a raw, desperate whine. you tried to grind your hips up toward him, to get any kind of friction.

"patience, baby," he cooed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. he leaned forward slightly, the movement causing the bulge in his pants to brush against your core, and you let out a choked sob.

"bobby, please!" you cried, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of your eyes. your entire body felt like a live wire, humming with a desperate, frantic energy. "if you don't shove your dick in me in the next 5 seconds i'm gonna scream-"

"fuck- alright, hold on-" his composure finally cracked, he fumbled with the drawstring of his pajama pants, his fingers clumsy in his haste. yanking the pants down just enough to free himself.

he was hard and flushed in his hand, the rosy pink tip already glistening with precum. he gave himself a few rough pumps with his fist, his eyes locked on your exposed, needy cunt, and the sight of him so undone by your desperation sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.

"spread your legs wider," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "wider. let me see that pretty little pussy."

you complied instantly, you opened yourself to him. he didn't wait another second. he lined himself up with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock teasing you, and then, with one sharp, powerful thrust, he was inside you.

the sudden, brutal stretch of him stole your breath. his hips flush against yours, his balls pressed against your ass. he gave you a moment to adjust, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you'd have bruises tomorrow.

"fuck, you're so wet," he groaned, his voice strained.

he started to move you then, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that had you seeing stars. each thrust up his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that made your toes curl.

"is this what you wanted?" he panted, his voice a raw, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire body.

his fingers were digging into the flesh of your hips, hard enough to leave bruises, using the leverage to pull you down onto him with every upward snap of his own hips. the sound was obscene, a wet, rhythmic slapping that echoed in the quiet room, mingling with the creak of the bed springs and your own ragged breaths.

"you wanted me to fuck you like this? hmm?”

you could only moan in response, a high, desperate sound that was half pleasure, half surrender.

your hands had flown up to tangle in the messy blonde hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers clenching and unclenching with each powerful thrust.

the angle was perfect, the head of his cock brushing against that sensitive spot deep inside you with every stroke, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure shooting up your spine. all you could do was hold on and take it, your body a pliant instrument for his pleasure.

suddenly, he stopped. his hips stilled, and he was just buried inside you, throbbing and hot. the sudden absence of movement was a jolt, a denial that made you whine in protest. he pulled his head back, his hands still gripping your hips, forcing you to stillness.

"hey," he said, his voice sharp, cutting through the haze of your arousal. "answer me. m'talking to you."

the command cut through the fog. you blinked, trying to focus your vision, trying to form words. "y-yes!" you stammered, your voice trembling with the effort of speaking. "yes! i said yes!"

a slow grin spread across his face, a look of satisfaction. "yeahhh," he breathed, the sound a low, approving rumble. he gave you one last, hard grind of his hips, making you gasp, before he abruptly lifted you off him as if you weighed nothing. he maneuvered you, his hands firm and directive, until you were on your hands and knees in the center of the bed.

"get on all fours," he commanded, his hand coming down in a sharp, stinging smack on your exposed ass. you yelped, more from surprise than pain. "ass up, c'mon. present that pretty little pussy to me."

you scrambled to obey, arching your back and lowering your shoulders to the mattress, pushing your ass up into the air. you felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable, and the feeling sent a fresh wave of liquid heat pooling in your core. you could hear the rustle of fabric as he moved behind you, and then his hands were on you again, spreading your cheeks apart.

"look at that, baby" he murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. he ran a thumb through your slick folds, circling your entrance but not entering, teasing you until you were squirming, pushing back against him in silent supplication.

he positioned himself at your entrance and, with one powerful, relentless thrust, he was buried to the hilt. the new angle was deeper, more intense, and you cried out, your fingers digging into the sheets as he set a punishing rhythm, his hips slapping against your ass with each brutal stroke.

"that's it," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as he fucked into you. "take it-”

his words were filthy, degrading, and they only made you want him more. you pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, your body moving in a primal rhythm as he chased his release, dragging you along with him.

he leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth next to your ear. "come on, babe," he whispered through loud pants, moaning and huffing into your ear. "cum, let me feel you cream on my cock. fucking do it."

“ohmygodohmygodbobby!-” you moan loudly,

"shhh, shut up, shut up," he suddenly hissed, his hand came down hard on your ass, the sharp smack echoing in the quiet room. "you're going to wake everybody up-"

"god, you're so fucking tight," he groaned, removing his hand from your mouth to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back. "such a good girl, ive got such a good ass girl-"

the condescending tone was still there, but now it was laced with a desperate need that mirrored your own.

you buried your face in the sheets, muffling your cries. your hands fisting in the sheets as he drove into you, his thrusts became more desperate and his hand coming down to rub your pulsing clit. "cum, cum f’me," he panted, his voice strained.

and with his words, the coil in your stomach snapped, pleasure washing over you in intense, dizzying waves. your vision went white, your body arching as you cried out his name. he followed you over the edge moments later, his warm cum pumping into you in spurts, leaking out on the sides of his cock.

he pressed a soft, almost tender kiss to one of your ass cheeks, a stark contrast to the brutal fucking he'd just given you. you felt the bed shift as he moved, and then the sudden, empty feeling as he pulled out. a moment later, you felt the warm, sticky evidence of his release begin to trickle down your inner thigh.

and then it hit you. a jolt of cold, sobering reality that cut through the post-orgasmic haze.

"bobby," you said, your voice flat as you collapsed onto your side, pulling a pillow against your chest. "you didn't use a condom."

he looked back at you, "hey," he said, shrugging as he grabbed his pajama pants from the floor. "you were the one who got all horny and demanding. 'shove your dick in me,' i believe were your exact words. what was i supposed to do? say no?"

the sheer audacity of it made you sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest.

"i was supposed to say no? you're the one who forgot! god, you're such an asshole," you snapped, the anger warring with the lingering pleasure still humming through your veins. "now i have to go get a plan b."

"alright, alright, calm down," he said, his tone dismissive as he pulled his pants back on, not even bothering with underwear. he stood up, running a hand through his messy hair. "i'll go get you one."

he disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the sound of the faucet running. you laid back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the anger slowly deflating into a weary resignation. a few minutes later, he returned with a warm, wet rag.

he sat on the edge of the bed, his touch surprisingly gentle as he carefully cleaned you up, wiping away the sticky mess between your thighs. he didn't say anything, just focused on his task, his brow furrowed in concentration.

when he was done, he tossed the rag toward the hamper.

"no, i'll go, i think we have one in the medicine cabinet" you said, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. you needed the air. you needed a moment away from him and his infuriatingly casual attitude toward potentially life-altering consequences.

"hurry back."

you got up, pulling on the oversized t-shirt and a pair of your own underwear that had been discarded on the floor.

you padded out of the bedroom and over to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen, pulling open the doors and rummaging through the different medicine boxes. nothing.

and that's when you heard it.

“no,” he says immediately. “no, you are not.”

you laugh a little. “aerion, i know how to pump gas.”

he reaches you and gently takes the nozzle from your hand anyway, like you cannot possibly be trusted with it another second. “i told you to stay in the truck.”

“i know, but you were paying.”

“that is exactly why you were supposed to stay in the truck.”

“you were inside for forever.”

“it was two minutes.” he gives you a look before turning toward the pump to check the numbers. he takes over completely, one hand steady on the nozzle while the other rests against the side of the truck.

“what?” he says, glancing at you. “i like doin’ things for you.”

“awww baby! you just admitted to liking acts of service.”

“i don’t know what the hell that means.”

“it means you like taking care of me.”

he shrugs like it should be obvious. “yeah. i do.” aerion keeps his eyes on the pump, but you can see the faint pink creeping into the tips of his ears now. “i dunno,” he mutters. “makes me feel useful.”

“you are useful.”

“i know,” he says smugly, and you laugh again.

the gas pump clicks loudly, signaling it is done. aerion pulls the nozzle out carefully and screws the cap back on like this is a very serious responsibility only he can handle. then he digs into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled five dollar bill.

you blink. “what’s that?”

he presses it into your hand. “go buy yourself somethin’.”

you look down at the money, then back up at him, already smiling. “aerion.”

“i’m serious.” he gestures toward the gas station. “get a candy bar or ice cream or somethin’.”

“you are giving me an allowance?”

“i am givin’ my girl five dollars. go on, baby. buy yourself a little treat.”

you shake your head, but you tuck the five dollars into your pocket anyway. aerion watches you do it with the most satisfied expression imaginable, like he just successfully completed a “husband-like” duty.

then, before you can walk away, he catches your wrist lightly and pulls you back long enough to kiss you quick and soft.

“no more pumpin’ gas,” he murmurs against your mouth.

you roll your eyes. “yes sir.”

its hot, too hot for a spring day. way too hot. but despite that the country club idea dies immediately.

“absolutely not,” aerion says the second the words leave your mouth.

you blink at him from across the truck seat. “why not?”

“because i’m not goin’ to some rich people pool.”

you laugh. “aerion, they literally would not care.”

“i’m serious,” he says, pointing at you as he drives.

“so where do you suggest we swim then?”

a slow grin spreads across his face.

twenty minutes later you’re staring at a slightly run-down motel pool off the side of downtown.

you look at the flickering vacancy sign, then at him, then back at the pool.

“a motel?”

“there is a perfectly good free swimming pool right here,” he says proudly.

“aerion…”

“what?” he kills the engine. “look at it. nobody’s even here.”

and he’s right. it’s late spring, still warm enough for swimming but not busy season yet. the whole place feels sleepy and quiet. the pool water glitters blue beneath the afternoon sun, completely empty except for a few leaves drifting near the deep end.

“c’mon, duchess.” he nudges your knee. “live a little.”

before you can argue anymore, he’s already climbing out of the truck.

the concrete around the pool is warm beneath your sandals. somewhere nearby, an old ice machine hums lazily.

aerion drops a cooler onto one of the plastic lounge chairs before pulling his shirt over his head in one quick motion.

your breath catches a little despite yourself.

his hair is longer now, dirty blond and sun-lightened at the ends, and the humid air already has pieces of it sticking against his forehead and a silver chain resting against his chest.

he catches you staring immediately.

“what?” he asks with a smirk.

“nothing.”

“mhm.” then he jumps straight into the pool. the splash echoes through the empty courtyard. he resurfaces laughing, slicking his wet hair back. “water’s perfect!”

you walk closer to the edge cautiously while he floats backward, watching you with obvious amusement. “is it cold?” you ask.

“nah,” he lies instantly.

you narrow your eyes. “you hesitated.”

“i did not.”

“you literally did.”

he grins. “baby, just get in.”

you dip your toes in experimentally and gasp. “aerion! it’s freezing!”

“oh my god,” he laughs loudly. “it is not that bad.”

you glare at him while he swims closer, resting his arms on the edge near you. “c’mon,” he says softer now, holding his hands out toward you. “i got you.”

something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip stupidly.

you reach for the straps of your sundress and his expression changes instantly. you peel the dress slowly over your head, revealing the cute little bikini underneath.

for a second he just stares. then he gives you a low whistle.

heat rushes into your face immediately. “don’t make it weird.”

“i’m not makin’ it weird,” he says, still very obviously staring. “you just look really fuckin’ pretty. now come here.”

you try to roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth ruins it. then you jump. the cold hits all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs, but before you can fully panic aerion’s hands are already around your waist, catching you against him as you surface.

“see?” he says, laughing while you cling to him automatically. “you survived.”

the water ripples softly around both of you while sunlight dances across the surface in bright flashes. aerion keeps one arm around your waist while you float there catching your breath.

“you’re holdin’ onto me like i just rescued you from a shipwreck,” he says, grin lazy and pleased.

“i almost died.”

“you jumped into four feet of water.” he laughs softly, head tipping back for a second. wet strands of dirty blond hair cling to his forehead and temples, the sunlight catching against the water rolling down his neck.

you finally loosen your grip on him, pushing lightly against his chest so you can drift backward through the water.

you begin swimming lazily toward the deeper end. the motel pool isn’t very big, but it feels private with nobody else around, the air warm and heavy with late spring heat.

aerion follows after you slowly.

you turn onto your back, floating for a second before asking suddenly, “do you wanna play mermaids?”

he stares at you blankly. “…how the hell do you play mermaids?”

you laugh, pushing wet hair out of your face. “you just pretend.”

he keeps looking at you like you’ve completely lost your mind. you grin and float backward a little through the water. “you’d be a pirate.”

his eyebrows lift immediately. “a pirate?”

“mhm.” you point at him seriously. “and you’re in love with a beautiful mermaid.”

he starts smiling already. “that part sounds accurate.”

“she saves your life during a storm,” you continue dramatically, “and now you’re obsessed with her.”

“obsessed, huh?”

“completely.”

“and what does the mermaid do?”

“she avoids you because pirates are dangerous.”

aerion begins slowly swimming toward you through the water, eyes narrowed with amusement. “dangerous?”

“yes.”

“i think this mermaid sounds judgmental.”

“she’s cautious.”

“right.” he nods thoughtfully. “so if i’m the pirate, what am i supposed to do?”

you shrug innocently. “probably chase the mermaid around.”

his smile widens slowly. “oh, that’s convenient.”

before you can react, he lunges forward through the water toward you. you squeal immediately and shove away from him, swimming toward the other side of the pool while laughing.

you glance back just in time to see him gaining on you easily.

“you’re supposed to be enchanting, remember? right now you’re just splashing me.”

you laugh harder as he catches your ankle underwater for half a second before you kick free again.

“c’mere, mermaid.”

“no!”

“yes!”

you try to swim away again, but he catches up quickly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you back against his chest while you both nearly go under from laughing.

“captured,” he says proudly.

“this is kidnapping!”

“it is not.” he grins. “it is a very romantic rescue, and the pirate is asking very politely for a kiss.”

you try to look unimpressed despite laughing breathlessly. the sun catches against the water between you, gold reflections dancing across his face while he waits.

you pretend to think about it for a second then kiss him anyway.

he makes a soft satisfied sound against your mouth immediately like he knew you would, one hand sliding up your back while the other keeps you steady in the water. when you finally pull away, he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

after some time, the two of you get lazy with the swimming.

the sun is warmer now, drying little droplets of water across your shoulders every time you drift above the surface. aerion stretches out in the deeper part of the pool, moving slowly through the water while you hang onto him shamelessly.

your arms loop loosely around his shoulders while your legs drift behind you, letting him do all the work.

he glances at you over his shoulder. “so now i’m a floatie?”

“yes,” you say immediately, completely unashamed. you grin and rest your chin against his shoulder while he keeps kicking lazily through the water.

“you’re doing great,” you tell him sweetly.

“thanks baby. means a lot.”

“you’re very strong and brave.”

“mhm?” aerion shakes his head a little, smiling to himself while sunlight flashes across the water around you both.

“you know,” he says after a second, “when i pictured my life this mornin’, i didn’t think i’d end up bein’ used as pool equipment.”

“dreams really do come true.”

every once in a while he dips suddenly just enough to make you squeal and cling tighter to him. “aerion!”

“what?” he laughs. “thought mermaids liked water.”

you tighten your arms around his neck on purpose and laugh softly, hiding your face against his shoulder while he keeps floating through the warm blue water with you wrapped around him like he plans on carrying you forever.

the heat from the sun settles warmly across your shoulders while cool water laps softly around both of you. somewhere beyond the motel fence you can hear distant traffic and the buzz of cicadas starting up in the trees.

aerion lets his head drift back against the water for a second. “work sucked today.”

“what happened?”

“guy came in yellin’ because his truck wasn’t done yet.” he sighs dramatically. “like sorry man, your transmission exploded. that’s not really my fault.”

you smile. “did you yell back?”

“no.” a pause. “not immediately.”

“aerion.”

“what? i was professional.”

“you got into a fistfight at work last month.”

“that was different.”

“how?”

“he started it.”

you laugh softly while he reaches for your wrist, just wanting to touch you somehow.

“what about you?” he asks quieter now. “your week okay?”

you shrug slightly. “my mom keeps asking weird questions.”

“about?”

“life.” you sigh. “school. you. everything.”

his expression shifts a little at that.

“she thinks you’re a bad influence.”

“i am a bad influence.”

“you are not.” you assure him,

he gives you a look. you laugh despite yourself, and he smiles a little at the sound before his expression softens again. “what’d you tell her?”

“that you’re not all bad.”

he actually looks surprised by that. “not all bad?” he repeats like the words feels unfamiliar in his mouth.

“yes, nice.”

his eyes stay on you for a second too long after that. the water moves lazily around your bodies while he absentmindedly rubs his thumb over the inside of your wrist.

you glance at him. “what?”

“nothin’.” he shakes his head slightly. “just… sometimes i forget you got all that pressure on you all the time.”

“you have pressure too. you literally work all the time.”

“yeah, but nobody expects me to become something impressive.” his mouth twists slightly and the sunlight catches in his wet hair.

you don’t know what to say to that. you swim around to face him, still holding onto him, not letting go.

“you know,” he says quieter now, “i don’t really care what your mom says about me.”

“no?”

“nah.” his eyes stay on yours. “long as you still wanna be around me, everybody else can kinda deal with it.”

your chest tightens stupidly at how simple he makes it sound. you look down at the water between you. “you make things sound easy.”

“they should be easy.”

“they aren’t.”

aerion watches you carefully for a second before moving closer, until your bodies brush lightly again beneath the water. “maybe not,” he says softly. “but bein’ with you is the easiest thing i do.”

you kiss him before he can keep going.

his hands tighten instinctively at your waist as he kisses you back, slower this time than before. the water rocks gently around both of you while his mouth stays warm against yours, sunlight flickering behind your closed eyes.

you end up half clinging to each other after that, not really swimming anymore.

just floating together lazily near the center of the pool.

the cake is crooked. that’s the first thing you notice when aerion pulls it out of the plastic grocery bag with this weird mix of pride and embarrassment on his face. it’s one of those tiny cheap cakes from the grocery store bakery section, white frosting with bright pink piping around the edges, a little strawberry jelly smeared messily in the center.

the plastic container is fogged up from the humid summer air.

you stare at it for a second before looking up at him. "aerion..."

"what?" he says immediately, defensive already. "it’s cake."

a smile starts pulling at your mouth. "i can see that."

"well don’t laugh," he mutters, crouching down onto the blanket spread beside the creek. "lady at the store kept lookin’ at me weird."

you laugh anyway, not to be mean of course but in fondness, at how sweet he is. and something about the sound makes the tips of his ears turn pink.

the creek behind you shines lazily over rocks, fireflies blinking faintly through the trees as the sky deepens into blue-gray evening. the air smells like wet grass and summer heat and the cheap vanilla frosting currently getting all over aerion’s fingers because he forgot forks.

"shit," he mutters.

"you didn’t bring plates either?"

"you’re real judgmental for somebody gettin’ free cake."

you grin, folding your legs beneath yourself on the blanket while the creek water moves lazily beside you, reflecting streaks of orange-pink sunset through the trees. the blanket keeps bunching underneath your knees because the ground isn’t even, and every few seconds the breeze carries the smell of damp grass and sugar frosting toward you. aerion sits across from you with the little grocery store cake balanced awkwardly in his lap like he’s terrified of dropping it.

he’s dressed in an old sleeveless shirt and jeans with holes in the knees, pale hair messy from the wind, cheeks pink from walking all the way to the store and then here afterward because he’d refused to tell you where you were going.

"you are sweet for getting us a cake..."

"it’s our first date, wanted it to be nice," he says, and it makes your stomach flip a little. he says it so casually, but also like he’s trying very hard to sound normal about it.

"oh?" you tease lightly. "this is a date?"

his eyes narrow immediately. "don’t start."

"i’m just asking."

"you know what this is."

and you do. you’ve known since he showed up outside your house all awkward and fidgety and unable to look you directly in the eye. aerion picks at the plastic cake lid for a second before glancing at you sideways.

"you hate it?"

"what? no."

"you got that look."

"what look?"

"the rich girl look."

you gasp dramatically, pressing a hand against your chest. "i do not have a rich girl look."

"yeah you do." he points at you accusingly, "like you’re bein’ polite."

"i like it," you insist. "i think it’s sweet." you smile a little softer then. "you bought me a cake."

"well..." he shrugs, trying to play it off. "couldn’t afford flowers."

he says it like a joke, rolling his eyes a little after, but you can hear the real insecurity buried underneath it. like he genuinely thinks this might not be enough for you. like maybe he worried the whole walk here that you’d think it was stupid.

you lean over and bump your shoulder against his. "i’d rather have cake anyway."

aerion glances at you quickly after that, like he’s checking whether you mean it. the creek hums softly nearby. somewhere in the trees, cicadas buzz loud enough to fill the silence he leaves behind.

you narrow your eyes. "aerion, quit bein’ weird. i’m having a nice time..." you murmur, smiling helplessly.

"yeah, well." he picks violently at the cake container. "this is stressful."

"it’s cake by a creek."

"it’s our first date," he repeats himself from earlier, and the way he says it makes warmth spread slowly through your ribs. like all of this truly matters to him. every second of it.

you watch him carefully for another moment before quietly asking, "were you nervous?"

he pauses. "...maybe a little."

you laugh softly and his eyes dart to yours again immediately, paranoid. "don’t make fun of me."

"i’m not."

"you are."

"i think it’s cute," you grin wider.

he finds a way to cut a piece of cake mostly to avoid looking at you anymore, but the frosting smears across his thumb in the process. and without realizing it, after placing the slice on a napkin he runs the back of his hand against his cheek and smears the frosting on his face.

"wait," you say suddenly. "there’s frosting on your face."

"oh." aerion instinctively lifts a hand toward his cheek, but you catch his wrist before he can smear it worse.

"hold still," you laugh softly.

you lean closer, the blanket rustling underneath your knees, and wipe the streak of frosting away carefully with your thumb. your fingers brush lightly against the warm skin of his cheek, and he stares at you the entire time, wide-eyed and completely frozen.

up close, you can see the faint freckles across his nose. the nervous twitch in his jaw.

the way his lips part slightly when you touch him.

"there," you murmur. "better." but you don’t pull away right away and neither does he. for a second, both of you just sit there staring at each other while the creek rushes softly nearby.

then, without really thinking about it, you lick the frosting from your fingertip.

aerion visibly short-circuits. his eyes widen immediately, shoulders tensing so fast you almost laugh.

"jesus fuckin’ christ," he mutters under his breath.

you blink at him innocently. "what?"

he lets out one disbelieving little laugh and drags a hand over his face, already flustered beyond repair.

"you can’t do shit like that."

"like what?"

"that." he points vaguely at you like he can’t even explain it. "that thing you just did."

you tilt your head, fighting a smile. "eat frosting?"

"you know exactly what you’re doin’." his voice comes out rougher now, quieter too, and suddenly you feel shy yourself under the way he’s looking at you.

so you duck your head and take another bite of cake to hide your grin.

aerion watches you for a second longer before groaning dramatically and dropping backward onto the blanket. that finally makes you laugh hard enough that he starts smiling too, even while pretending to suffer.

later, when he walks you home, the whole neighborhood is quiet.

porch lights glow soft gold against the dark, casting long shadows across the sidewalks and patches of overgrown grass. crickets chirp loudly in the flowerbeds lining the street, and somewhere far off a dog barks once before everything settles still again. the summer air feels warm against your skin, carrying the faint smell of sprinklers and night-blooming flowers as you walk side by side.

your shoulders brush every few steps because neither of you knows how to walk normally beside each other anymore.

aerion keeps shoving his hands in and out of his pockets, wanting so desperately to hold your hand, but every time he starts to reach for you he seems to lose his nerve halfway through.

aerion glances at you every couple seconds like he can’t help it. every time you catch him, he looks away too late. his arm brushes yours once more and this time neither of you pulls away.

a few steps later, his hand finally nudges against yours uncertainly.

testing.

asking.

you turn your hand slightly until your fingers slip between his.

the second you lace your fingers together, aerion goes completely silent beside you.

you glance over to find him staring straight ahead at the sidewalk like he’s trying very hard to act normal about the fact that you’re holding his hand now. but his grip tightens around yours almost immediately. and even in the dark, you can see the smile he’s trying to hide.

this moment sparks his love for just simply holding your hand.

by the time you reach your front porch, both of you stop awkwardly at the bottom of the steps. neither of you moves.

the whole neighborhood feels strangely quiet all at once, like even the crickets have decided to give you space. the porch light above your head hums softly, washing everything in a weak golden glow.

"okay," he says after a beat, and his voice comes out rougher than he probably wants it to. "so. uh. goodnight."

"goodnight, aerion..." you say softly.

still neither of you move.

aerion swallows hard, his throat bobbing. his hands hover awkwardly at his sides like he does not know what to do with them now that the walk is over and he cannot hide behind keeping busy anymore.

you can tell he is trying not to stare at your mouth. you can tell he is trying not to think about a kiss. and the fact that he is trying so hard only makes the silence feel warmer.

he shifts his weight once, then glances at the porch steps, then back at you, like he is searching for something simple to say and finding nothing that sounds good enough. his hair is still a mess from the wind, his cheeks still faintly pink, and he looks like he is trying very hard to seem calm when he clearly is not.

"tonight was really nice," you say, quieter now.

he goes still for a second, and then the corner of his mouth pulls up just barely. "yeah?" he says.

you can feel him hesitating, like there is something else he wants to say and cannot quite get the words out. his fingers twitch once at his side, then he presses his lips together and looks toward the street instead of at you.

for a moment, you think he might leave without saying anything else. then he looks back at you, softer now, almost shy all over again.

"i had a good time," he says. "with you. i mean i always did. do. i still do."

your smile widens and you let out a soft giggle before you can stop it. then he clears his throat and takes one small step back, finally acting like he remembers how to be normal.

"okay," he says again, but this time it sounds gentler. "so... i guess i should let you go before i make this even weirder."

you laugh under your breath. "too late for that."

that earns you a real smile from him, quick and crooked and a little embarrassed.

you can hear his heartbeat from here. or maybe it’s yours. then finally, very quietly, he says, "can i kiss you?"

and the sweetness of it nearly ruins you.

you nod once.

aerion steps closer carefully, scared you might disappear if he moves too fast. his hand comes up uncertainly to your cheek, rough fingertips warm against your skin.

then he kisses you.

softly.

so soft.

barely there at first because he’s nervous, and because he’s trying so hard to do this right. you let your eyes flutter shut immediately and when you kiss him back, you feel the tiny startled inhale he takes against your mouth. when you pull away, he stays close enough that your noses still brush.

you’ve never seen him look happier.

"holy shit," he whispers, smiling so hard he can barely get the words out. then he lets out a shaky laugh and looks down, almost embarrassed by how happy he is.

"i should probably let you go inside," he says softly, though he doesn’t move right away.

you smile, still a little dazed yourself. "yeah. probably."

that makes him glance back up at you, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a shy, crooked way.

"yeah," he repeats, like he agrees but also clearly does not want to.

neither of you seems eager to be the first one to break it. the porch light washes over his face, catching the pink in his cheeks and the mess of pale hair falling into his eyes. he looks adorable in that way that makes your chest ache a little, like you already know this moment is going to stay with you for a long time.

he shifts on his feet, then finally reaches for your hand again, brushing his fingers once against yours before pulling back like even that tiny touch is enough to make his heart stutter.

"goodnight," he says again, quieter this time.

you smile at him, softer now. "goodnight, aerion."

he gives you one last helpless smile and steps back from the bottom of the porch. you turn toward the steps, then pause and turn back one more time.

aerion is still standing there at the bottom of the steps, looking up at you like you hung the stars and moon. he gives you a tiny wave that feels almost too sweet to be real.

Aerion has every intention of being caught.

You know this. He gets off on the thought of someone catching the pair of you.

You’re bare against Daeron’s bed, clothes strewn all over the room from where Aerion tore them off you and discarded them after. He’s still completely clothed though, lying on top of the sheets with his head between your thighs.

You tried to fight him off, pushing at him to stop him from getting closer, stumbling backwards only to realise he was the one guiding you towards your older brother’s room.

Your fight lasted all of five minutes, kicking and shoving at him but he was stronger, pushing your body down towards the bed, and yanking at your clothes while you tried to lift yourself up. You should know by now his tactics, know how easy he manages to trick you into roping you into this.

But now you’ve got his head between your thighs, arms wrapped around them as he keeps them flush against him. He eats at you like a man that’s never tasted the sweetness between the women’s legs before, like it’s a liquor he’s got himself drunk on. It’s his tongue mostly, switching between lapping at your clit, to sliding in your tight hole.

One hand slides up your stomach, groping at your tits before settling on it.

You whimper when his fingers squeeze your nipple and Aerion chuckles at the way the tiniest touch has you dripping onto his face.

“You’re so fucked,” you tell him, hips bucking up, trying to push him away but only managing to grind yourself down further against him. “I hate you for this.” Only it comes out on a nasty moan when his fingers begin to flick over your nipples.

“So sensitive," he murmurs into your wet pussy, returning to sucking up all those juices that seem to ooze out of you.

He pulls away for a second, slapping your thigh and tutting when you try to clamp your thighs back together.

“Nuh-uh.”

His hand reaches back down, and he doesn’t give you any time before he forces two fingers into your hole, snickering at the way you hiss at him. He pushes them in knuckle deep, wiggling them inside of you diving back to your clit.

“Louder,” he orders.

—And your body obeys him, pathetic whimpers falling from your lips as he thrusts his fingers deep into your spongy walls.

You want to stop, you even try by biting down on your own hand, but nothing manages to keep the noises from falling out.

“Aerion,” his name comes out between a harsh moan, as his tongue circles your clit slowly.

You want him to stop, you practically beg for him too, feet kicking off the bed to scramble away from him. Nothing works, it never does and all you can do is succumb to his forced pleasure as he pushes you to the brink.

Pushes you till you feel your walls clamping down on him, hips arching off the bed as the pleasure washes over you.

It’s how Daeron finds, writhing mess on his bed as Aerion makes you cum all over his face— You bare on his bed, pussy making a mess of his sheets, unable to do anything but just take what Aerion gives you.

Both your eyes lock for a moment, and he can’t seem to take them off of you, knowing he should be entirely disgusted instead of getting hard in his pants at the sight. But he’s glued to the spot and entirely entranced by the sight.

All he knows is that he wants to have a go straight after his brother.

“So in theory if dragons did still live who would you have liked to claim?” Dunk asked, the three of you were gathered around a fire in a large sparse woodland, cozied up for a quiet evening. Far too close to the Storm Lands for your liking but you understood why you currently resided where you did. The weather was unpredictable, yet unpredictable meant not many would venture these roads for fear of such frivolous conditions. “Definitely Balerion! He was ridden by the conquerer, we share a name. Not the same attitude but a name is a name.” Aegon reasoned, tearing off the corner of his bread. “I always picked you more for Syrax.” You wondered aloud, doing the same to the bread in your own hands. “You only say that because Syrax is small!” You laughed, even Dunk couldn’t help but grin. “And what of you Princess?” 

“If dragon’s did still live. I would have hoped for my own cradle egg to hatch. Grow alongside my dragon. Be bonded to the one who took their first breath for you.” Your eyes locked with Dunk’s as he titled his head with a lazy smile, “And what would you have named it?” You frowned, you had grown up on tales of dragon’s. Aerion had always been obsessed, claiming if he had been alive during the dance his dragon of choice would have been Meleys. A fitting match perhaps, yet a small part of you always wondered if your brother would still be as mad as he is if he were actually able to ride a dragon himself. He wouldn’t be able to live in his fantasies of greatness, he would be forced to face his own reality. 

“I have a dragon egg. We all do. Though most are petrified, or what is inside is nothing but ash. It was and still is Targaryen custom. Our father having so many children nearly sent the King to an early grave when year after year he’d have to inquire for searches to find these lost relics for each new grandchild. Mine was sapphire, dark ash black hugged the bottom of it. A white streak like lightning down its side. Had it hatched I had no doubt she would have been a beauty. My… my uncle, Baelor, was the one who found it. Chose it for my cradle, gifted it to my father. Vāedar, was what I would have called her.” Your eyes hung heavy with memory, the fondness of being a child, so naive and untouched of the world, praying to the Gods you scarcely believed in to give your egg the power to sustain life. Let yours be the one to lead the way for the rest. But the God’s are cruel, and dragons are dangerous, so no prayer was ever answered.

“It means to sing.” Aegon interrupted, eyeing the confusion on the hedge knights face, “Dragon song was spoken of to be one of the most beautiful sounds a man’s ears could be graced with.”

“We were never able to have our own ears blessed with it. The music of man is pretty, but the song of a dragon was ethereal. A cruel joke I suppose, to be born of Targaryen blood after what made us so great has already been extinguished.” You finished, allowing your words to sink through Dunk. He knew next to nothing of royalty, let alone Valyrian custom. He knew of dragons, what fool didn’t? Those stories passed through generations. It was not everyday a man gets to ride a dragon, yet the lineage of the two in front of him had been doing so for centuries before the dance. Even to have set an eye on one was an achievement in itself, some men still lived from the time of the dance, though now they were elderly, and only spoke of its destruction. The house of the dragon being the only ones powerful enough, and mad enough, to tear itself down over its succession. And with it they had killed the last of the beasts. All men knew the tale. 

“Is there no chance of dragons existing somewhere we cannot find?” A genuine question from the man, yet the faces the pair of you pulled made him feel rather stupid. “Men searched all the lands searching for a sign, that perhaps dragons lived lying dormant where we could not find. Yet nothing has been found. Some wild dragons were suspected to still be living a few years after the dance, but it was only suspicion with no proof. They require too much food, take up too much space. Even wild dragons still remained restless and chaotic, doing as they pleased away from people but their existence was still known because they cannot hide that well. Not to mention many wild dragons were hunted by other wild dragons, such as a beast known as the Cannibal, so it decreased the natural population. Any fully domesticated had likely been raised from hatchlings, unable to hunt and fend for themselves. I’d like to believe maybe some exist freely in the ruins of Old Valyria, yet the place is inhabitable. If they still exist anywhere it would be there, and they would likely be so far mutated from what we know them as you could scarcely call them dragons. So no, Dunk. I don’t believe any still fly today.” You gave him a weak smile, everything he had questioned was more than valid, but the teachings you grew upon discounted all his asks with simple knowledge- knowledge that higher-borns such as yourself possessed, but those of lower birth would not have had access to such teachings.

“Many believed our house would fail without them, yet we have proved them wrong!” Egg beamed, voice growing louder. “We have proved that we do not need them to remain a force to be reckoned with.” His excitement near matched that of your own when you were his age, yet as you had matured you had begun to learn your house was not all that it was chalked up to be. The King was good, a simple ruler who did only what was needed of him and he did not ignite fires where it was not necessary. Baelor had been a dutiful son, the realm had always come first, as the heir apparent to the Iron Throne was supposed to believe. Aerys was wise, often teaching himself things others knowledge had not yet grasped, he studied what he did not know and adapted to whatever came forth to him with gentle success. Rhaegal was spoken to be mad, a drinker with a wild imagination, but his dragon-dreams had been the poison that sickened him to that liking, he was not a bad man he was just unkindly reserved. Maekar was formidable, in hand and mind, a warrior in his own right once desperate to prove all that he was so that the King would not overlook him for being born last. But at the end of the day, they were just men. And men can be killed. As can dragons, as history taught. But the thing that had made your ancestors all so deadly was that they had mastered the art of balance between knowing the minds of man, and commanding a beast that was unpredictable by nature. And that was something your blood no longer had the right to possess. Now, you were just like everyone else. Perhaps it made you more relatable, common-folk didn’t detest you quite as much, but because you were relatable it meant if any believed they could challenge you, they near enough had an even field. All they needed was a brain and banners. It unnerved you. 

Yet now here you sat, on the grass of some random woodland, around a hand made fire eating bread you had helped barter for with company you had chosen yourself. It was strange, yet all entirely freeing. This was your choice to be here, and your choice alone. No responsibilities except keeping an eye on your brother, making sure there was food and water, and your horse was content. It was an utterly new world to you yet it was one you welcomed, because it was yours. You had belonged to your father as a child, as every girl once did, then when you became a woman you were property of your husband. And although neither had ever treated you truly as an object, the idea in itself of being given like a gift- or rather an alliance, was something that had never especially brought comfort. So although physically you, a Princess of the Realm, wandering in strange company through even stranger lands was not physically safe, mentally it was. And that was all you needed. Watching your brother laugh like a normal child covered in dirt from jousting Dunk before tea, or seeing how this life came so naturally to a man like Dunk, was a quiet gift you accepted with grace. As here you were no one except who you chose to be, and that was enough.

A/N: sorry for this one being on the shorter side, but guys i love dragons so much (sorry if any info isn’t actually accurate, this is more just what i’d like to believe and so that is how i’ve incorporated it), i have a dragon tattoo myself and it’s honestly my absolute FAVOURITE one of my collection. you’ll all have to let me know your thoughts, i kind of just wanted a domesticated chapter of dunk, reader and egg because they deserve a lil fun without the drama. and i wanted to show the genuine relationship forming between reader and dunk (probably giving him false hope for targaryens lmao). but anyway, as always: requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always appreciated!! take care everyone!!

general akotsk taglist:

@noone1233nobody @antobooh @mikariell95 @kravitzwhore @vanillafan6 @ae-gax @galactict3a @aleemendoza2425-blog

lyonel baratheon taglist: @mimistimesblog @munsonintheupside @mxrandelyn @pagesangels @racoonintheforest

Aside from the few truckers that became regulars at the diner you worked at, you didn’t really pay attention to them. 

The truck stop your diner resides in is just off the route-thirty-two, a long road that sat in between two states, Dorne and the Stormlands. Your diner sits on the edge of Dorne, everything a dollar more expensive than it is in the stormlands. Half the truckers complain, and half don’t even bother stopping and keep moving on to the stormlands where they can get things cheap. 

The stop is popular, but its position between two states usually means it’s a quick one. It doesn’t stop those late night drivers stopping, venturing into the truck yard where you’ve seen plenty of girls your age and older, dressed in practically nothing as they step up towards the window to show the men what they’re offering. 

Your eyes look out now from your car window, a girl that must only be a year older than you, smudged mascara running down her cheeks, and denim shorts riding up her ass, as she steps down from the truck. You see the wad of dollars shoved into her pocket and she’s quick to push them in further, stumbling away until she sees another trucker parking up a few spots over and then she brushes herself off and walks straight on over. 

Fifty dollars you heard a man boast one day at your diner. “Fifty fucking dollars for the whole fucking night.” 

The other man beside him laughed at that, both smiling ear to ear at their shared amusement over the ordeal. 

It made you feel sick and it took you everything not to hurl as you made your way over to them. 

It’s not exactly like these men were all ugly, some of them turn out to be surprisingly good looking. No, it’s the way they leer at you, eyes widening at the sight of you approaching them in your uniform, licking their lips as the grease dribbles down their chins. 

Some of them aren’t all that bad, and strangely you have a few that you feel comfortable interacting with. They’re kind, more fatherly types but even you know not to let yourself be alone with any of them. 

You make a habit of it actually. 

Your manager booked out the parking spots right next to the diner to make sure nothing bad would occur, he didn’t want any of the girls walking to the diner alone at any point in the day. In the odd case there’s too many people on shift, he makes sure that he himself walks the girl from her car to the door of the diner and all the way back after her shifts are finished. 

Unfortunately for you, he isn’t working tonight. He’s been sick for two days already, leaving the diner short of a manager. With the assistant being a complete nut job that hates being out on the restaurant floor, it’s left you to pick up the slack with your year of knowledge.

It also means you’ve had to pick up pretty much all the extra shifts, however starting late usually means it’s pretty quiet. 

Tonight you’re taken off guard. 

Strangely the parking lot is packed when you pull in, cars already in front of you trying to find a spot. Your eyes peer out the window and even in the dark you can make out the line of trucks parked up. It’s odd for this spot to be this busy, especially this late at night and you can only wonder how busy the diner is going to be. 

Only when you make it to the diner, you find your usual spot taken, a few unfamiliar cars parked in the staff reserved bays. You furrow your brows, stopping as you look around for a free space, impossibly hard even with the diner lights. 

You pick up your phone, calling the first person you know is on shift before venturing around further. The phone rings for a while before going to voicemail. You try another, and then your assistant manager before he finally picks up. 

“Where are you? You were supposed to start ten minutes ago,” his sharp tone came out the speaker. 

“Pretty hard to find a space,” you bark back, throwing your head back with a sigh. “What the fuck is going on?” 

“Fucking storm in the junction stop before us, brought a load of transmission towers down and made people have to turn back to come here.” 

“No, shit.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckled slightly, only to be cut off by another voice in the background. “I’ll get to you in just a second. — look I need you on the restaurant floor asap. It’s chaos in here.” 

“I’ll try my best.”

“Yeah, just get in here okay.” His words drown out as a sharp set of lights come out from behind you. Some asshole with his full beams on blinding you before beeping. 

“Yeah okay, asshole,” you shout out the window but the beeps don’t stop. 

“Everything okay?” 

“In the restaurant asap, got it,” is all you say before hanging up, turning back out your window to scream again before pulling away. 

There might have been a closer spot, but the spot you manage to find is at least a ten minute walk from diner. Darkness sits over the car park as you venture out of your car, grabbing your bag from the back seat before locking your car. 

There’s still cars driving around trying to find spaces bringing you slight comfort, however you’re not sure how you’re exactly going to manage crossing the threshold that is the truck spot. 

You could go around it, although that would be ten minutes longer. The thought does seem pleasing but as your phone buzzes in your pocket, you know that just isn’t a possibility you can take right now. You got a can of pepper spray for moments like this anyway and your hand dives into find it, clutching it so you’ll be able to snatch it out at the last moment. 

You step out between the trucks, the ones with the lights off, praying that the drivers will be asleep or too busy to even notice you. It’s silent for the most part, and you don’t know if it should bring you comfort or scare you. 

By the third car you hear a strangled moan, a woman’s voice coming from the window to your right. 

“Yes, daddy.” 

Your stomach clenches as a breathless grunt follows, the noise more animalistic than human. You should move, but the sound of skin slapping against each other as you halting in your movements and it’s not till you hear other footsteps do you finally will yourself to get away. 

Your eyes peer around the truck, trying to find the source of the steps before looking behind you. Nothing. It could have been a fox, or some woman stumbling out from one truck as she made her way to the other. You hear it again and when you bring your flashlight up, you see nothing there, only your light disturbing some other trucker as he stands by the window. 

“Stop perving, creep,” he shouts, not even seeing you clearly. 

You’re quick to put away, not wanting to draw anymore attention to yourself. You see the diner through the trucks anyway, the familiar flitter of the trashy neon lights. It’s two more rows away and you pick up the pace as you make your way over. 

You hear the footsteps again, you can’t tell if they’re closer or further but they’re there. Then a breath faint, but you feel it against the back of your neck. 

You twist around, snatching the can of pepper spray out your bag and spraying. 

The liquid hits the truck but mostly falls onto the floor. Nothing. 

You turn back, one hand falls around your mouth and the other knocks the pepper spray clear out your hand. With your phone in your bag, you don’t see who’s in front of you, only getting a glimpse of pale hair before being twisted around. 

You kick back at him, elbows slamming backwards even, one lands and the man grunts before letting you go. 

You forget to scream in your panic and end up running in the direction you came. You make it a few metres before a hand snatches you back by your hair, making you yelp out before his hand comes to firmly plant itself around your mouth again. 

“Don’t scream,” he warns with a sharp tone, arm coming around your body and pulling you flush against him. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself.” 

You listen. You don’t know exactly why, possibly because it’s futile anyway. You might get a few attention from some of the truckers but you’re sure they’re known to hear plenty of crazy noises anyway. Besides with his brute strength dragging you down the path between two trucks, barely struggling as you kick your shoes into the gravel beneath you, the thought of setting him off further while he held you like this isn’t in your best interest. 

You still try to fight though, landing another blow of your elbow into his hard rib cage. He takes it, chuckling softly like he expected it and doesn’t even seem to flinch away. 

No use. You kicking back or grounding your feet into the gravel doesn’t work. Your arms flying backwards or your fingers clawing at his arms to get him off, does nothing. 

He’s not even that big behind you, not some overly tall built man that would easily over power you. He’s lean, and hard behind you, some sort of resilience that’s clearly able to take a few blows without being phased by it. 

About a metre away you notice a truck door open, no lights on but you’re sure there’s got someone in it. You push back with everything you have left in you, slamming your feet into the side of the truck and pushing him back into the truck behind him, his head hitting the metal with a slight thud. 

“Fucking bitch,” he mutters, dropping you again. 

You go to reach the door, fingers grasping at the door. “Please, help me,” you beg, tears spilling from your eyes. Only when you reach it, no one’s inside and your head is slammed into the metal door. 

You don’t fall into a lump on the floor like you imagine, two hands haul you up into the door, sliding your body over the seats before his body follows.

You’re an idiot, you think. An idiot that managed to use your one moment to escape to reach out for your captor’s door. 

... and here he is, pushing you further into the truck. 

Your head hurts like a bitch, and when you reach back around to touch it, you feel the wet patch where it’s bleeding. You blink furiously, vision slightly fuzzy even in the darkness only to be met with him peering over you. 

The low light of the moon pours in and you see him finally. He’s not at all what you expected. 

Icy white locks of hair, a sharp jaw line and eyes so blown out they look almost black. If he didn’t stare at you with that wide creepy smile, flashing his teeth like some predator, you might actually find him handsome. 

You don’t. Or at least you tell yourself that. 

You’re at least glad he’s not one of those grease covered men you see at the diners, barely showering after a twelve hour ride. He’s clean, or at least he smells it, his aftershave burning your nostrils. His pale skin is slightly bruised in places, just under his chin and to the side of his face— you’ll be sure to add to those marks later— but he’s still clean. 

“Hit your head pretty bad, doll,” he sneers, amusement laced in his tone as he leans away from you. 

You hear the door close with a click, the lock a few seconds later and as you roll your head to the side meeting the darkness of the car park, you realise there isn’t anyone that can save you. 

Fear sets in finally, the adrenaline fading away and you feel the tears already sliding down your cheeks. You don’t move, whether it’s because of the injury you’ve suffered or the fear that paralyses your body, you’re unsure. 

“Could have made this a lot easier if you just set out your price, instead of screaming like that,” he says, almost tired, turning back to you. 

“What?” The question falls from your lips before you can catch it. 

He stares at you, narrowed eyes and brows pinched together like he’s the one that should be confused. “Should have told me how much it would have cost me and you wouldn’t have ended up with such a nasty bruise on that pretty head of yours.” 

It clicks then and you crawl backwards against the seats as you tell him, “I think you got me mistaken. I’m not one of those girls.” 

“Sure, sweetheart.” He chuckles again, like he doesn’t believe you, crawling back over and you go to place the distance between you. 

You fall back between the seats, landing on what seems to be some sort of makeshift bed and you realise he’s caught you, like a fly in a spiderweb there was no chance in your escape. 

You cry harder, lips trembling when he pulls his t-shirt off tossing it behind him. 

“Please, I was just trying to get to work. Please don’t do this,” you manage to get through sobs, placing your arms between you. 

“Seen you in this truck spot a few times, much prettier than the girls that pass through here,” he admits, shoving you down onto the mattress with one harsh thrust. “Sure there’s tons of worse looking men you’ve given yourself out to around here, what’s so wrong with me?” 

Everything, you want to scream but you don’t. You lie there, watching him as his fingers fiddle with his jeans, unbuttoning them before you hear the sharp sound of the zipper coming undone. He kicks them off, leaving him in just his boxers before he crawls on top of you. 

“You’re trembling,” he whispers, the back of his hand stroking your cheek. 

You can’t stop shaking, can’t stop the tears from falling from your eyes when he reaches for you. 

“Put up a good fight.” He brushes your hair behind your ear, thumb sliding across your damp cheeks before he smiles again, flashing his teeth. “I’ll give you double what you’re worth, if you play nice.” 

“I-I–” you swallow, barely able to get your words out. “I don’t want your money.” 

“No?” 

“Please, I was just trying to get to work.” 

“I’m sure that fella can wait,” he snickers, leaning closer till his breath is hot against your face. “Besides I’m willing to pay for you all night, how does that sound?” 

He’s good on his promise. 

You half expected him to throw you out after the first time he cums in your hand, cackling at the way you grimace at the sight of it. He doesn’t though, dragging you with his hand fisted into your hair and pulling you over to your kneeling over him. 

“Lick it,” he commands, shoving your head down before you can refuse. 

Your lips press up against the reddened tip and your refusal only seems to make him angrier, which leads to him being eagerly more turned on. He slaps you when you don’t listen and you’re certain it will leave a nasty red mark against your cheek. He does it again when your mouth doesn’t instantly open and you quickly open it, crying harder before sticking out your tongue. 

His cock twitches at your tears and your stomach twists into knots before you lick your tongue against it, the remnants of his sticky cum being the first thing to hit your mouth. 

“Swallow.” His voice is low and steady, fingers pressing into your jaw as he lifts your face to look up at him. 

You do it, letting him watch as you let the salty liquid slide down your tongue. 

“Back down, pretty girl.” 

Only when you go back down your tongue licks out on to his lower abs, unable to find him in the darkness. 

He laughs then, slapping his dick across your face without warning and you realise that even after cumming once he hasn’t at all softened. He’s harder than before, you think and you only wince when he forces your hand back around it. 

“Please, I—” you try to plead, only for the man to use your open mouth to his advantage, shoving you down on his cock. 

“Good girl,” he tells you, like this was your choice. Like you had any other. “Bet you’re the best in the business around here.” 

You mumble around him, incoherent to his ears as you tell him he’s got it all wrong, you don’t do that. 

“What was that, sweetheart?” 

You don’t answer, you’re sure it’s rhetorical anyway. You swirl your tongue around him, taking him as deep into your mouth as you can. It’s best to get this over with as quickly as you can. 

He groans when you hollow your cheeks out, lets his head fall back against the wall but never once does he take his eyes from you. He watches, brushing loose strands of your hair from your wet face and cupping your cheeks in a gentle manner. If it hadn’t been for the situation, you might have found the act soothing. It only lasts a little while anyway, until his fingers get tangled into your hair and he’s all but shoving you down on his cock. 

“Fucking slut,” he grunts out, using your mouth as his personal cock sleeve. “Going to make me cum again, huh?” 

You feel him twitch as you gag around him, the tip of him hitting the back of your throat repeatedly. You can’t breathe and even though your hands shove at his thighs for some reprieve you can tell he doesn’t care. Not one bit, fucking into your mouth with a vigour that has you choking for air around him, thinking that this possibly might be how you die. 

He lets up for a second, yanking you off his cock where you gasp for breath. It doesn’t last all that long, before your spit covered mouth is being shoved right back down there. 

He’s still looking at you, and in the pale light you notice the strange violet colour to his eyes. He keeps his eyes glued to you, mouth opening to let out breathy moans as he abuses your mouth. 

It happens fast when he comes, a spill of profanities falling from his lip and he holds you down as his cum spills to the back of your throat, holds you down so his tip is lodged in the back of your throat and your nose is pressed against his lower stomach. 

The moment you get off from him he’s throwing you back down, climbing on top of you and pressing his lips to your drool covered mouth. You pull away, wheezing for oxygen at that point, wiping at the edges of your mouth and trying to push him away once again. 

In your panic for air you scratch at him, nails digging into his cheek and drawing blood. You don’t even realise till he’s chuckling on top of you, licking at the blood with his long tongue. 

Everything happens so fast after that. 

Your jeans are dragged off your body, your t-shirt too, your underwear torn into shreds before he plants himself between you. You kick at him, punch at him and scream, the fight in you coming back but it does nothing and as the tip of his dick lines itself up with your entrance, you wish you never tried in the first place. 

He gets off on it. His smile widening every time you fight back or you realise your struggle is worthless. Every time you cry, or you scratch at him. The sicko enjoys it, his cock twitches against you and you’re it just makes him more turned on. 

He enters inside of you with one harsh thrust, not even bothering to prep you. His cock bottoms out with no warning, splitting you open and making you cry out against him. 

It doesn’t just sting, it feels like he’s bruising your insides with his hardened length. 

“You’re so tight, doll,” he remarks, pressing himself deeper until you can feel his balls against your ass cheek. He pulls out slowly, till that’s all that is left is the tip. He spits on it, watches it fall onto his length with a lick of his lips and a low laugh before he inserts himself again. It still hurts and you tense at, body becoming rigid. “You need to loosen up, doll. Don’t you want to at least enjoy this?” 

No, you want to say. But you know he’s mocking you and you don’t give him the satisfaction of your confession, only twisting your head away hoping he won’t see you cry. 

“Relax,” he coos, caging his body around you. 

He goes slow but hard, delivering nasty thrusts that feel like he’s deliberately trying to bruise your insides. You can tell he enjoys it, biting down on grunts that slip from his mouth, they time with your winces, falling in some sick sort of unison that fills the front of the truck. 

He cums fast, spilling into you with no warning and noise that sounds inhumane and some sort of relief takes over you, realising this will be over. 

You stop sobbing for a second, and behind the front seat of the truck all you can hear is your sniffles and his harsh breathing. You try not to focus on it, relief flooding your body and making you relax underneath him. 

It’s over, you think. Until you realise it’s not. 

His dick still hard inside of you, not softening one bit and when he pulls out from you, he leaves an inch of him still sheathed inside. 

A moan breaks from your throat when he slams back inside of you, getting caught up in your own stupidity that this might be done with, not only has your body relaxed but your pussy has too. You become a bit more rigid when you realise it will continue, biting back sobs once again when you feel him slowly slip himself in and out of you. 

“Relax,” he whispers, the sound vibrating through his chest and going straight through you. “Relax for me.” 

You do, not because you want to— No, it’s because what follows isn’t the same brutality he just fucked into you, it’s almost gentle and sweet, thrusts that allow your walls to stretch around his length. You grow wet with every thrust and even though you can’t stop crying, you feel a slight pleasurable feeling where his dick is slipping in and out of your hole. 

“That’s better,” he praises you, kissing your damp cheek. “Isn’t it, doll?” 

And you can’t deny that it really is. 

Your walls stretch to accommodate him, even involuntarily clench when he pushes in deeper and it makes you feel sick. 

“Please stop,” you meekly beg, disgust growing inside of you. You can’t enjoy it, can’t even fathom the idea of liking this horrid act and yet between each sob, you’re moaning breathlessly underneath him, enjoying the way his thick length fills you up.

When he cums inside of you again, you cum with him, pussy clenching around his throbbing cock like you want him to spill inside of you. He does, his cum spilling out your abused hole and around his cock, unable to contain it anymore. 

He doesn't pull away from you, he throws you round, positioning you on all fours with your ass in the air and slipping back into your needy hole as it clenches around the first inch of his dick. He doesn’t pull away until the sun is finally settling in the air and peaks of it coming through the window. 

Even then he’s still attached to you, holding you on top of him as he bounces you onto his dick. You’re both a sticky mess, cum oozing out of your hole and onto his dick. Your pussy flutters around him one final time, and he spills the last of all he has inside of you, holding you down against him with his hand digging into your hips. 

He lets you go after that, lets you change back into your tarnished clothes and you wonder what you’ll like to others when you step out the truck door. 

A hand around your wrist stops you, and you turn back to notice him shoving a wad full of cash into your hand. 

“For your services,” he says, before lying back, finding his phone like he couldn't wait for you to go. 

You don’t go to your car and you don’t listen to the whistles of the truck drivers around you as you walk out of the lot. 

You step into the diner, brushing past your manager without even so much of a greeting as you rush for the toilet. You barely make it to the bowl before you begin to throw up. 

You hear your name, but you can barely lift yourself. One of the girls steps into the cubicle, kneeling beside you and when you turn to her, she gasps and you can only imagine how messed up you look right now. Mascara smudged across your reddened cheeks, teeth marks all up and down your neck. Your hair is matted in places and you’re sure your eyes are red with the way they burn to stay open. 

She calls your name again and you sob, falling into her arms. 

You don’t know who steps into the toilet next, only hearing her snap about getting the cops as you cry harder into her. 

“You don’t have to be back at work already, you know?” Daeron, your manager says. 

He looks at you with a softness that you hate and when he realises, he tries to make a joke, knowing how uncomfortable his sympathy makes you. 

“Know you want that position of assistant manager badly,” He chuckles, half-heartedly. 

“I’m fine, really. Feels better working to take my mind off things.” 

He looks at you, uncertainty in his eyes. 

“Really,” you assure him, with an assertive tone. 

He nods, not arguing back and placing his hands up. “Whatever is best for you.” 

You’re being somewhat honest. Being cradled up at home has left you wallowing in your own feelings, shame and misery. 

They tried finding him, the cops that is but when all that was left to go off was what you saw in the dark of the night, you gave up and dropped the case all together. No cameras, no marks on any of the cars. The swab test you took came up with nothing. 

You wish you’d taken the registration number of the truck but all you had to go on was his icy blonde locks and his strange eyes that almost looked purple. Even the cops found your description strange, not hearing a trucker that sounded anything like him. With the amount that comes in and out this stop at every hour, you’re sure he’d be impossible to find. 

“I’m fine, really.” You repeat the words you’ve said a thousand times in the last few weeks, picking yourself up and walking back onto the restaurant floor. 

Daeron is quick to follow you, giving you a bump with his shoulders as he grabs your attention again. “How about a nice and easy customer to start off with?” 

“Daeron, really—” you go to say, placing your hand out to stop him. 

“It’s my brother. I want you to meet him,” he says, motioning you over with his head. 

You follow, somewhat reluctantly to a table in the corner. 

There’s a few of them sitting in the corner, younger men dressed in those loose jeans and wearing baseball caps. You can smell them for a mile away, oil residue in their clothes and the beaten down look giving them away. Truckers. 

The one sitting right in the corner has his face covered by a menu, not even paying attention to the conversation of the other men. 

“Aerion, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Daeron calls over. 

“Oh yeah.” 

You know that voice, and your body tenses, gluing itself to the spot. 

The menu slips away and a predatory grin smiles back at you. His eyes are purple after all. 

“What’s your name doll?”

taglist: @happysparklingshadows @iamachrollolover @allysscapes @aemondssapphire @lalala828282 @sunkissedsandyshores @chunkpiboli @thaddeusthebee @Jtrstp @Shellshore1 @briefwinnapersona @fairly-feral  @Imeow33

a/n: did you like what i did at the end there? I want him to call me doll I can’t lie.

please comment and reblog if you like my post, i like to hear what you think.

three weeks.

that’s how long you lasted without answering him.

three weeks of unanswered calls, texts left on read, silence so complete it felt like cutting off your own limb.

the first few days were the hardest, your phone would buzz and your heart would leap before your brain caught up and at first the messages were sharp. where are you, you mad?, don’t start this shit, answer me

then softer.

can we talk please, i fucked up, just tell me what i did

and finally, stripped down to the bone.

i miss you, i need to see you, can i please just see you?, we don’t even need to talk i just want to see you

you didn’t answer any of them because you had already given him chances. after the tape, after the girls and after the beach. after the night you sat in the sand ready to burn your entire life down for him and he never showed. you had loved him at his worst, you had forgiven him at his ugliest and you had stood by him when he humiliated you, when he scared you, when he proved over and over that he did not know how to hold something gently.

and still, somehow, you had been the one waiting on the beach.

it was slow at first. awkward and fragile, you went back to dinners, you let valarr take your hand in public and started answering your mother’s questions without irritation.

you were choosing stability, choosing peace. loving someone who never showed up was not romantic, and by week three, you could breathe again.

and that’s when aerion started unraveling.

it began with the window. you were brushing fixing your hair before bed when you heard the familiar tap against the glass.

your stomach dropped and you didn’t move, like you were waiting for him to give up and go away, then, another tap. "i know you’re in there."

you walked to the window slowly and parted the curtain just enough to see him.

he looked sick. unshaven. hollow around the eyes. like sleep had become optional and food an afterthought.

"go home," you said through the glass.

he blinked like nothing and it frightened you a bit, "open the window."

"no."

his jaw clenched. "you’re really gonna do this?"

"yes."

"for how long?"

"i’m begging here." his expression darkened. he opened his mouth, then closed it again. his chest was rising too fast.

"i need to talk to you," he said finally.

"you had your chance."

"i’m not the only one who screwed up." your fingers tightened on the curtain like you were going to shut them again, then he spoke "you’re acting like i didn’t fight for you. you think this is easy for me?" he demanded.

"i don’t care anymore if it is."

"you love me," he said suddenly, you didn’t answer. his voice cracked when he repeated the words again "you love me. like i love you."

"i did."

his face changed and then is when you tugged the curtain back shutting him out. he stayed there another minute, then you heard his boots crunch away from the house.

after that, he was everywhere. at the gas station when you filled your car. outside the bakery when you stepped out with a box of pastries for your mother. across the street during town events, watching you like you were something slipping through his fingers.

he followed, like he always did when you would fight and cut him off, and every time your eyes met, there was something wild, frantic and pleading and furious all at once.

"you’re pissing me off now" he grunted one afternoon when he caught you by your car door after a day of shopping. a hand held it open as he leaned down to speak with you.

"leave me alone."

he stared at you like you’d just betrayed him. "you’re a hypocrite."

"excuse me?"

"you sleep with me. you say you don’t care about money, about the hill, about any of that. you say it doesn’t matter. and then you go right back to him."

your composure cracked. "i was going to choose you."

he froze. "what?"

you hadn’t meant to say it, but it was there now, hanging in the air between you.

"that night," you said quietly. "on the beach. i was going to tell you i loved you."

his breathing stopped entirely for a moment.

"i was going to tell you i didn’t care about any of it. that i wanted you. that i was done with valarr that i couldn’t keep doing that to him."

his hand came up to brace against your car. "you’re lying."

"i waited for you."

his heart was practically visible in his throat. "i didn’t-" he swallowed hard. "i didn’t know."

"you didn’t even show up."

he looked like the world had tilted under him. his chest was heaving now. "you were gonna-"

"yes."

a long, broken sound left him. "i would’ve- i would’ve-" he dragged a hand through his hair. "i didn’t know."

you felt the old ache stir in your chest but you forced it down. "it doesn’t matter anymore."

"it matters!" he shouted. "it fuckin’ matters because if you had just- communicated with me then none of this would be happening."

"no," you said, stepping back, you knew his words had some truth in it but you were also not entirely at fault here. he messed up too. "stop it you are causing a scene."

"no, don’t tell me to stop," he snapped, though he dropped his volume only a fraction. "you’re telling me you were gonna choose me and you didn’t say anything? you just- what- expected me to read your mind?"

"we are in public," you hissed. "stop yelling."

"i’m not yelling."

"you are."

his laugh was sharp and humorless. "you always do this. you get quiet. you decide things in your head and then you punish me for not knowing."

your jaw tightened. the words hit because again, there was truth in them, but only part of it.

"no," you said, stepping back again, trying to close your car door, "don’t you dare put this all on me."

he held it open and leaned further, "i’m not putting it all on you- i’m saying if you had just told me that night-"

"you didn’t show up!" you shot back, your voice cracking before you could smooth it over. you looked out onto the streets, empty, but you still worried about causing a scandal.

"you didn’t come," you continued, lower but shaking. "you didn’t call and i waited for you like an idiot."

his expression flickered with guilt, real and immediate. "i didn’t know it was that serious," he said, softer now, but still frantic. "you never said it was that serious."

"because every time i tried to talk to you," you said, "you’d disappear. or you’d be drunk or busy. or you’d pick a fight."

you pressed on before he could regain ground.

"you leaked that tape, aerion."

his face flinched like you’d struck him.

"you humiliated me," you said. "you dragged my name through the dirt because you were angry. because you wanted control. and because i saw the good in you i forgave you!"

"i didn’t-" he started, then stopped when you interrupted.

"you followed me around town," you continued. "you showed up at my house. you won’t let me breathe! you crawl back into my life when you aren’t supposed to!"

his breathing was uneven now, jaw tight.

"and you want to talk about communication?" you demanded quietly.

he scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing again. "i was angry," he muttered. "i was scared."

"you were reckless."

"i was in love with you!" he burst out, real genuine anguish in his expression.

"that doesn’t excuse what you did."

"i know that," he said, voice breaking. "i know that. but you- you weren’t perfect either. you shut down. you build walls and then you blame me for not understanding you, for not reading your mind."

your throat tightened.

"you want honesty?" he pressed. "fine. you should’ve told me you didn’t want me to see other girls, you should have told me you were gonna choose me. you should’ve fought for it instead of just… walking away. you always fucking walk away!"

something inside you snapped at that.

"i fought," you said, your voice low but lethal. "i fought every time i stayed after you hurt me. i fought every time i defended you to my parents. i fought when that video went out and i still didn’t press charges."

his eyes filled with something wild and wounded at your words. "i would’ve learned, i’d do anything to keep you here…" he whispered.

"you had chances to."

silence stretched between you, thick and raw. he shook his head slowly, disbelief curdling into anger again. "so that’s it? you just run back to him because it’s easier?"

"i didn’t run back to anyone," you snapped.

"you loved me," he said, almost accusing.

"i did. and i love him," you added.

that one nearly made him seethe with anger, you loved him? his mouth opened, but no sound came out. he looked at you for a long moment—really looked. like he was trying to memorize your face in this version of yourself. you straightened your shoulders, smoothing your expression the way you’d learned to do your entire life.

"i’m not perfect i know that, i know i'm a hypocrite, i know i like to feel in control of my own life." you continued. "i should’ve said it sooner. i should’ve told you i was ready to choose you. i admit that. but i put a lot into this, i risked a lot…and you know that."

you didn’t let him respond, you closed the door slamming it and the lock clicked down immediately.

his hand hit the window. "hey- hey!"

you flinched.

he yanked on the handle. it didn’t budge. he tried the handle again, harder this time. the metal jerked uselessly under his grip.

"open the damn door."

you shoved the key into the ignition. it slipped. you cursed under your breath and tried again.

his jaw tightened. he hit the window again, not violently, but helplessly.

"you’re really just gonna shut me out again?!" he snapped, desperation bleeding into frustration. "you don’t get to say you loved me and then just- lock the door!"

you turned the key. the engine roared to life between you. he stepped back automatically, startled by the sound. then you shifted into drive. he stepped back fully this time as the car rolled forward.

but he didn’t look away.

not once.

words spinning in his mind.

a month passed before aerion heard anything.

a month of you leaning into the life on the hill like a person trying on a coat that had once felt too stiff and too heavy and discovering, with some quiet surprise, that it fit better than you wanted it to. you answered valarr’s calls, you had dinner without checking your phone every five minutes. you stopped going down by the marsh. you did not stop thinking about aerion.

he still lived in the back of your mind like weather that had not cleared. like a storm system lingering over the horizon, refusing to fully break or fully leave. some days you hated him for it. some days you missed him so badly it made you physically tired.

but you had made your choice.

valarr was patient. he did not crowd you, did not demand. he only kept showing up consistently, until the space around him began to feel less like obligation and more like possibility.

and then, one perfect evening, under the kind of sky that looked painted, he proposed.

not in front of a crowd. not with cameras or a ring hidden in some overdone public spectacle. it was only the two of you in the garden behind your house, the one with the white trellis and the trimmed hedges and the stone path your mother loved to keep immaculate.

the air smelled like roses and damp earth. the fountain was running, soft water catching the last gold of sunset. your dress brushed your knees as you stood beside him, your hands cold even in the warmth of the evening.

valarr looked at you as though he was trying very hard not to let the moment show on his face, which made it more obvious how much it mattered to him.

he reached into his jacket slowly, deliberately, and for one startled second you thought he might be nervous enough to fumble it.

when he opened the ring box, the light caught the stone and threw it back in tiny flashes.

"i have thought," he said quietly, "about every version of this life i might have wanted."

your breath caught.

"i thought about duty," he continued. "and comfort. and what my family would call appropriate."

his thumb brushed the edge of the box.

"and then i thought about what i actually want."

you were very still now. so still it felt like even the garden was waiting.

"i want a home that does not feel like a performance," he said. "i want a life that is not preserved, but lived. i want arguments over stupid things like what color to paint the bathroom, what to have for dinner, and what car seat to buy…and a kitchen that gets used instead of admired. i want a future that is real."

his voice softened. "and i want that future with you."

you make me feel, he said, almost with a faint, self-conscious smile, like i do not have to be only what everyone expects. the ring trembled just a fraction in his hand, the smallest crack in his composure, the tenderness in it almost unbearable, and i want to make you feel the same, how you deserve, to feel cherished, appreciated…loved…

he looked into your eyes, whispered your name and then got down on one knee, "will you marry me?"

you felt most, right then, was peace, your heart full and so you said yes.

valarr’s face changed immediately. relief, joy, disbelief, everything he had been keeping in perfect restraint broke open at once. he exhaled like he had been holding his breath for months. he slipped the ring onto your finger with both hands, almost reverent.

the fit was perfect. of course it was.

he kissed your forehead first, then your hand, then finally your mouth with a tenderness so careful it made your throat sting.

when he pulled back, he was smiling in a way you had not seen before. a real smile. unguarded. young, even.

your mother cried. your father clapped valarr on the shoulder with practiced solemnity and then immediately started talking about dates and families and dinner arrangements like this had always been the shape of your life.

his relationship with his family is kind of strained. aerion had a serious fallout with his dad. after his mom died, his father hardened. everything became about bills, discipline, “man up,” “get over it.” grief in that house wasn’t processed very well.

they fought constantly. about money. about school. about responsibility. about drinking.

eventually it reached a breaking point. words were said that can’t be unsaid. aerion left… or was told to leave, depending on who you ask.

they still live in the same town, but they don’t talk.

his older brother, dearon, is the cautionary tale.

he used to work at a bar, drifting from job to job, drinking too much, talking big but never following through. now he mostly survives off odd jobs and favors. he’s in and out of trouble — nothing dramatic… just small, steady disappointments.

they aren’t close.

he has younger brothers and sisters who still live with his father. they go to a public school on the other side of town, but he barely sees them because going back to that house feels like reopening a wound.

dyanna is not alive.

she died when he was young, right around the time you and he were beginning to drift apart. to him, it felt like the two women he loved most were slipping through his fingers at the same time. it gave him some strange abandonment issues.

he doesn’t talk about her.

but she was the softness in the house. the buffer. when she was alive, they felt like a family. after she died, the house became quiet in a different way.

aerion misses her more than he lets himself acknowledge. sometimes when he’s alone… really alone… he’ll think about the way she used to hum while cooking, or how she’d smooth his hair back when he was frustrated, and it makes his chest hurt in a way he doesn’t have words for.

so he built a shell instead. a version of himself that doesn’t need anyone. doesn’t cry. doesn’t admit he feels abandoned.

Summerhall burned without her.

Not with dragonflame, not with the great conflagrations his ancestors had commanded, but with a dull, suffocating emptiness that crept into every corridor, every chamber, every breath Aerion Targaryen took. The hearths were lit, the servants moved in their endless silent procession, his brothers' voices echoed somewhere in the courtyard and yet the world had lost all color. The very stones of the castle seemed to sigh, as though they too mourned the absence of their lady.

She had been gone three days.

Three days since Y/N had ridden for King's Landing with her escort, off to visit her family, off to leave him behind in this grey mockery of a palace. Three days since the sun had last shone, or so it felt. Three days since Aerion had last tasted peace, last drawn a full breath, last felt his heart beat with anything other than the dull, persistent ache of longing.

He stood at the window of their chambers, his chambers now, though he refused to think of them that way, staring out at the rolling hills of the Reach with an expression of such profound tragedy that any who saw it might have thought the realm had fallen. His doublet was carelessly fastened, half untied at the collar, as though he could not summon the will to dress himself properly. A goblet of wine sat untouched on the table beside him, which was perhaps the most alarming sign of all, for Aerion Brightflame had never been known to refuse wine.

His boots were still unlaced. His rings, the gold and onyx band she had given him on their wedding night, the small ruby she had pressed into his palm with a smirk and a command to wear it always so everyone knows you belong to me, sat in a small dish by the bed. He could not bear to put them on. Could not bear to look at them without her there to see them on his fingers.

He had not slept. Not truly. He would lie in their bed, in the hollow where her body should have been, and press his face into her pillow, breathing in the fading scent of her, something floral, something sharp, something that was simply her. He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. When the maid had come that morning with fresh sheets, he had snarled at her so fiercely that she had dropped the bundle and fled, and Aerion had spent the next hour smoothing out the rumpled side of the bed where Y/N had last slept, arranging the pillows exactly as she liked them, preserving the shrine of her absence.

He was being dramatic. He knew this. He did not care.

"My prince," came a hesitant voice from the doorway. A serving girl, young and pale with fear, her hands clasped so tightly before her that her knuckles had gone white. "Your father requests your presence at the midday meal."

Aerion did not turn. His voice, when it came, was distant, thrumming with barely suppressed anguish. "Tell him I am indisposed."

"My prince, he was most insistent—"

"Tell him," Aerion's head snapped toward her, violet eyes blazing with such sudden ferocity that the girl took a stumbling step backward, "that my wife—my heart—has been torn from my breast and carted off to that stinking city, and I will not sit at a table pretending to enjoy the company of men who still have their wives beside them while mine languishes in absence. Tell him that I am in mourning. Tell him that the light has gone out of Summerhall. Tell him—" His voice cracked, and for a moment he looked less like a dragon prince and more like a man utterly undone. "Tell him that I cannot."

The girl fled. He heard her footsteps echoing down the corridor, a panicked staccato, and he almost felt a flicker of satisfaction. Let them all know. Let them all see what her absence had done to him.

He turned back to the window, pressing his palm flat against the glass. His breath fogged the pane, and for a moment he fancied he could trace her name in the condensation. Y/N. He traced it once, twice, a third time, watching the letters blur and fade, and something in his chest constricted so painfully that he had to brace himself against the window frame.

Gods, but he missed her.

He missed the sound of her voice, sharp and commanding, telling him his hair was a mess and to sit still while she fixed it. He missed the way she would sprawl across their bed as though she owned it, as though she owned him, with that imperious tilt to her chin and her feet bare and her hair spilling everywhere. He missed the fire in her eyes when she was displeased, which was often, and the way she would make him work for her smile, which was everything. He missed the weight of her hand on his arm when they walked together, the possessive curl of her fingers.

He missed her in the morning, when he woke and reached for her and found only cold sheets. He missed her at night, when the candles burned low and the quiet of their chambers became unbearable. He missed her at meals, when he looked to the seat beside him and saw it empty, and his stomach turned at the sight of food he could not share with her. He missed her in the training yard, where he had no one to impress with his prowess, no one to roll her eyes at his boasting and call him a preening fool in that tone that meant she loved him. He missed her in his blood, in his bones, in the very marrow of him.

She was perfection. She was the sun around which his entire wretched existence orbited.

When she walked, flowers bloomed. He had seen it himself, well, perhaps not seen, but he knew. The grass grew greener in her footsteps, the air itself became sweeter, the very sky seemed to brighten. Birds sang when she passed. The clouds parted. The Seven themselves must have looked down upon her and marveled at their creation. She was a vision of grace and gentleness, his lady wife, his dragonness, his beautiful, beautiful—

"Brother."

Aemon's voice cut through his reverie like a blade. Aerion did not bother to hide his scowl as the younger prince entered the chamber without knocking, as was his irritating habit. Aemon was ten, small and serious, and he looked at Aerion with the particular expression of a child who had long since grown accustomed to his elder brother's eccentricities.

"What," Aerion said flatly. He did not move from the window.

Aemon leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in a gesture that was far too old for his years. "The servants are saying you've refused to eat for two days."

"I am not hungry."

"You're always hungry. I've seen you eat an entire pheasant by yourself."

Aerion turned, finally, and the full force of his tragic countenance fell upon his little brother. His eyes were red rimmed, his pale skin even paler than usual, his jaw shadowed with the barest hint of stubble he had not bothered to shave away. "My appetite has departed with my wife. How can I be expected to eat when she is not here to grace the table with her presence? When I must look upon your face instead of hers? When every bite I take is ash in my mouth because she is not beside me to share it?"

Aemon's expression did not change. "She's been gone three days."

"Three centuries." Aerion pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in a gesture that would have been comical if he were not entirely sincere. "Three eternities. I have aged a thousand years in her absence. Look at me, Aemon. Look at what has become of me."

He did look. Aerion was, objectively, still the same sharp featured, silver haired prince he had always been, perhaps slightly more disheveled than usual but otherwise unchanged. Aemon seemed to reach this conclusion as well, because his eyebrow arched with the precision of a courtier twice his age.

"You look the same."

"I am wasted," Aerion insisted. "I am a hollow shell. A ghost haunting these halls. Without her, I am nothing. Less than nothing. I am—" He paused, searching for a word sufficiently dramatic. "—diminished."

Aemon sighed. It was a heavy sound for such a small boy. "Father is concerned."

"Father can concern himself with his own marriage." Aerion finally moved from the window, but only to throw himself into a chair with all the despair of a tragedy hero in his final act. He let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling, one arm draped across his eyes. "You do not understand. None of you understand. You have never loved."

"I'm ten."

"Age is no barrier to understanding true love. I knew I loved Y/N from the moment she threw a candlestick at my head during our first meeting. It was a magnificent throw. She has such strength in her wrist, such precision, such—" He let out a shuddering breath. "Such perfection."

Aemon, who had been present for that first meeting and had witnessed Y/N hurl a candlestick at Aerion's head because he had made some comment about her family that was, in retrospect, deeply offensive, said nothing.

"Do you know what she said to me, the night before she left?" Aerion asked, his voice going soft and distant. He did not wait for an answer. "She said, 'Don't be a fool while I'm gone.' And I said, 'I am always a fool for you, my love.' And she—" His voice cracked. "She laughed. She laughed, Aemon. The most beautiful sound in all the Seven Kingdoms. And then she kissed me, here—" He touched his lips "—and she said, 'I know.'"

He was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory. Then he surged up from the chair, suddenly animated, pacing the chamber with wild, restless energy.

"Her hair," he said, "do you remember her hair? The way it catches the light? and when the sun hits it just so, it glows, Aemon. It glows like embers. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—they are like nothing else in this world, and when she is angry they darken, and when she laughs they lighten, and when she looks at me—"

"She usually looks at you like you're about to do something stupid," Aemon observed.

"With love," Aerion corrected fiercely. "She looks at me with love. The love of a woman who has chosen me, who has bound herself to me, who has—" He stopped mid pace, a thought striking him with such force that he went pale. "What if she decides to stay longer? What if her family convinces her that King's Landing is more pleasant than Summerhall? What if she—what if she forgets me?"

"That seems unlikely."

"You don't know! You don't know the power of her family's influence. Her mother, that woman—she never approved of me. She said I was—" He lowered his voice to a pompous imitation. "—'volatile and overly dramatic.' As though those are insults."

"They might be."

"They are virtues," Aerion declared. "I am a Targaryen. Volatility is in my blood. And yet her mother looks at me as though I am a stain upon her daughter's gown. What if she spends this fortnight whispering in Y/N's ear? What if she convinces her to—to—"

He could not say it. Could not even form the word leave.

He sank back into the chair, all the manic energy draining out of him. His hands gripped the armrests so tightly his knuckles went white. "If she does not return to me, I shall burn something. I don't know what. Something important. Something that will make them all regret taking her from me."

"She's visiting her family, Aerion. No one took her."

"They took her from me." His voice cracked again, raw and honest in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. "They took her from me and I am here alone, in this cold place, without her warmth. Do you know what it is to share a bed with someone for a year and then have it empty? Do you know what it is to reach for someone in the night and find only a pillow? Do you know—"

He stopped. Swallowed. Looked away.

Aemon, to his credit, did not mock him. The little boy crossed the room and stood beside his brother's chair, and after a moment, he placed a small hand on Aerion's arm.

"She'll come back," Aemon said quietly. "She likes Summerhall better than King's Landing. She told me so. She said—" He paused, clearly debating whether to share what he had been told. Then: "She said the food is better here and her mother gives her headaches."

"She said that?"

"She said the roast lamb here is better than anything in the Red Keep. She said—" Aemon's voice dropped to a whisper. "—she said she married you for your family's kitchens."

"She did not."

"She did. I was there." Aemon's expression was solemn. "She said it to Mother when she thought you couldn't hear. She said, 'At least the food is good, even if my husband is a madman.'"

Aerion pressed a hand to his chest, overcome. "She adores me."

"She said you were a madman."

"A term of endearment." He was smiling now, a real smile, the first in three days. "She calls me a madman because she finds my passion invigorating. She finds my intensity—my focus—she finds it romantic. I know she does. She told me once that I loved her more fiercely than any man had ever loved anything, and that she—that she—" His voice caught. "She said she would not have it any other way."

He looked toward the window again, but this time his expression was softer, almost hopeful. "Do you think she misses me?"

Aemon considered the question with the gravity of a maester pondering a philosophical treatise. Finally, he said: "She said you were annoying before you left. But she also packed your favorite doublet. The blue one. She told the maid to make sure it was clean for you while she was gone."

Aerion closed his eyes, overwhelmed. "She does miss me."

"Maybe."

"She does. She packed my doublet. She thinks of me, even when she is away. She carries me in her heart, as I carry her in mine. We are bound, Aemon. Bound by something greater than marriage, greater than duty, greater than—" He opened his eyes, seized by a sudden thought. "I should write to her."

"You said you wouldn't. You said you wanted her to come to you first, to prove that she—" Aemon paused, clearly trying to remember the exact phrasing. "—'yearns for you as desperately as you yearn for her.'"

"I changed my mind." Aerion was already moving, crossing to the writing desk that sat by the window, the desk where Y/N usually sat when she wrote her letters, where her inkpot still sat and her quill still lay, where he could see the faint scratch marks she had left in the wood from pressing too hard when she was angry about something. He dropped into the chair—her chair—and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him.

His hand trembled as he dipped the quill. He had so much to say. So much. How could he possibly contain it all in a single letter? How could he capture the depth of his longing, the breadth of his devotion, the way the world had dimmed without her in it?

He began to write.

My love, my life, my dragonness—

He paused, reading the words. Too small. Too insufficient. He crumpled the parchment and threw it aside.

To the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, without whom I am nothing but a shadow, a ghost, a man already dead—

Too dramatic? No. No such thing. But perhaps she would roll her eyes, and he loved when she rolled her eyes. He loved the way she looked at him when he was being too much, because even then, even when she was exasperated, there was something in her gaze that said I see you, I have you, you are mine.

He wrote again.

Y/N—

I am dying. Not the slow death of age or illness, but the swift death of absence. My heart has stopped beating. My lungs have stopped drawing air. I exist only as a vessel of longing, a monument to my own foolishness for ever allowing you to leave my sight.

The sun has not shone since you departed. I have looked for it. I have searched the sky each morning, hoping to see it, and each morning I find only grey. The flowers in the garden have wilted. The birds have stopped singing. The very stones of Summerhall have grown cold, as though the castle itself knows that its lady is gone.

I have not eaten. I have not slept. I have not done anything but think of you, dream of you, ache for you. Your pillow still smells of your hair. I lie in your place in the bed and pretend you are beside me. I speak to you in the empty chambers, and sometimes, sometimes I can almost hear you answering.

Do not stay away too long. I fear I shall not survive it.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Your devoted husband,

Aerion

He read it over three times, making small adjustments, crossing out a word here, adding a flourish there. Then, seized by a final impulse, he turned the parchment sideways and drew a small dragon at the bottom, breathing a heart shaped flame. Y/N had once told him his drawings were terrible. He had been offended. He was a Targaryen. Dragons were in his blood. The fact that his dragons looked more like deformed lizards with wings was entirely irrelevant.

He folded the letter carefully, pressed his seal into wax—his personal seal, the three-headed dragon encircled by flames—and held it to his lips for a moment before setting it aside to be sent.

"There," he said, satisfied. "Now she will know. Now she will understand the depth of my suffering, and she will return to me, and everything will be right again."

Aemon, who had watched the entire process with the expression of a child who had long since learned not to question his brother's peculiarities, picked up one of the crumpled attempts from the floor. He smoothed it out, read it, and looked at Aerion with an arched eyebrow.

"You wrote 'my dragonness' with two n's."

"It is spelled with two n's."

"It is not."

"It is when I spell it. She is not a dragoness, like some common beast. She is my dragonness. The extra n signifies—" He waved a hand vaguely. "—grandeur. Magnificence. The ineffable quality of her being."

Aemon stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the particular weariness of a child who has long since given up trying to understand his brother, he said: "Father wants to know if you'll be joining us for the rest of the week, or if you intend to waste away in here until Y/N returns."

"I shall waste away," Aerion declared, settling deeper into her chair, pulling her shawl, which had been left draped over the back, around his shoulders. It smelled of her. He breathed in deeply. "Let them bury me in my wedding cloak. Let them say: here lies Aerion Targaryen, who loved too much and too well. Who could not survive the absence of his beloved. Whose heart, like his ancestor's before him, turned to ash without the fire of his—"

Aemon, ten years old and already possessed of more sense than his elder brother, crossed his arms. “Y/N threw a book at your head the morning before she left.”

“It was a love note.”

“It was a history of House Targaryen. She threw it because you said her new gown made her look ‘pleasantly round.’”

Aerion clutched his chest. “And I was wrong. She is not pleasantly round. She is exquisitely formed. Perfect in every proportion. A goddess descended from the heavens to grace unworthy me with her—”

“She also called you a ‘silver haired fool’ and said she hoped the journey to King’s Landing took twice as long as usual so she might have some peace.”

The words landed, but they did not land as Aemon intended. Aerion’s eyes went soft, dreamy, a smile curving his lips for the first time in three days.

“She was teasing,” he breathed. “She does that. She teases me because she loves me. Her wit is so sharp, so brilliant—do you know how fortunate I am to be married to a woman of such intellect? When she calls me a fool, it is affection. When she throws things, it is passion. When she—”

“She broke your nose last moon.”

“A light passion.” Aerion touched his nose fondly. “It was an accident. She was aiming for the vase.”

Aemon stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the particular weariness of a child who has long since given up trying to understand his brother, he said: "She's going to be back in a fortnight, Aerion. Try not to die of heartbreak before then."

The door closed.

Aerion sat in silence for a long moment, wrapped in his wife's shawl, surrounded by her scent, her things, her absence. He picked up the letter he had written, unfolded it, read it again. The words stared back at him, inadequate as they were, but they would have to do. They would have to carry the weight of everything he could not say.

He thought of Y/N. Of the way she would wrinkle her nose when she was displeased. Of the way she would snap her fingers at servants and nobles alike, expecting obedience and receiving it because she was his wife, because she was his, because she was terrifying and magnificent and the most beautiful creature to ever draw breath. He thought of the way she would push his hair back from his face when he was brooding, the way she would kiss his forehead and tell him to stop being so much, the way she would say it like it was not a criticism but a compliment, like his excess was something she treasured rather than tolerated.

He thought of the way she had looked at him on their wedding night, with something like wonder in her eyes, as though she could not quite believe that this ridiculous, passionate, infuriating man belonged to her. He thought of the way she had said his name—Aerion—as though it was a secret only she knew. He thought of the way she had fallen asleep in his arms, her breathing soft and even, her hand curled against his chest like she was holding onto him even in sleep.

He missed her. Gods, he missed her.

He lifted the letter to his lips, pressed a kiss to the folded parchment, and set it carefully on the desk to be sent with the morning's ravens.

"Come back soon, my dragonness," he murmured to the empty room, to the lingering scent of her on her shawl, to the hollow space beside him in the bed. "The flowers are wilting without you. The sun has forgotten how to shine. And I—I am nothing without you. Nothing at all."

He pulled the shawl tighter, closed his eyes, and pretended, for just a moment, that she was there.

Meanwhile, in King's Landing:

You sat in your family's solar, feet propped on an embroidered cushion, a plate of honeyed figs balanced on your stomach, and a look of supreme contentment on your face. You were sprawled across a chaise in a manner that would have horrified your septa, one hand trailing lazily through a bowl of grapes you had commandeered from the kitchens, the other holding a cup of wine that you had refilled three times already.

Your mother, seated across from you with the rigid posture of a woman who had spent her entire life cultivating proper manners, watched you with the particular resignation of a parent who had long since given up trying to impose decorum.

"Must you sprawl like that?" your mother asked, not for the first time.

"I am comfortable," you said, not moving. "You should try it. Loosen your stays. Unlace your boots. Live a little."

"I am a lady of the court. I do not 'live a little.'"

You snorted. "Your loss."

You bit into a fig with relish, letting the honeyed sweetness coat your tongue. The figs in King's Landing were good, better than Summerhall's if you were being honest, though you would never admit it. The wine was passable, and your mother's servants were efficient and unobtrusive, and for the first time in months you were not being followed around by a silver haired shadow who watched you with the intensity of a dragon guarding its hoard.

You loved Aerion. You did. Fiercely. But the man was exhausting.

He looked at you like you were the sun and the moon and the stars all rolled into one. He followed you from room to room like a devoted puppy, except puppies did not usually compose epic poetry about the curve of your neck. He touched you constantly, your hand, your hair, your waist, as though he needed the physical reassurance that you were still there, still real, still his. He was dramatic and possessive and utterly, completely mad, and you would not have him any other way.

But seven hells, a fortnight without him was a vacation.

"You have been here three days," your mother observed, breaking into your thoughts. "Should you not be writing to your husband?"

You popped another fig into your mouth. "I will."

"When?"

"When I feel like it." You stretched, languid and comfortable, your arms reaching above your head in a gesture that made your mother wince at the impropriety. "He is probably moping around Summerhall writing me letters. He gets dramatic when I am gone."

"And that does not concern you?"

You considered the question. You thought of Aerion, beautiful, mad, your Aerion, pacing your shared chambers, composing florid verses about your eyes, refusing to eat, driving his family to distraction with his theatrical suffering. You thought of the letter that would inevitably arrive in a day or two, covered in his cramped, urgent handwriting, filled with declarations of undying devotion and descriptions of his agony in your absence.

A slow, pleased smile spread across your face. "He will survive. He always does. Besides, it is good for him. It reminds him what it is like without me."

"Y/N." Your mother's voice was sharp. "You are a terror."

"I know." Your smile sharpened, affectionate and wicked all at once. "He loves it."

You thought of the way Aerion had looked at you before you left, his violet eyes wide and tragic, his hands gripping yours as though you were being led to the executioner's block rather than a carriage. Do not go, he had said, and he had meant it, had meant it with every fiber of his being, had meant it so fiercely that you had almost, almost considered staying. Do not leave me. I cannot breathe without you.

You had kissed him, soft and quick, and told him to be good, and then you had climbed into the carriage and watched him grow smaller and smaller in the window until he was just a silver haired speck in the distance, and you had felt not guilt, exactly. Not guilt. But something that might have been tenderness, if tenderness was the sort of thing you admitted to.

You missed him. You did. You missed the warmth of him beside you at night, the ridiculous things he said that made you laugh despite yourself, the way he looked at you like you had hung the moon. You missed the weight of his arm around your waist, the sound of his voice calling your name, the way he would press kisses to your shoulder in the morning when he thought you were still asleep.

But you also enjoyed the silence. The absence of constant, overwhelming Aerion. The ability to eat a meal without being stared at. The chance to sleep without someone wrapping around you like a starfish.

You would go back. Of course you would go back. You would go back in a fortnight, and you would find him in your chambers, pale and dramatic and probably unshaven, with a stack of desperate letters on the desk and your shawl wrapped around his shoulders like a security blanket, and you would kiss him, and he would weep, and you would call him a fool, and he would agree, and everything would be exactly as it should be.

But for now, you were going to enjoy your figs.

Your mother sighed, the sound of a woman who had long since accepted her daughter's nature. "Your father wants to host a dinner tomorrow night. Several of the courtiers have asked about you."

You wrinkled your nose. "I do not want to see courtiers. I came here to escape."

"You came here to visit your family."

"I came here to eat your figs and sleep in a bed that does not contain a five foot man who radiates heat like a furnace and twitches in his sleep." You reached for another fig. "The family is a bonus."

Your mother's lips pressed together in a thin line. "You have responsibilities. Appearances to maintain. You cannot simply"

"I can," you interrupted, "and I will. I am the wife of Aerion Targaryen. If I want to spend a fortnight eating figs and ignoring courtiers, I shall. Who is going to stop me? My husband?" You laughed, bright and sharp. "He would thank me for resting. He would probably compose an ode to my repose. Behold my dragonness, who reclines in splendor, her beauty outshining the very sun itself." You pitched your voice into a ridiculous imitation of Aerion's dramatic cadence. "See how her fingers curl around a fig, how her lips part to receive it, how the heavens themselves weep with envy at her grace."

Your mother stared at you.

You grinned. "I am going to write that down. He will love it. He will probably frame it."

"You are both utterly mad."

"Perhaps." You settled back against the chaise, closing your eyes, a smile still playing at your lips. "But we are mad together. That is the important part."

You did not write to him that day. Or the next. On the third day, a letter arrived from Summerhall, sealed with red wax and Aerion's personal sigil, and you read it in bed with a cup of tea, laughing aloud at the extravagant declarations of suffering and the tiny dragon breathing a heart shaped flame in the corner.

You folded it carefully and tucked it beneath your pillow, where you could feel it when you slept.

On the fourth day, you wrote back. Your letter was two lines long:

Do not starve. I will be back when I am back.

Y/N

--

From Prince Maekar Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Daughter Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

To Y/N, Princess of House Targaryen, Lady of Summerhall,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your visit with your family has been pleasant. I trust the capital agrees with you and that you are enjoying the comforts of your mother's home.

I write to you now with a request that I offer with as much dignity as I can muster, which is to say: please come home.

I am begging you.

Your husband has been moping through the halls of this castle for a week now and I cannot endure another day of it. When you are here, Aerion is a terror. He picks fights with his brothers. He argues with the household knights. He sets things on fire when he is bored. He is loud and obnoxious and he drives me to drink. These are his good qualities. These are the qualities I have, over the course of his life, learned to tolerate, even to expect. They are the qualities that have prepared me for the indignities of fatherhood.

But this?

He has not argued with anyone in six days. He has not set anything on fire. He has not even raised his voice. Instead, he drifts through the corridors like a ghost wrapped in your shawl. He sits by the window in your chambers and stares at the horizon for hours. He refused to attend meals for three days, and when I finally forced him to appear, he sat in your chair and pushed food around his plate with the expression of a man who had lost his will to live.

It is unbearable.

I have seen Aerion angry. I have seen Aerion cruel. I have seen Aerion so drunk that he tried to challenge a horse to single combat. I have seen him at his worst, Y/N, and I have weathered it all with the stoicism of a father who knows what his son is. But I have never seen him like this. I have never seen him sad. I did not know he was capable of it. I thought the emotion was foreign to him, that he was built for fury and passion and nothing in between.

I was wrong. He is capable of sadness. He is capable of a deep, theatrical, utterly pathetic sadness that is somehow ten times more irritating than his usual behavior because at least when he is terrorizing the castle I can yell at him. What am I supposed to do when he looks at me with those violet eyes and asks if I think you still love him? What am I supposed to say when he tells me that the birds have stopped singing because you took the music with you? What am I supposed to do when my son, who once tried to drink fire, begins to cry because he found a hair ribbon of yours under the bed and it still smells like you?

I am not equipped for this.

I had to watch Aerion sit in the rain for an hour because he said the sky was crying with him.

The sky was not crying with him. It was raining. It rains at Summerhall. It rains often. This is a normal occurrence that has never before prompted my son to stand in the courtyard with his arms outstretched like a man awaiting divine intervention.

The servants are talking. The household knights are uncomfortable. Your brother in law Daeron has taken to hiding in the library, and I cannot blame him.

I need you to come back. I need you to come back soon. I need you to restore my son to his natural state of being an insufferable, arrogant, occasionally violent menace because I have discovered that I prefer that Aerion to the alternative. I prefer being terrorized to being mourned. I prefer the chaos to the silence. I prefer the Aerion who makes me want to lock him in his chambers to the Aerion who makes me want to hold him and tell him everything will be alright, because I am a warrior, Y/N, I am a prince of House Targaryen, I have fought in battles and seen men die and I do not know how to comfort my own son.

I am not asking. I am begging. Come back. End this. Save us all.

Your good-father,

Maekar Targaryen

P.S. He has taken to sleeping with your shawl. He wears it around his shoulders like a cloak. I saw him walking through the garden at dawn with it wrapped around him, speaking to your favorite rose bush as though it might answer. I am not making this up. I wish I were making this up.

P.P.S. If you tell anyone about this letter, I will deny everything. I will claim it was forged. I will have you removed from the succession. I will do something dramatic and irreversible. Do not test me on this.

Letter the Second: From Prince Maekar Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Daughter Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

Y/N,

It has been three days since my last letter. I am writing again because the situation has deteriorated.

Aerion has begun composing poetry aloud. I do not mean that he is writing it down. I mean that he stands in the great hall, in the courtyard, in the corridors, and recites verses about your eyes and your hair and the way you walk. His voice carries. There is nowhere in this castle that is safe from declarations of his undying love for you and his profound suffering in your absence.

The servants are requesting transfers. Two of the kitchen maids asked to be reassigned to the Dornish border. The stable master has offered to take a pay cut if it means being sent to literally any other holding. I am running out of places to put people who do not want to hear my son describe the precise shade of your eyes for the fifth time in a single afternoon.

This morning, he cornered me in the armory to ask whether I thought you would be pleased with the poem he composed about your laugh. He read it to me. It was forty lines long. It described your laugh as a "silver bell that shatters the darkness" and "a melody that would make the Seven themselves weep with envy." I have heard you laugh. It is not a silver bell. It is a sharp, wicked sound that usually precedes someone being verbally eviscerated. I say this with affection. You are a good match for my son. But your laugh does not shatter darkness. It shatters egos.

I told him it was beautiful. What else was I supposed to say? He had tears in his eyes, Y/N. Actual tears. My son, who once laughed when I broke my arm falling from a horse, was on the verge of weeping because I might not appreciate his poetry about your laugh. I told him it was the finest poem I had ever heard. I told him you would cherish it. I told him I would personally ensure it was delivered to you with the next raven. He thanked me. He thanked me with such sincerity that I felt something twist in my chest, and I realized that I would rather have him set something on fire than look at me like that again.

Please come home.

Your good father,

Maekar Targaryen

P.S. He is now composing a poem about your hands. I overheard him telling Aemon that your fingers are "delicate as rose petals" and that he dreams of them every night. I do not know how Aemon tolerates this. I do not know how any of us tolerate this.

Letter the Third: From Prince Daeron Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Sister Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

Y/N,

Father does not know I am writing this. He has forbidden any of us from contacting you because he says it is "beneath the dignity of House Targaryen" to beg, which is ironic because he has sent you three letters already.

Do not tell him I wrote to you. He will be angry. But I cannot stay silent any longer.

I am hiding in the library. I have been hiding in the library for four days. I bring food with me in the mornings and I do not emerge until nightfall. The measters have stopped questioning it. They simply leave a candle for me and pretend I am not there. I am becoming friends with the dust. I am starting to understand the appeal of being a maester. Anything is better than being in the same room as Aerion right now.

He is unbearable. You know how he is when you are here. He is loud and arrogant and he follows you around like a dragon with a favorite treasure. It is annoying, yes. It is irritating. He picks fights with me for no reason. He calls me a drunkard. He says I have the personality of a wet scroll. He once challenged me to a duel because I suggested he might want to visit a brothel. These are the things I complain about when you are here. These are the things I tell Father I cannot tolerate.

I was wrong. I was so wrong. I would take a hundred duels. I would take a thousand. I would let him call me a drunkard every day for the rest of my life if it meant he would stop looking at me like that.

He does not pick fights anymore. He does not call me boring. He does not challenge me to duels. Instead, he finds me. He finds me wherever I am hiding, and he sits beside me, and he asks me questions. Questions, Y/N. He wants to know about my day. He wants to know what I am drinking. He wants to know if I am happy. He has never asked me if I am happy. I did not think he knew the word.

Yesterday, he put his hand on my shoulder. He has never touched me voluntarily in his entire life unless it was to shove me. He put his hand on my shoulder and he said, "Daeron, do you think she misses me?" And his voice was so small, Y/N. I did not know his voice could be small. His voice is always loud. His voice is always demanding. His voice is the sound of something about to be set on fire. But yesterday, his voice was small, and I did not know what to do, so I lied. I told him of course you missed him. I told him you probably thought about him every day. I told him you would be back soon.

He smiled. He smiled, Y/N. It was not his normal smile, which is sharp and cruel and usually means someone is about to be humiliated. It was a real smile. A soft smile. A smile that made him look like he was not a menace to society but just a man who missed his wife. It was the most unsettling thing I have ever seen.

I want my brother back. I want the brother who calls me boring and challenges me to duels and sets things on fire. I want the brother who makes me want to throw things at his head. I do not want this brother. This brother makes me feel things. This brother makes me want to help him. This brother makes me want to be kind to him, and I do not know how to be kind to Aerion. I do not know how to be kind to someone who has spent our entire lives making kindness feel like a trap.

Please come back. I am begging you. Come back and restore him to his natural state so I can go back to hating him in peace.

Your good-brother,

Daeron Targaryen