TheMaisa

Chapter 2

Aerion Targaryen x Named Blackfyre!reader

⚠️Trigger warnings: Smut, non-consensual sex (thigh fucking), dark themes, choking/breath play, physical abuse, degradation/humiliation, verbal abuse, forced submission, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, arranged marriage, canon-divergent content, original characters.

Summary: Two months after the Trial of Seven and Prince Baelor's death, Vaelyra Blackfyre arrives at the Red Keep as a symbolic bride to secure peace.

Chapter 1

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It had been two months since Ashford, since her secret was uncovered, since Prince Baelor had fallen in the Trial of Seven, and Vaelyra Blackfyre had understood with terrible clarity that no one stood between her and the fate that awaited. Baelor had been steady, restrained, almost gentle in his authority; his death had shaken the realm and stripped away the last fragile shield she had never dared acknowledge. Now she stood within the walls of the Red Keep, the pale red stone fortress towering above King’s Landing like a monument to conquest, and the truth settled into her bones: this was no mere visit, no courtesy stay for a wedding. It was surrender. She was the price of peace.

Her family had arrived only three days earlier, escorted beneath banners stripped of their former dragon sigil, a sign of submission that snapped in the sea wind. No longer did the colors of both houses mingle as equals. Every step through the halls felt unreal. Servants bowed. Guards watched. Courtiers whispered. The Blackfyre girl. The Brightflame’s bride. Poor girl. The words hung in the air even when no lips moved.

Her chamber overlooked the city, but she had barely glanced at the view. The Red Keep itself overwhelmed her, vaulted ceilings, long torchlit corridors, walls that had witnessed generations of power struggles and bloodshed. This was the seat of the Iron Throne, where conquerors ruled. And she, a daughter of the rival branch, had been brought here to be bound. As a symbol of peace.

Her wedding gown had arrived the morning after their arrival. She had not chosen it; it had been selected for her, ordered by someone else, a reminder of the power she no longer held over her own life.

The seamstresses carried it in with careful hands. The neckline plunged lower than any gown she had ever worn. The waist cinched tighter. The embroidery sprawled larger, more ostentatious. The dragons were unmistakable. “His Highness was very specific,” one woman murmured as they began fitting the heavy velvet around Vaelyra’s body. “He inspected the design himself.”

Inspected. Heat crawled up Vaelyra’s throat at the word.

The gown was thick black velvet layered over stiff brocade, structured to hold its shape with regal severity rather than softness. It molded her torso firmly, the corset drawing her waist inward and forcing her shoulders back. Crimson dragons stretched across her bodice, wings unfurled over the curve of her breasts, tails winding down toward her hips. The neckline dipped just enough to reveal the pale swell she usually kept concealed.

When she quietly asked if it might be raised slightly, the seamstress shook her head.

By the time the final hooks were fastened, Vaelyra barely recognized herself. Her silver-gold hair fell in soft waves down her back, her violet eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. She looked regal. She looked displayed.

The knock came without courtesy. The door opened before Vaelyra could respond.

Aerion entered as though the chamber already belonged to him.

“Out,” he said curtly. With one glance, the room emptied, leaving her alone with him.

He wore black and red, sharply cut and fitted to his frame. His pale hair caught the light, his expression composed, until his eyes fell on her.

They moved slowly: from her hair, down her throat, to the exposed curve of her chest.

They lingered there, making her discomfort sharpen even more.

Her breath tightened as his gaze traced the embroidery across her breasts—the dragons he had ordered stitched there. No attempt to hide the heat in his eyes. It was sharp, possessive, almost satisfied.

He stepped closer.

“Turn around”

The command was harsh, stripped of pretense.

Vaelyra obeyed at once, She felt him behind her now, close enough that the warmth of his body brushed the bare skin above her corset.

He drew a small velvet box from his coat and opened it without flourish. In the mirror, she saw the necklace: a slender silver dragon coiled in elegant loops, its tiny ruby eyes gleaming like embers. Delicate in shape. Almost graceful.

Delicate like her.

Majestic and dangerous like him.

“Hold still” he said quietly.

She did.

His fingers fastened the clasp at her nape, brushing her skin deliberately. The metal settled against her throat, cool and light, yet heavier than the gown itself.

He did not step back.

Instead, he leaned in, mouth hovering near her ear, breath warm against her skin.

“This...” he murmured, voice low and steady, “will show them what you are now.”

Her pulse thundered.

“You will walk beside me in my colors, my sigil, my name. Every lord who looks at you will see that Blackfyre blood kneels, that you belong to a true dragon now”

His hand rose slowly, fingers curling around the front of her throat, not crushing, but firm enough to carry warning.

“You belong to the dragon” he whispered. “You belong to me.”

His grip shifted, tightening into something closer to a choke.

“Say it,” he whispered, dangerous.

“Yes, my prince” she breathed.

His fingers pressed harder.

“Yes what?” His tone sharpened as he forced her to swallow.

“I belong to you. I’m yours” she whispered again, more urgently, desperate to end this.

“Please…I can’t breathe.”

He studied her reflection, her wide eyes, her soft lips, and something dark flickered across his face. Slowly, deliberately, his mouth brushed the side of her neck. A kiss, but not tender. A claim.

Her breath shook.

His grip tightened until she gasped.

He leaned closer, teeth grazing her ear before biting down sharply.

“I’ll wait to take your maidenhood on our wedding night” he snarled, voice low and vicious. “The sept full of staring fools, the bedding ceremony where they strip you and watch me claim what’s left. That will be sweeter.” His fingers dug into her hip like claws. “But I won’t wait to remind you what you are. A Blackfyre bitch given to me as tribute. Your body is mine to use however I please.”

Vaelyra’s eyes filled at once. Hot tears spilled as the full horror sank in, he meant to violate her now, here, with no pretense of care. A sob broke from her throat, quiet but uncontrollable.

Aerion laughed, short and cruel against her neck.

“Crying already? Good. I like the taste of fear.”

He wrenched her skirts up in brutal handfuls, bunching the velvet carelessly at her waist while taking care not to tear or crease the bodice that would be on display tomorrow. The fabric scraped her thighs as he forced her legs together with a rough shove of his boot between them.

“Keep them closed, whore.”

His hand shoved between her thighs from behind without warning or mercy, yanking her smallclothes aside so roughly they tore.

She heard the clink of his belt, the harsh rasp of laces. His cock sprang free, hot, rigid, already weeping at the tip from his twisted excitement.

He forced it between her clamped thighs, the thick shaft scraping painfully along her unlubricated folds. No ease, no slickness, just raw, chafing friction that burned with every thrust.

Vaelyra sobbed harder, tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the table’s edge. She hated him, hated the press of him, hated his breath on her neck, the casual brutality. Disgust roiled in her gut; her stomach heaved as his precum smeared sticky trails across her inner thighs, turning into crude lubricant and creating wet, obscene sounds.

He began rutting, hard, fast, selfish jerks of his hips that slammed her forward against the wood.

His mouth attacked her neck, biting savagely, sucking bruises into the pale skin with wet, ugly sounds. Teeth scraped and tore; he growled between bites.

“Filthy Blackfyre cunt. Look at you, crying like a child while your prince fucks your thighs. You think tears will stop me? They make it better. Cry louder, slut. Let the guards outside hear what a pathetic, obedient hole you are.”

One hand stayed fisted in her skirts, keeping them pinned. The other slid up, careful around the embroidered bodice, to seize her breast in a crushing grip. Fingers dug into the soft flesh through the velvet, twisting and kneading with punishing force. Pain lanced through her chest; she cried out, a broken sob.

He switched to the other breast, same vicious squeeze, thumb grinding into the tender underside, yet never disturbing the gown’s perfect lines. Tomorrow the court would see only flawless crimson dragons; tonight, beneath, her skin would bloom with his fingerprints.

“You hate this, don’t you?” he hissed, teeth sinking into her earlobe until she yelped. “Hate me touching you. Hate my cock rubbing against your dry little slit.”

Her sobs came in ragged gasps now, fear choking her, revulsion twisting her insides. Every slide felt like violation; the sticky warmth of his arousal only deepened her nausea.

He sped up, hips snapping brutally, chasing his peak with animal grunts. His grip on her breast tightened until she thought the flesh would bruise black.

When he came, it was with a harsh groan. Hot, thick spurts erupting between her thighs, coating her legs in messy, claiming ropes that dripped down in cooling trails. He ground against her once more, forcing her to feel every twitch, every pulse.

Then he pulled away abruptly.

He stepped back, refastening his breeches and belt.

Vaelyra collapsed forward against the table, skirts still hiked, body shaking with sobs. Her neck throbbed with bite marks; her breasts ached fiercely beneath the bodice; sticky spend cooled on her skin. Tears blurred the mirror’s reflection.

Aerion adjusted a cuff and turned for the door.

“Do not weep in front of the sept tomorrow. Or I’ll make tonight seem gentle”

The door closed.

Vaelyra stayed there, sobbing quietly, chest heaving, the silver dragon necklace cold against her bruised throat.

Tomorrow she would stand before the realm.

Tomorrow she would be bound to him.

And every mark he had left would burn beneath the gown like a promise of more cruelty to come.

Daeron targaryen x reader

⚠️ Trigger Warnings: Dark themes, sexual content, dubious consent (consent surrendered by duty), obsession and possessiveness, alcohol use, unhappy marriage.

Summary: He craves her, he loves her, but she keeps him at a distance. Prince Daeron Targaryen faces betrayal, desire, and obsession in his marriage.

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Daeron entered her chamber without knocking. He never did. The door swung open with a soft creak, and she looked up immediately, as if she had been expecting him. Her book lay forgotten in her hands, the words unread. Her hair was loose over her bare shoulders, her night gown pale and simple, but still revealing her curves in the best way possible, and her expression calm yet taut with restraint. She was the fairest woman Daeron has ever encountered with, and the best thing was that she was his.

“Your Highness,” she said softly, bowing her head in respect.

“Don’t,” he muttered, closing the door behind him. “Don’t call me that.”

She did not reply. She never corrected him, never dared. He crossed the room slowly, the wine in his blood making his steps uneven, his cloak slipping from one shoulder. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze fixed on her face as though searching for something he would never find.

“You were expecting me.” he said.

“Yes,” she replied quietly, her voice steady. She knew he would come seeking her at night, how she wish he would go and pass out in a brothel instead.

He took a step closer to her, standing in front of her, grabbed a whole of her nightgown, ran his other hand through his hair and let out a bitter laugh. “Please,” he said, voice low, almost breaking. “I’ll be quick.” he sounded so desperate, he was like that almost every night.

Her fingers tightened around the book. She closed it and tossed it onto the table without a word. Without hesitation, she walked past him toward the bed, loosening the ties of her gown. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, she pushed it aside and lay back on the bed, staring at the canopy above, her hands resting stiffly at her sides. Waiting.

He lingered for a moment, watching her, his chest tight, stomach twisting. Then he began to remove his own clothes, fumbling with his buttons, pulling at his belt, his movements uneven and clumsy.

When he climbed onto the bed and leaned over her, the smell of wine hit her.

From this distance, she could not escape it.

It clung to his breath, to his skin, to his clothes. Bitter and heavy. It filled her lungs and made her stomach twist.

She shut her eyes, trying to imagine herself anywhere but beneath her drunken husband.

He positioned himself over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. When he settled between her legs and drew closer, she stiffened at once.

When he finally pushed into her, she could not stop the sound that escaped her.

A soft, pained moan.

He froze for a moment.

“I’m sorry.” he murmured.

Then he continued.

It was not gentle or careful.

It was hurried and uneven, driven by need rather than consideration. His movements were clumsy, unsteady, dulled by drink.

She clenched the sheets in her hands.

He had promised he would be quick. He was not.

Time stretched unbearably. Each moment felt longer than the last. Her body grew tense with discomfort, pain flowering in her lower abdomen, her breath shallow as she waited for it to end.

When it finally did, he collapsed beside her, breathing heavily.

She turned away immediately. As she always did. Creating distance.

Silence filled the room once more, thick and suffocating. Daeron lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing. He told himself he would not reach for her again. He told himself he would let her have the space she so clearly needed. And yet the emptiness beside him felt unbearable.

After a long hesitation, he shifted closer.

Slowly, cautiously, he slid his arm around her waist, drawing nearer until his chest brushed against her back. This time there was no urgency in him, no drunken insistence. The need that moved him now was quieter and far more humiliating. He did not want her body. He wanted the warmth of it. He wanted to pretend, even for a few moments, that there was something between them other than duty and resentment.

He rested his hand lightly against her stomach, holding her as gently as he knew how.

Her reaction was immediate.

Her body stiffened beneath his touch, the subtle tension traveling through her spine. Her breathing changed, growing shallow for a moment before she steadied it again. Then she slipped from his arms, not in a violent or angry manner, but deliberately, inching forward on the mattress until there was a clear space between them once more.

His arm fell back to the sheets.

The loss of her warmth felt sharper than he expected.

For a moment he simply stared at her back, at the pale curve of her shoulder illuminated by candlelight, trying to understand how something so small could feel like such a profound rejection.

“I was only…” he began, but the words died in his throat. He did not even know how to finish the sentence without sounding pathetic.

She pulled the blankets tighter around herself.

“I am tired.” she said quietly, her voice controlled, distant.

He knew it was not exhaustion that drove her away from him. It was him.

A dull ache settled in his chest, heavier than the wine in his blood. He had taken her as he was allowed to. As he was expected to. And yet when he reached for something softer, something human, she recoiled as though even that was too much to grant him.

He rolled onto his back again, staring at the ceiling, shame creeping through him in slow, suffocating waves.

He could claim her body.

But he could not make her stay.

***

It was not suspicion that led him to the truth, but unrest.

For weeks now, he had felt the change in the castle’s air. Conversations stopped when he entered a room. Servants avoided his eyes. There were whispers that wine had rotted more than his judgment. That perhaps the prince’s cups had stolen his ability to do what even lesser men could accomplish.

He had ignored it.

He drank, yes. Too much, perhaps. But he was not incapable. He knew that.

Yet the doubt had begun to fester.

That afternoon, when he entered her chambers unannounced, he had not intended to accuse her of anything. He only meant to see her. To be near her. To remind himself that whatever the castle whispered, she was still his wife.

The scent reached him before the sight did. Bitter. Herbal.

Her maid stood near the window with a steaming cup in her hands. The girl startled at his entrance, her fingers tightening visibly around the ceramic.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Tea, my prince.”

“For what?”

“For sleep.” she replied too quickly.

Daeron stepped forward and took the cup from her without asking again. The smell confirmed what he already feared.

Moon tea.

His expression did not change.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

The maid’s composure crumbled almost instantly. “My prince...”

“How long has she been drinking this?”

The girl’s voice broke. “Since the wedding night.”

Something inside him went very still. Since the wedding night.

Not recently. Not after months of disappointment. From the beginning.

He set the cup down carefully, though his fingers felt numb.

The chamber door opened behind him. She entered with her usual calm grace, her expression unreadable until she saw the cup on the table and the maid’s tear-streaked face. Understanding passed over her features in a single heartbeat.

“Leave us.” she said.

The maid fled.

They stood facing one another in the quiet that followed.

He searched her face for denial. There was none.

“You have been drinking this for a year,” he said.

“Yes.”

The simplicity of the answer cut deeper than outrage would have.

“You let them speak” he continued, his voice low and steady. “You let them say I cannot father a child. That I am too deep in my cups to even perform my duty.”

“I did not tell them that”

“You did not correct them either.”

Her composure shifted then, just slightly. “What would you have had me say?”

“The truth.”

She met his gaze without flinching. “The truth?” Her voice remained calm, but something sharper lived beneath it. “That my husband is so often drunk he can barely walk to our bed without stumbling? That I am expected to trust my body to a man who reeks of wine more nights than not?”

The words struck cleanly.

He felt them.

“I would rather not be forced into motherhood by a man who is always so drunk he cannot even walk properly.” she finished.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Daeron did not raise his voice. He did not move toward her. But the hurt in his eyes was unmistakable.

He let out a slow breath, and for a moment he looked less like a prince and more like a wounded man.

“I have stopped going to brothels.” he said, his voice rougher now. “I drink less than I did before. I come to you every night. I thought...” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. “I thought if I tried, you would see it.”

She did not answer.

“You let me believe it was my fault,” he continued. “You let me question myself. Let me wonder if I had ruined even that.”

Her silence was not cruel, but it was resolute.

The betrayal settled slowly in his chest. Not rage. Not yet. Something heavier.

He loved her. That was the humiliating truth of it. He loved her deeply enough to change for her. And she had decided, from the very first night, that he would never be worthy of giving her a child.

“You hate me so much,” he said softly, “that you would rather the castle believe I am incapable than carry my son.”

“I do not hate you.” she replied.

“But you do not trust me.”

No answer came.

He picked up the cup and poured its contents onto the stone floor. The liquid spread across the stone between them, the scent rising sharply before fading.

“You will not drink this again.” he said.

This time his voice was not desperate.

It was controlled.

“And if I refuse?” she asked.

His gaze hardened, the vulnerability receding behind something colder.

“You are my wife,” he said. “And I will not be made a fool.”

He left without slamming the door.

But the quiet with which he walked away was far more unsettling.

Chapter 1

Aerion Targaryen x Named Blackfyre!reader

⚠️Trigger Warnings: Dark themes, psychological and domestic abuse, power imbalance dynamics, public humiliation, sexualized tension, discussion of menstruation, canon-divergent content, original characters.

Summary: "Vaelyra Blackfyre wakes at the Ashford tourney to discover that her carefully concealed secret has been revealed."

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Vaelyra Blackfyre woke before dawn with a dull, aching pain in her lower belly. At first, she thought it was only another restless night, another reminder of how little peace she had found since arriving at Ashford. She lay still beneath the thin blankets of her tent, listening to the distant sounds of the camp slowly stirring, until another sharp wave of discomfort made her inhale sharply.

Uneasily, she shifted.

Then she felt the warmth.

Her body went rigid.

With trembling fingers, she reached beneath the covers. When she drew her hand back and saw the dark stain against her skin, her heart dropped into her stomach.

Blood.

Her moon’s blood had come again.

Not for the first time. Not unexpectedly. And yet, it filled her with immediate dread.

For more than a year, Vaelyra had hidden the truth. She had allowed her family and the royal court to believe that she had not yet come of age, that she was still a child in body as well as in name. It was a lie born of desperation. As long as she could pretend, the marriage could be delayed. As long as she could delay, she could keep herself away from Aerion.

Now the lie was unraveling.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, fighting back tears. If anyone discovered this, everything would change. The wedding would come quickly. There would be no more excuses, no more waiting.

She would belong to him.

Ellyn, her maid, stirred beside her.

“My lady?” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

Vaelyra hesitated before slowly pulling back the blanket. Ellyn followed her gaze and immediately understood.

“Oh,” she murmured softly.

“Please,” Vaelyra said in a shaking voice. “You promised you wouldn’t tell. Please, Ellyn.”

“I won’t,” the girl replied quickly. “Come. We should clean this before anyone notices. The camp will wake soon.”

They dressed quietly and slipped outside into the pale light of early morning. The tourney grounds were beginning to stir: cooks lighting fires, guards changing shifts, squires rubbing sleep from their eyes. Vaelyra kept her head lowered, acutely aware of every glance in her direction.

She felt as though everyone could see her secret written across her face.

At the stream, she knelt and began to wash her stained linen. The cold water stung her fingers, but she barely noticed. Her hands were shaking too badly.

“I tried so hard to be careful,” she whispered. “I never wanted this to happen here.”

Ellyn crouched beside her. “We’ll manage somehow,” she said, though her voice lacked confidence.

They were almost finished when footsteps approached behind them.

Vaelyra sensed it before she heard it.

She turned slowly.

Aerion Targaryen stood several paces away, already dressed for the day, his arms folded across his chest. His pale eyes moved deliberately from the bloodstained cloth to the water, and finally to her face.

Realization flickered across his expression.

“So,” he said quietly, “this is what you’ve been hiding.”

Ellyn stepped forward nervously. “My prince, she only meant to...”

“Leave us,” Aerion interrupted.

“My prince...”

“Leave,” he repeated coldly, “or I will have you beheaded for helping her deceive me.”

Ellyn went pale.

“My lady…” she whispered.

“Go,” Vaelyra said softly, tears forming in her eyes.

Reluctantly, Ellyn fled.

Aerion walked closer until he stood directly in front of her.

“How long?” he asked.

She lowered her gaze. “About a year.”

“A year,” he repeated. “For a year, you let my family believe you were still a child.”

“I was afraid,” she replied, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone. I only wanted more time.”

“Time for what?” he asked sharply. “To pretend you could avoid your duty?”

“I never meant to shame you,” she said desperately. “I swear it.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “A Blackfyre swearing honesty. How amusing.”

His hand closed around her wrist.

“You are a liar,” he continued. “And a traitor, just like the rest of your house. Deceit runs in your blood.”

“That isn’t true,” she sobbed. “I’ve never betrayed anyone.”

“You betrayed me,” he replied.

He pulled her to her feet.

“Come,” he said. “You will explain yourself to my father and my uncle.”

They crossed the camp together as the sun rose higher. People were fully awake now. Some stared openly. Others whispered behind their hands. Vaelyra felt exposed and humiliated, unable to hide her tears.

At Ashford Castle, Aerion pushed aside the entrance door and led her inside.

Prince Maekar looked up sharply. “Aerion? What is going on?”

Prince Baelor, already dressed, stepped forward in concern. “Why is the girl crying?”

“She has deceived us,” Aerion replied. “For more than a year.”

Prince Baelor turned to Vaelyra gently. “Is this true, child?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

“I was frightened,” she whispered at last. “I never meant to cause trouble. I only wanted more time.”

Prince Maekar’s expression hardened. “Aerion, you had no right to drag her here like this.”

“She shamed me,” Aerion snapped. “She made me look foolish.”

“She is just afraid” Prince Baelor replied firmly. “And fear is not a crime.”

Aerion’s gaze hardened. “She is my betrothed. She will learn not to lie to me again.”

The words sent a chill through Vaelyra.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The room was heavy with tension. Vaelyra knelt between the three men, her hands clenched in her skirts, her eyes fixed on the floor. She felt small and painfully visible, as though every breath she took was an offense.

Prince Baelor was the first to break the silence.

“This matter cannot be settled in haste,” he said calmly. “Nor in anger.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “It is already settled. She lied. She will answer for it.”

Prince Baelor turned to him, his gaze steady. “She's to be your lady wife, you will lower your voice when you speak of her.”

Aerion laughed softly. “Why? She is nothing but a disgraced Blackfyre girl pretending at innocence.”

Vaelyra flinched.

Prince Maekar’s eyes flashed. “Enough.”

Prince Baelor raised a hand slightly, signaling for calm.

“I will send for her father,” he said. “He has the right to hear this from us, not through whispers and rumors.”

Vaelyra’s head snapped up.

Her father.

Panic surged through her chest.

“No,” she whispered. “Please… please your grace, don’t.”

Baelor knelt in front of her, lowering himself to her level.

“Vaelyra,” he said gently, “this is not punishment. This is protection. Your family must be involved.”

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “He’ll be ashamed of me. He’ll think I’ve ruined everything.”

“You have not,” Prince Baelor replied firmly. “You were afraid. That is all.”

Aerion snorted. “Afraid?” he echoed. “She was calculating. Just like every Blackfyre before her.”

Maekar turned sharply to his son. “Hold your tongue.”

“Why should I?” Aerion demanded. “They rebelled against our house. They stained our history with treason and blood. And now I am expected to marry one of them and pretend she is honorable?”

Baelor’s voice hardened. “You will show respect.”

“Respect?” Aerion laughed bitterly. “To people who would have happily seen us dead if they had won?”

Vaelyra felt as though his words were knives, each one cutting deeper than the last.

“I never wanted any of that,” she whispered. “I never cared about rebellions or crowns. I only wanted to live quietly.”

“And yet,” Aerion replied coldly, “you carry their name. Their poison. Their lies.”

Prince Baelor stood.

“That is enough,” he said firmly. “You shame yourself.”

Aerion’s eyes burned. “I shame myself by being forced into this farce.”

Maekar stepped forward. “You shame yourself by cruelty.”

Silence fell again.

Outside, the camp continued its life, unaware of the storm inside the castle.

Prince Baelor turned to a servant waiting near the entrance. “Send for Lord Blackfyre.”

The servant bowed and hurried away.

Vaelyra’s breath grew shallow.

Her father would come.

He would see her like this, crying, humiliated, and disgraced.

She felt dizzy.

Aerion noticed.

“Look at her,” he said quietly. “Already playing the victim.”

She stayed quiet.

Prince Baelor turned to her again, his voice gentle. “You are safe here,” he said. “No one will harm you.”

She wanted to believe him.

But Aerion was standing right there.

And he had already harmed her.

They did not have to wait long.

Vaelyra’s father entered the room with two retainers behind him, his silver hair catching the pale light of dawn, his violet eyes searching desperately for any sign of harm. The unmistakable Targaryen beauty of his features, sharp cheekbones, silver hair, violet eyes, marked him as a Blackfyre of the old line, a reminder of rebellion and lineage. He bowed deeply. “Your grace, my princes,” he said, his voice steady though his heart ached for his daughter.

He found Vaelyra kneeling, trembling, her skirts clutched tightly, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Vaelyra,” he said softly, moving quickly to her side, “what has happened?”

“I…” She could not speak.

Aerion stepped forward, voice low and sharp. “She has lied to us for over a year. Pretended she had not come of age. Deceived my house and delayed her marriage.”

Aemon’s violet eyes widened. “That is impossible. My daughter—”

“She has,” Aerion cut in, pale eyes glinting with cold amusement. “And it reflects on you, Lord Blackfyre. You have allowed deceit to flourish in your household. You have permitted a liar to be raised under your care.”

Vaelyra’s chest tightened, panic and shame twisting together.

Prince Maekar’s voice cut through, firm. “Aerion, enough.”

Aerion ignored him. “Do you deny it, Lord Blackfyre? That she has lied? That rebellion and deception run in her blood?”

Aemon’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then closed it. The words he wanted to say — that she was innocent, that she had only tried to protect herself — lodged in his throat. Pride, fear, the weight of his daughter’s humiliation pressed down on him.

“Speak,” Aerion said softly, stepping closer. “Or remain silent and let me decide her punishment.”

With a deep, trembling breath, Lord Aemon lowered his gaze and inclined his head toward Aerion and the princes. “I… I apologize, my Prince ” he said slowly, each word tasting of ash. “I apologize to you, to House Targaryen, and to Prince Maekar. My daughter’s deception was mine to see, and I failed to prevent it.”

Vaelyra’s stomach twisted violently. She pressed her face to her hands. Her father bowed, publicly apologizing to the house that had destroyed his own.

Aerion’s violet eyes flicked over them both. A slow, satisfied smirk touched his lips. This was not just punishment for Vaelyra; this was triumph, humiliation, and control all in one.