The Witch of hopelessness

He found you one afternoon, slipping into the solar where you had retreated to escape the chaos of preparations. He did not announce himself, he never did, but you had grown accustomed to the way the air seemed to shift just before he appeared at your elbow.

"Summerhall first," he said, dropping into the chair across from yours without invitation, "then Storm's End, if my father and your uncle can agree on the order of precedence without coming to blows. But after that…" He leaned forward, his violet eyes alight with mischief. "What would you say to the Summer Isles?"

You blinked. "The Summer Isles?"

"As a wedding gift. Or part of one, at least. I am given to understand the beaches are remarkable. The women there paint their faces with crushed flowers and walk about half-naked, or so the sailors claim." His mouth curved. "I thought you might like to see them. The beaches, that is. Not the half-naked women. Though I would not object if you were so endeared by the tradition that you chose to follow..."

"You are incorrigible."

"I am generous," he corrected. "Incorrigible would be booking passage without asking. I am asking."

You studied him for a long moment. There was a restlessness in him that you had come to recognize, a hunger for movement, for novelty, for anything that was not the staid repetition of court life. He wanted to show you things. He wanted to be the one who opened the world to you.

"I have never been on a ship," you said.

His mouth curved. "Then you are long overdue."

"And the expense..."

"Is my concern. Yours is only whether you wish to go."

The word left you before you could weigh it. "Yes."

His smile widened, and for just a moment he looked almost boyish, stripped of the careless arrogance. Then he rose, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head before you could protest, and strode from the room with the satisfied air of a man who had accomplished precisely what he intended.

Daella and Rhae were beside themselves with excitement, and they attached themselves to you with a fervor that was both endearing and exhausting. Daella chattered endlessly about the wedding, about the gowns and the flowers and the music, about how wonderful it would be to have you as a goodsister at last. Rhae, for her part, had abandoned her potions, at least temporarily, in favor of demanding every detail of your courtship, her eyes bright with the satisfaction of a creator surveying her work.

"I told you it would work," she said, for what must have been the hundredth time.

"You told us many things," Daella replied dryly. "Most of them did not work."

"This one did."

"It made him vomit, Rhae."

"After it made him love her. The vomiting was merely an unexpected refinement."

You laughed despite yourself. It was difficult not to, with the two of them bickering around you like a pair of brightly plumed birds. Their affection was genuine, and you found yourself returning it more easily than you had expected. They would be your family soon.

Valarr, you saw little of.

He had not sought you out since that night in the corridor, when Aerion had intercepted his offer to undo the betrothal. You caught glimpses of him at meals, across the hall during audiences, walking with his brother Matarys in the gardens. He always inclined his head politely when your eyes met. He always looked away first.

You told yourself it was for the best.

Sleep had become elusive.

It was not the wedding preparations that kept you awake, though they were certainly demanding enough. It was not the prospect of marriage itself, or not only that. It was the accumulation of everything, the weight of decisions made and unmade, the sense that your life had been wrenched from its expected course and set upon a path you had never charted.

The night was cool when you slipped from your chambers, pulling a shawl around your shoulders against the damp. The Red Keep was never truly silent, but in the small hours it grew still enough that you could hear your own footsteps, the soft scuff of slippers on stone, the distant murmur of guards changing watch.

You did not intend to go to the gardens. Your feet carried you there anyway. To the old oak bench beneath the flowering arbor. The place where you and Valarr had sat together a hundred times before.

He was already there.

You stopped when you saw him, your breath catching in your throat. He was seated on the bench, a small clay teapot and two cups arranged on the stone beside him, a plate of honey cakes balanced on his knee. He looked up at the sound of your footsteps, and his expression was not surprised. Only weary, sad.

"I had a feeling you would be restless," he said, and his voice was the same as it had always been: gentle, measured, careful. "With all this commotion."

You did not move. "Valarr…"

"Sit." He gestured to the space beside him. "Please. I brought your favorite tea. The herbal blend, the one cook used to make for you when you could not sleep as a girl. And honey cakes. You've always liked them."

You sat.

The bench was cold beneath you, the wood rough against your palms. He poured the tea into one of the cups and handed it to you, and the warmth of it seeped through the clay into your fingers. The scent was familiar, achingly so, chamomile and mint and something faintly sweet that you could never quite identify. You wrapped your hands around the cup and breathed it in.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly, "I am sorry."

Valarr turned to look at you.

"For ignoring you," you continued, your voice steadier than you felt. "These past days. I have not been…I did not know how to…"

"You had every right." He shook his head, cutting off your fumbling apology with a gentleness that only made it worse. "I should not have intervened the way I did. It was not my place. I was only…"

"Worried," you finished.

"Yes." He exhaled, a long slow breath that seemed to carry the weight of weeks. "This whole business with Aerion: the potion, the sudden betrothal, all of it...it happened so quickly. I was afraid he was playing some cruel jest. I could not bear the thought of you being made a fool of, not after everything. Not by him."

"He is not," you said. "Playing a jest, I mean. Not anymore."

"No," Valarr agreed, and there was something in his voice that you could not quite parse. "I see that now. He seems to genuinely like you. And I think…" He paused, his gaze drifting to the moonlit flowers beyond the arbor. "I think it will be good for you. To have fun. To go out and see the world. You have always wanted to be a respected lady, worthy of your name. I know that. I have always known that. But perhaps…" He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark in the moonlight. "Perhaps living on your own terms is where happiness truly lies. Instead of seeking approval from others."

You swallowed. "That is very philosophical for this hour of the night."

He laughed, a soft huff of breath that barely disturbed the stillness. "I have had a great deal of time to think."

"You will have that freedom with Aerion," he continued, quieter now. "More than I have. More than I could ever give to you, if you stayed here with me at the Red Keep. He is not bound the way I am. He can take you to the Summer Isles, to Essos, to anywhere you wish. He can let you be yourself, not just a lady of the court but…" He trailed off, searching for the word. "Just you."

You set the teacup down on the stone beside you, your fingers trembling slightly. "Valarr…"

"The bracelet," he said suddenly, and you saw him touch his wrist, where a thin woven band of thread sat against his skin. It was old now, the colors faded, the weave fraying at the edges. You had made it for him when you were ten years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the nursery while he read aloud from a book of Old Valyrian tales. "I still wear it. I will always wear it. As a sign of friendship."

You stared at the bracelet. You had not realized he still had it, let alone that he wore it.

"Is it appropriate?" you asked, your voice coming out rougher than you intended. "To wear jewelry another woman made for you, when you are to be married?"

"It is a memory of childhood," he said simply. "It contains good wishes and luck. That is all there is for anyone to know."

You nodded. You could not speak.

Another silence stretched between you, but it was different now. Thicker. Weighted with things that had not yet been said.

"I know," Valarr said at last, and his voice was very quiet, very careful, as though he were stepping through a room filled with glass. "I know the cup was meant for me."

Your heart stopped.

"Rhae said something to Egg, and Egg…" He shook his head. "It does not matter how I know. I know. The love potion. You were handing it to me."

You closed your eyes.

"It was meant as a joke," you said. "Daella and Rhae and I, we were drunk, and Rhae insisted her potions worked, and we did not believe her. We did not think it would actually do anything. It was only meant to be…"

"A joke," Valarr finished. "Yes. I understand."

"Do you?"

"I understand that it was born out of something," he said gently. "Jokes do not come from nowhere. You were upset. You had reason to be."

Your jaw tightened. "You were the safest to play a joke on. That was all. A joke we thought was harmless, because we did not believe it would work."

Valarr did not argue. He simply looked at you, and his expression was so impossibly sad, so impossibly tender, that you had to look away or risk shattering entirely.

"In case there is anything," he said slowly, "anything at all, that your Baratheon pride will not let you admit…you should know something."

You did not turn back to him. He continued anyway.

"You have always been my dearest friend. My favorite companion. In all the years I have been at court, there has been no one whose company I have valued more than yours. No one I have trusted more. No one I have…" He stopped, and when he spoke again his voice was fraying at the edges. "If things had played out differently, I would have been more than happy with you. I would have done my best to keep you happy as well."

Your hands were clenched in your lap, twisting against the dark fabric of your night robe.

"But I have been attending meetings and councils my whole life," he went on, and there was a weariness in him now that went beyond the hour, beyond the night, beyond anything that could be cured by sleep. "I could see how events were playing out. I could see what moves were made, and where things were heading. A closer alliance with House Baratheon was not of importance as of now. That is not a reflection on you. It is not a statement of your worth. It is simply…the way of things. The arithmetic of rule."

"You chose your duty," you said quietly.

"I chose what my duty asked of me." His voice cracked, just slightly. "The crown prince cannot, should not, must not be selfish. I could not choose familiarity and comfort over the future security of the state. All I could do was make sure you secured a good match. A better man for you, one who would not care about other matters at play. One who could give you what I could not."

You turned to him at last. His face was composed, unlike his voice.

"I could not be that better man for you because I also needed to be a better son," he said. "A better grandson. A better brother, prince, heir. I could not give you false hope or entertain any affections. I could not clutch at you and ignore all else. Even if…" He stopped, his throat working. "Even if it would have been the easiest thing for me to do."

"Valarr…"

He tried to smile. It did not reach his eyes. "You will be happy with Aerion. He is not bound as I am. He can give you the world, or at least as much of it as you wish to see. That is more than I could ever..."

He stopped. His composure, held together by will and long practice, finally faltered. His shoulders dropped. His head bowed. And in the moonlight, you saw the first glimmer of tears in his eyes.

You cracked.

"It is not your fault," you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I understand. I have always understood, even when I did not want to. I could never blame you for doing what you were born to do."

He looked up at you, and the relief in his face was almost unbearable to witness.

"I could never blame you," you repeated, and your voice broke on the last word.

He reached for you then, and you let him. His arms wrapped around you: careful, gentle, the embrace of a man who had always been too cautious to take what he wanted, and you pressed your face into his shoulder and breathed in the familiar scent of him, parchment and clean linen and the faint herbal trace of the tea he had brewed for you a hundred times before.

He kissed your forehead. It was soft, chaste. The kiss of a friend, of a brother, of a man who was saying goodbye to something he had never quite allowed himself to name.

"You should go," he murmured against your hair. "Before someone comes looking. It would not do for the bride to be found in the gardens at midnight with another man, even if that man is me."

You pulled back. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he was smiling now, a small true smile that reminded you of the boy he had been before duty had carved him into something harder.

"Thank you," you said. "For the tea. For the honey cakes. For…"

"I know," he said. "Go. Be happy. That is all I have ever wanted for you."

You went.

At the edge of the garden, you turned back. He was still sitting on the bench, his hand resting over the woven bracelet on his wrist, his silhouette silver-edged in the moonlight. He raised his hand in a small wave, and you raised yours in return.

Then you walked back through the dark gardens, through the sleeping Keep, through the corridors. You did not cry until you reached your chambers. When you did, you were not sure if the tears were for what you had lost, or for what you had found, or simply for the unbearable, unavoidable fact that you could not have both.

part 6: pending...

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You couldn’t afford the gifted silks and perfumed oils of the ladies, and they have so much in store that you could almost mistake them for noble stock. Still, you do not mind washing and drying their gowns or styling their hair as if weaving an ornate tapestry because you have seen what they have done in order to obtain them. Ripped pillows with feathered guts spilling on the floor, blood on the fabrics, girls with tear-stained skin and others with bruises on their otherwise smooth skin. You erase, or attempt to, the aftermath of every coupling and wake up to do so all over again.  

 ‘Normal’ days are more common than most. Today, however, the girls murmur of dragonborn. Two figures enter as you’re replacing the old, melted candles with newer ones for the early evening. The women usually speak freely around your presence, and most of your knowledge comes in the form of gossip.

“Surely, you cannot expect me to bed him again,” one of the newer girls whines to Linette, Lady Chenei’s unofficial right hand. 

“And surely you didn’t expect this job to not come with trials?” Linette replies flippantly.

The girl paces back and forth, frustrated at her lack of understanding. “What of Malina? She hasn’t had a temperamental client in 3 moons!”

“Please, he threw a cup at her head because she looked just the slightest bit bored when he was reciting Targaryen pedigree.”

“If she can handle that then she—“

“I really do not get to decide which girl fucks whom,” Linette deadpans, “besides, you need not do more than open your legs and goad the prince’s pride.”

With a cautioning stare, the older woman leaves the candled hallway, the beads chiming her exit, and the new girl bites her nails in anticipation. From the corner, you wish to ease her nerves.

“Prince Aerion cannot be that horrible,” you murmur, fluffing up the embroidered pillows. “I have seen more despicable men in these chambers.”

Turning to you, she is silent before bursting into a one loud laugh.

“You must have been born yesterday,” she huffs in your face. “Imagine those despicable men and multiply their egos by a million. He truly is that horrible. He is…” She trails off before turning towards another hallway, her hair whipping from her anxious gait.

The sunset comes quickly when you are pacing the corridors to verify if everything is in order. You are checking the linens when you realize that the women are whispering more than giggling, and it has been that way ever since the ebony carriage was docked by the entrance.

Some of the girls peek their heads from the shadows, eyes fixed to a certain door. The guards are stiffer beside one of the more exclusive rooms compared to the rest, and you don’t need to linger long enough to pick out the shrieking of the bed. Or it could be a woman’s voice. Whatever it may be, your job isn’t to care, so you dart off to whatever room needs your concealed assistance more. 

It must not have been more than an hour later when the brothel is in a state of high alert. The guards no longer monitor the hall, and that door from earlier is ajar enough to reveal a room which appeared to be the result of a wild boar attack. Cautiously, you tread the halls, following the sounds of hushed voices and shuffling feet. In the main gallery stood Prince Aerion in all his white-haired glory, candleglow bouncing off his hair like flames.

“They said that this whorehouse was the best of the best that even Aegon IV sang nothing but praises,” Aerion proclaims loudly. “The quality of your whores say otherwise.”

As a simple worker, you’ve only seen the aftermath of the more… unpleasant moments, but never the actual storm that caused it. Tiptoeing to blend with the witnesses, you crane your head to see the new girl prostrated at her lowest towards the Targaryen prince.

Even from your unstable view, you can see she trembles like a leaf. Lady Chenei is seldom seen, and truly, this is one of the few moments you have seen her countenance so stressed. 

“Whatever you wish, your grace,” Lady Chenei says, and hopefully her placating tone would be enough to disarm him. “We will fetch a new girl at once. Whichever one you desire.”

The thought of being victim to Prince Aerion sends the rest of the brothel into an eerie silence, so quiet even those in the throes of sex have stopped their coupling. 

“I don’t want another one of your undeserving whores,” Aerion unabashedly proclaims. “They will most likely be as lousy as the last one you offered me,” he continues, pointing at the still trembling girl near his feet. Her sniffles are quiet but still noticeable, and Aerion looks at her with what can be none other described than apathetic disgust.

“Oh gods, take this simpering mess away,” Aerion orders. Almost immediately, two of the bystanders pull the girl to her feet, dragging her to where she might be either consoled or punished for upsetting the volatile prince.

“If there is anything else we may offer you. Your happiness is of utmost priority,” Lady Chenei coaxes. She approaches the prince and gestures to one of the tables near the wall filled with sustenance for the guests. “Whatever food or drink you crave, we are sure to have them in store.”

The prince comes closer to the table, fickle eyes inspecting the rich cured meats, dried fruit, and the gleaming liquid inside each pitcher. Everyone’s shoulders seem to relax, even for a moment, and you are even debating sneaking away to continue the routine.

He circles the table maybe twice or thrice. You’re halfway from exiting before Aerion brings both of his forearms to swipe the contents of the table onto the floor. 

“I desire neither your food, wine, nor your excuses,” Aerion flatly remarks. He stares at Lady Chenei with hard eyes. “I have access to the finest meals not even the richest of you could afford to taste. You think your simple meats are worthy of my tongue?”

Turning to the table again, he grabs onto the heavy tablecloths and yanks them unceremoniously to a random direction, spilling everything with it. You wince at the scene while others' jaws open in shock at the brazen acts of hubris.

Lady Chenei is holding her tongue but her face says what her mouth cannot. She wants to strangle him, you think, and you cannot possibly blame her. 

“My prince, you must tell us what you want, and we will do everything in our power to provide,” Lady Chenei says through her teeth, and her calculating eyes are conjuring up ways to humble Aerion.

“Another word from you and I might consider taking you to my chamber,” Aerion interrupts. “What if that is what I desire…” A thinly veiled threat.

Lady Chenei approaches the prince and the rest of their words are too faint for your own ears to pick up. Sensing the end of his anger, no longer boiling but at a steady simmer, you observe the absolute mess he made.

The pillows you worked hard to arrange have alcohol stained on them and the floors are growing sticky with liquid and flattened meat. You shake your head, muttering under your breath about Targaryen madness until you spot Linette holding a rag and bucket. 

“You,” she calls through the crowd. When you point at yourself incredulously, Linette approaches you and nudges your body to the front. “Yes, you. Clean this up.” 

“In the middle of this…?” She’s a superior, technically, but you have no more responsibilities for the night.

“You’re paid to clean, not to question. Hurry, girl,” Linette urges as she hands you the bucket and rag. 

Before you could even protest, she’s shoving through the lingering bystanders. How wonderful… You walk in the dim corners with your gaze warily on the two imposing figures in the center. The crowd watches with bated breath still, though not as engaged as before.

On your knees, you begin to pick up the wasted food and scrub at the residue left behind. The marble you polished is stained with orange and dark red spills, fruits bruised from the impact. 

From your view, you see his petulant pout. He shifts unbalanced and you can tell he’s growing more irate now that he isn’t as intimidating as he was before. As you scrub, you can see him for what he really is: a small man with an ego that exceeds his frame.

A prince who acts like this is no prince at all; he even dares to call himself a ‘dragon’. You find yourself huffing in amusement with a small grin donning your face. 

You’re still cleaning but you notice that the icy silence has returned. Slowly, you look up and nearly flinch when you see Aerion’s sour look focused on you. There was no mistaking it.

“Care to explain what you found so funny?” Aerion’s voice cuts through like a steel-hot blade. “I was not aware there was a minstrel show here.”

Your body is too tense, and maybe—just maybe—if you don’t move, he will lose interest and redirect his tirade to someone else. Aerion makes no move towards your direction with a body still half turned to Lady Chenei, whose jaw is clenched to the point you begin to worry for her teeth. 

“Stand,” Aerion commands, and honestly, the prince is more frightening when his fury is soft spoken and not a flurry of loud insults. 

Immediately, you pull yourself to your feet, too scared to further increase his ire. Clenching at the soaked rag in your trembling hands, your breathing grows shallow. Only then does Aerion walk to you, his footsteps loud against the silence. Your head hangs low and you see his fine leather boots right in front of you.

Suddenly, his fair hands grab at your face with no care for basic human decency. Tilting your jaw from side to side, you make note of how his mouth curves into a somewhat satisfied expression. 

“How curious this is…” Aerion says slowly.  “The only thing in this place not for sale, and yet…” He does not finish his thought, but you have spent enough time in this place to see where his intentions lied. 

“I wonder why you aren’t a whore like the rest of them,” the prince says to no one in particular. Face still in his hand, he loosens his grip just enough for your mouth to move. When you make no move to speak, Aerion simply stares until your reluctant tongue finds the right words.

“I am more useful in other endeavors,” you reply, though your voice is still muffled by his grip.

Aerion hums, but he barely acknowledges your response. Moments pass before he pushes you away as if he was burnt. Rubbing his hands to rid himself of your presence, he turns his attention to Lady Chenei, still awkwardly watching the scene with bated breath.

You stare holes into the prince’s back while you massage your sore jaw—waiting for his next action as if anticipating a battle.

“What is she worth to you?” Aerion asks flippantly, and he is already gesturing for one of his guards to hand him his pouch of coins.

“She is not one of my girls–”

“I did not ask what she was, I asked how much she was.” He continues to press.

When Lady Chenei does not answer immediately, Aerion rolls his eyes. “How much for this measly servant girl?” 

His questions catches your attention, and you begin to see for yourself how he single-handedly earned his infamous reputation. 

“20 dragons,” she is quick to bargain.

The prince scoffs. “You think too high of her,” he says sharply with a wry smile. 

“10.” The number hangs heavy in the air, but you know too well that you were beyond return. The rag in your hand is being squeezed to oblivion while your own knuckles grow pale from pressure.

“Done.” It is surreal to hear your whole existence being calculated to a price; you view your dignity as priceless. After all of this is done, what will you think yourself to be worth?

And like that you are sold like the girls you cleaned after. You spent so much time in the brothel that you even forgot the possibility that you might end up like them. Soon, two of the prince’s guards latch onto your arms and drag you out the main hall.

Lady Chenei gives something as close to an apologetic smile as she can, but she is a businesswoman before anything else she might have been to you. You believe that if you were in her shoes that you would have done it too. Still, you look at her with muted scorn and hate the fact that you are the compromised one. 

The door to the brothel opens, and you see the Targaryen carriage waiting to swallow you whole. With one last look, you watch as Prince Aerion counts the glimmering gold into Lady Chenei’s palm.

That was the last thing you see of the brothel—of the heady, scented candles, the silk curtains, and the wicked stories you were told—before you are pushed up into the carriage that is headed towards uncertain territory. 

The Red Keep was more imposing than your mind could have conjured, and you did not know that people were capable of living in such exuberance. You follow closely to Aerion and his guards and the thought of slipping past their grasps has come up many a time. But you fucked up too badly to fuck up again, so you decide against it. 

Really, you have no clue where they were leading you; the steps and turns are dizzying and identical to one another at this point. Before you can pass out from exhaustion and end whatever torture Aerion means to put you through, you stop at adorned double doors. They open to reveal a room that can only be described as elaborate as Prince Aerion thinks to be fitting for himself. 

“Leave us,” Aerion instructs. He still has that insolent look on his fair face, and now that the guards are gone, you are in your right to smash a candleholder to his jaw. You could put an end to his menace. 

“You ought to be proud of yourself,” Aerion’s voice interrupts your violent thoughts. “Sulk all you wish, to be in service of a prince is far better than your previous station.”

You give him no visible reaction.

“You serviced whores and the men that pay for them,” Aerion states. “Have you ever wondered if that made you above or below them?”

“I don’t think of such things,” You say steadily. 

“Ah, so you don’t think much at all. Fitting for something like you, and I’d much prefer that,” the prince comments. “I suppose I can make you my own personal attendant. That’s all you know how to do anyway.”

“Don’t you suppose you have enough of those?” One quick glare from him is enough to shut you up, even though your question was truly genuine.

“You mean to be smart with me, girl?” 

“It would just be that I’d be useless…” Aerion raises a pale brow. “With all the people in your retinue already, I mean, what else is there for me to do?”

He hums and walks toward the vanity, examining his short, pale hair and unblemished skin. “Plenty and plenty more,” Aerion looks at you casually from the reflection.

“Well then, your first duty to me would be to clean my robes,” Aerion says from the mirror as he looks down at his dirtied cuffs. 

You nod stiffly and stand near his canopied bed, still too afraid that any move from you will set him off—gods know it will. 

“Are you dull or did you think you can wash them while my robes sit on my back?” Aerion frustratedly questions. “Take them off of me.”

Gulping, you feel your hands get clammy as you face his back. You remove his cloak, and it smells soured from the drink previously spilled on it. The whole scene replays in your mind. You nudge him to face you, and you can see your own hands trembling when they hover over his doublet. Button by button, it reveals his linen undershirt; you swear you see him grow more smug.

“Is that all you need?” you ask, his fine clothing tucked in your arms.

“Ah, ah. Not yet,” Aerion tuts. “All of it.” 

Awkwardly, you kneel to unclip his belt, take off his boots, and roll down his pants to reveal his milky skin. With each piece of clothing you remove, you feel the heat from his body—like he wants to burn you physically and not just with his words. You dare to look up, and lo behold, he is already staring at you with hunger.

Hastily, you stand, and his body was as sculpted as anyone of his nature would be. Truly a pretty man, and you would voluntarily bed him if he were anyone else. Yet it is him—cruel and vain—and your heart grows heavy. The new girl was right: multiply any man’s ego by a million, and it will still not surpass Aerion’s.

“Mind your staring,” he says haughtily. He walks to you, but your legs refuse to move as if they were turned into lead. Aerion is all you can see, hear, and smell; there’s nothing else to do but to stare.

“Don’t mistake my staring as want, for it isn’t,” you state. The white-haired prince laughs dryly in response.

“You don’t have to want any of this,” Aerion breathes into your face. “You will, in due time. Now, you only need to endure it.”

He kisses you as if he wants to devour you, and it is angry and messy as he is. Your hands hold limply onto his forearms, and everything about him is overbearing. Aerion only breaks away to tear at your feeble and simple kirtle, leaving you in your smallclothes and even those weren’t spared.

As strong as he is, Aerion humps at your leg like a desperate dog and whines into your mouth like one too when he kisses you again. You wince when he grabs your hair and pulls your face to his.

“The bitch couldn’t even make me cum. Maybe you will be different.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips as they curl into a smirk. The things you would do to kill him.

He pushes you onto your knees and takes his cock from his breeches, already hard and leaking. Aerion waits not for you, and you have no choice but to open your mouth. The princeling groans deeply when your lips wrap around him, inch by inch.

There’s tears in your eyes when he begins to thrust his hips, but he cares not for your comfort.

Your vision grows squinted, but you look up to see his head thrown back in pleasure, breathing heavily as he brings his hands to push your head towards his pubic bone. You know your voice will be hoarse, and your throat will be bruised from the abuse.

For the first time in years, you feel slow tears come out from your eyes though you’re not sad—yet, you have no idea how you actually feel.

“Shhh, fret not,” Aerion pants. “You’re doing much better than I expected, they really should have made you a whore when they had the chance—could’ve made a good name for yourself—ah, fuck…” 

You whine around the base of his cock, and your nails are digging harshly into his smooth thighs just to hurt him slightly. The hold on your hair puts immense pressure on your scalp yet you hold on because you feel the tell-tale signs of his oncoming climax. When you squeeze your eyes shut to let it happen, he pulls your head off of his manhood with a low groan. Your eyebrows are etched with confusion, does he not wish to finish?

“Why did you stop–”

“Get on the bed…” He catches his breath. You stumble and blink widely as if he spoke in a foreign tongue. Clearly, you aren’t quick enough for his liking, and Aerion holds your shoulders before shoves you onto his lavish bed. 

Your skin is too hot and the rich velvet of his covers does nothing to hinder the warmth. It’s a fever that threatens to consume you whole, that is, if Aerion doesn’t consume you first. He prowls over you like any animal would a wounded prey, and his hands are oddly cool against your sensitive skin.

Aerion’s fingers press against your body, and it surprises you how he can go from impatient to deliberate. His hands find from breasts and tweaks your nipples with a fascinated expression. A gasp tears from your worn throat. 

“Mmm, there it is,” Aerion murmurs into your breast. You hate him for noticing, as if your reactions were a prize to covet. Most of all, you hate yourself for giving in.

He teases you more than he should while your body squirms underneath his. Your eyes widen in a panic when you feel his fingers push your smallcloths to the side, exposing your pussy to the humid air around you. Already, Aerion grabs his cock and lines it with your opening.

Brows furrowed, you look at him to invoke a sense of pity within him. Unfortunately, he finds great pleasure in your discomfort: rubbing the tip of his cock up and down your folds, a wicked smile on his mouth as he begins to push in. 

You are no pure maid, but gods, you let out a cry in sync with his groan as the barrier between the two evaporates. He sinks in and stretches you as if you were a maiden—back arching and head tossing from the overwhelming pressure.

For a second, Aerion looks as if he vanquishes control for a minute with his hands holding onto your thighs for support. Just as quickly as he loses his composure, he returns it back tenfold when he begins to rut his hips into yours. 

It is uncomfortable, uncouth, and downright savage yet his pants above you begin to stir something within your core. You bite your lip with enough force to make it bleed to hold in your whimpers, however, one directed thrust from the prince makes you keen into his ear.

The prince laughs in your face while driving into you like a broodmare. His face is flushed rosy and you see his skin glistening with sweat, as does yours.

“Even if you were a whore, I would have bought you with a thousand dragons or one copper, it makes no difference,” he confesses in between his passion. 

The words fall into your pounding ears, too focused on how he buries himself in you and slams his hips in a way you could get no reprieve. His fingers dig into your legs which rest upon his shoulders.

By this point, you moan unabashedly out to his chambers, uncaring of his reaction or the satisfaction he receives from hearing your body surrender to him. Aerion, in all his disheveled glory, drags his mouth up your throat until he is level with your ear.

“You were to be mine,” he sighs. “I’ll take a wife, and I'll still have you at my chambers every morn and moon,” If he wasn’t fucking you into oblivion, you would have given his words more weight. You only gasp more.

You’ve no idea how long he’s had you pinned beneath him, but you feel that familiar sensation you only achieved through your own fingers. You push back against him because Aerion is a monster and thief. He takes and takes and takes, and even now he is stealing something from you that you cannot earn back. Your hands slam against his chest, but it only encourages him further. 

“Don’t— Not like this—” You heave.

“It’s funny because you’re not actually asking me to stop,” he replies. He’s right as well…

You feel it travel from the tips of your toes until your chest grows so heavy that it could collapse in on itself. Aerion, though his mind is clouded with lust, watches with scarily perceptive eyes. His tongue licks his lips again, and he intensifies his thrusts to further bring you into completion.

“If you’re so scared of finishing, I’ll finish with you then,” Aerion says with a gravelly voice, each syllable punctuated with every rock of his hips. 

Before you can register anything else, your protests are cut short from a wave of unearthly pleasure surging through you—like you were struck with lightning itself. Your cry echoes in his ear, and you feel the warmth of his seed flooding your insides to further pollute you.

Aerion twitches and grinds himself into your pussy before falling flat on your weak form. After a few moments of slight reprieve, you wince at the feeling of Aerion pulling his softening cock out of you. His cum rubs against your thigh as he does so, further staining and eliminating any dignity and little honor you did possess. 

You could only really stare at the canopy above you, even as Aerion moves away from you and sighs heavily. He runs a hand through his hair, scarcely throwing you a glance. He walks to the vanity again, assessing his form and furrowing his brows at his unkempt state. There’s a beat of silence, and the thundering rhythm of your heart begins to subside. 

“Clean me, would you?” Aerion charges you, and it brings you out of your stupor.

With a heavy groan, you force your body to comply with your brain. The cold marble of his room alerts you even more, though you believe you look quite stupid as you look around for the basin and washcloth.

Aerion doesn’t admonish then, simply pointing to the general direction and waiting oddly calm near his mirror. You bring the basin and towel to him, soaking the fabric and wringing out unnecessary moisture before dabbling at his skin.

You wipe the sweat away, and as you do, you stare at him back instead of casting your eyes down. Aerion doesn’t take it as a challenge; after all, he had won beforehand. You’re wiping the remnants of your tryst off his body up until the weight of the situation threatens to crush your psyche.

“About what you said…” You mumble hesitantly. The white-haired prince bears no smugness or his usual bravado. He even looks honest.

“I meant it,” Aerion huffs. “Every word.”

Your mouth opens momentarily, however, no words come out. Tilting his head, Aerion exhales through his nose then gazes at you with indecipherable opinion.

“I’m sure you’ve heard them. How they call me mad and a brute,” Aerion recounts. “Think what they must, they cannot call me a liar. I am not known to back down from what I say.”

You almost laugh at his unusual integrity, but you remember where that had brought you. One smile. Your livelihood had only cost you one smile, and yet you swore that would be the last he would ever take from you. Your place had been the Street of Silk, but you were not for sale. You repeated it to yourself like a prayer, even now. Most especially now.