Blue_Cordial

You rose from your chair and went to him.

Four days later, your moon blood came.

You stood in the bathchamber, staring at the evidence on the cloth, and felt a rush of emotion so complex you could not name it. Relief, disappointment, fear, hope. They tangled together until you were dizzy with them.

You were not with child. The gods had not willed it after all.

When you emerged, Aerion was waiting. He searched your face with that hungry, hopeful look he had worn every month since Ellyn's death.

"Well?" he asked.

"Nothing," you said. "I am sorry."

The hope drained from his face. For a moment, he looked almost defeated. Then he straightened, his jaw setting with that familiar, stubborn resolve.

"It will happen," he said. "These things take time. My own mother took years to conceive Daeron."

"Aerion..."

"We will keep trying." He crossed to you and took your hands in his. "We will try until it takes. However long that is. However many years it requires. I will not give up on you. I will never give up on you."

You looked at him, the man who had once threatened to ruin you, who had blackmailed you into marriage, who had bloodied his hands in your defense. He meant it. He truly meant it. Whatever else Aerion Targaryen was, he was not a liar. He would not set you aside. He would not take another wife. He would not abandon the dream of children born of your union.

You did not know whether that was a comfort or a curse.

"Thank you," you whispered.

He kissed you, deep and lingering. When he pulled back, there was fire in his eyes.

"Rest tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, we will try again."

He led you to bed. You went willingly, and you did not think about Brynden or moon tea or the dreams of fire and shadow that haunted your sleep.

The child made its presence known in the smallest of ways at first.

Your moon blood did not come. A week passed, then two, and the absence settled into your body. Your breasts grew tender. The smell of roasted meat, which you had always enjoyed, began to turn your stomach. You woke each morning with a weariness that sleep could not touch, as though some unseen hand had wrapped itself around your bones and was slowly, gently, pulling you down toward the earth.

You said nothing to Aerion. You needed to be certain.

But he noticed on his own.

"You are different," he said one morning, watching you push your breakfast around your plate without eating. His eyes were assessing, the same look he wore when tracking prey through the Marcher hills. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I am only tired."

"You have been tired for a fortnight." He rose from his chair and crossed to where you sat, his hand settling on your shoulder. "You barely eat. You flinch when the servants bring meat to table. You..."

He stopped. His hand tightened on your shoulder.

"You are with child."

You looked up at the dawning wonder in his violet eyes.

"I do not know for certain," you said. "It is too early to..."

"I know." He dropped to his knees beside your chair, his hands catching yours, his face alight with a joy so fierce it was painful to behold. "I know. The gods have answered us at last. I dreamed it, do you understand? Three nights ago, I dreamed of a dragon whelp curled in the roots of a white tree, and when I woke I knew...I knew..."

"Aerion..."

"We will send for the maester. He will confirm it. And then we will announce it to the whole of Summerhall, to the whole of the Seven Kingdoms..." He broke off, his hands moving to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a tenderness that stole your breath. "My wife. My fierce, beautiful wife. You have given me the greatest gift a man can receive."

You had not given him anything. The child was an accident, the inevitable result of months of relentless coupling without the shield of moon tea to protect you. But looking at his face, at the naked emotion blazing there, you could not bring yourself to say so.

"I am glad," you said instead. "If it is true, I am glad."

The maester confirmed it that noon.

Aerion's joy was overflowing, a fire that swept through Summerhall and consumed everything in its path. Servants were given extra rations of ale. A feast was announced for the household. A raven was dispatched to King's Landing, bearing the news to the king himself.

Aerion himself transformed.

The tenderness you had seen flickering in him before now blazed into a constant, fierce devotion. He brought gifts for the child: a silver rattle, tiny embroidered slippers, a blanket woven from the softest wool. He insisted on accompanying you everywhere, his hand always at your elbow, his eyes always scanning for threats. He dismissed two kitchen servants because a dish arrived at table slightly too cold, fearing it had been tampered with. He had the entire household searched again, every corner and cupboard, every servant's belongings, looking for traces of the conspiracy he was certain still lurked in the shadows.

"They tried to poison you before," he said when you protested. "They tried to kill our child before it could even take root. I will not let them try again."

"Aerion, Ellyn acted alone..."

"We do not know that. We know nothing. Whoever sent her is still out there, waiting, watching." His jaw set in that stubborn line you had come to know so well. "I failed you once. I will not fail you again."

There was no reasoning with him. You learned that quickly. The moon tea had shattered the fragile trust that the walls of Summerhall could keep you safe. Now every shadow held a threat. Every stranger was a potential assassin. Every meal was a potential poison.

And you were the vessel carrying his most precious treasure.

"Do not walk in the gardens alone," he told you. "Do not eat anything the tasters have not tried first. Do not speak to anyone I have not approved. If you feel anything strange, any pain, any dizziness, any fear, you must tell me at once."

The dreams began in the third month.

At first, they were only fragments, snatches of images that dissolved the moment you opened your eyes. A white tree with red leaves, its trunk split open like a wound. A raven with three eyes, circling against a burning sky. A child's cry, distant and desperate, echoing through stone corridors you did not recognize.

You dismissed them as the ordinary phantoms of a restless mind. Pregnancy brought strange dreams; even the maester had said so. Your body was changing, your humors shifting, your mind adjusting to the new life growing within you. It was only natural that your sleep should be disturbed.

But the dreams did not fade. They grew more vivid, more insistent.

You dreamed of fire, a consuming inferno that swept across fields and forests, that turned rivers to steam and stone to ash. You dreamed of dragons, not the noble beasts of Targaryen legend, but twisted, screaming things with scales like rusted iron and eyes like pools of blood. You dreamed of a throne made of swords, and on it sat a figure with your face and Aerion's eyes, and in its hands it held a crown of weirwood branches, and the branches were weeping red sap that dripped like blood onto the stones below.

You woke screaming.

"Hush. Hush, my love. I am here."

Aerion was beside you in an instant, his arms around you, his voice a low, soothing murmur against your hair. Candles flared to life as servants rushed in, summoned by your cries. You clung to him, shaking, your nightgown soaked with sweat, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

"It was only a dream," he said, stroking your hair. "Only a dream. You are safe. The babe is safe. Nothing can harm you here."

"You do not understand." Your voice came out ragged, broken. "It was not only a dream. It was...I saw..."

"What did you see?"

You tried to tell him. The words came out in fragments, incoherent. Fire and blood and screaming. A child with your eyes. A tree that wept red tears. He listened, his brow furrowed, his hand never ceasing its gentle motion through your hair.

When you finished, he was silent for a long moment.

"These are not ordinary dreams," he said at last.

"No."

"Your powers. The greensight. You told me once that you heard the trees at Raventree Hall." His voice was careful, measured. "Could the child be…awakening something? Strengthening what was already there?"

You had not thought of that. The possibility settled into your mind like a key turning in a lock. The child. His child. His blood and yours, fire and weirwood, tangled together in your womb. If the greensight ran in your blood, and dragon dreams ran in his, what might their union produce?

What kind of creature were you carrying?

"I do not know," you whispered. "I do not know anything anymore."

The maester was summoned the next morning. He examined you, asked questions, hummed and nodded and stroked his grey beard with the ponderous self-importance of his order.

"Bad dreams are common in the later stages of pregnancy," he pronounced. "But at three moons? Unusual. Most unusual."

"What does it mean?" Aerion demanded.

"It may mean nothing, my prince. The female body is a mystery, and pregnancy only deepens its secrets. Rest, soothing draughts, avoidance of rich foods before sleep, these are the remedies I would prescribe."

"Remedies?" Aerion's voice sharpened. "You offer remedies for an ailment you do not understand?"

The maester flinched. "I offer what knowledge I possess, my prince. If you wish to seek a second opinion from the Citadel..."

"Leave us."

The maester left hastily. Aerion turned to you frustrated.

"Charlatans," he muttered. "All of them. They poke and prod and pronounce with absolute certainty, and when they encounter something beyond their understanding, they blame the woman's body as though it were a curse."

"He was only trying to help."

"He was useless." Aerion paced the length of the chamber, agitation visible in every line of his body. "Your dreams are not a feminine ailment. They are a gift...or a curse of your blood. The child has awakened something. I am certain of it."

"What do we do?"

He stopped pacing. For a long moment, he stood with his back to you, his shoulders rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he turned.

"There is one person who might understand."

You knew who he meant before he said the name.

"Aerion, you despise Bloodraven. You have told me a hundred times that you do not trust him."

"I do not." His jaw tightened. "But I trust even less the prospect of watching you waste away from sleeplessness and terror. Look at yourself. You barely eat. You barely leave this bed. The circles beneath your eyes are dark as bruises. I cannot bear it."

You looked down at your hands, folded in your lap. He was right. You had not left the bedchamber in three days. The dreams had grown so relentless that you dreaded closing your eyes, and the exhaustion of avoiding sleep was a weight pressing down on every limb, every thought, every breath.

"Write to him," Aerion demanded. "Tell him to come. As soon as he is able."

"Aerion..."

"I will not lose you." His voice cracked, just slightly, and the sound of it silenced you. "I will not lose our child. If Bloodraven can help, then I will swallow my pride and my suspicions and every bitter memory of his interference, and I will welcome him into my home. For you."

You stared at him. This man who had once blackmailed you, mocked you, threatened you, he was begging you to summon the one person in the seven kingdoms he hated most. For you.

"Hand me the parchment," you said.

Brynden arrived on a grey morning three weeks later.

You watched his approach from the window of your solar, too exhausted to descend to the courtyard but too restless to remain in bed. He rode at the head of a small company, a dozen riders in the colors of the Hand's personal guard, the Raven's Teeth, their cloaks billowing in the damp wind. Even from a distance, he was unmistakable: tall and gaunt, his pale hair stirring around his shoulders, his posture rigid as a spear.

Aerion met him in the courtyard. You could not hear their words, but you saw the stiff formality of their greeting, the careful distance they kept from one another. Two men who would have gladly seen the other dead, united only by their concern for you.

It would have been almost funny, if you had possessed the strength to laugh.

The hours between his arrival and your meeting were excruciating. Aerion insisted on hosting a formal welcome, dinner in the great hall, with all the household in attendance, as protocol demanded. You sat at the high table, picking at your food, acutely aware of Brynden's presence at the far end of the table. He did not look at you directly, but you felt his attention like a weight, steady and patient.

Finally, mercifully, the meal ended. Aerion escorted you to your solar, his hand firm at your elbow, his expression grim.

"I will be in the adjoining chamber," he said, his voice low. "If he says anything, if he does anything..."

"He is my cousin. He is here to help."

"So he claims." Aerion's jaw tightened. "I will not interfere. But I will be listening."

You had expected as much. Aerion did not trust Brynden, and he did not trust you with Brynden. Whatever passed between you and your cousin tonight would be heard by ears other than your own.

"Very well," you said.

Aerion pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering. "I will be near."

He withdrew to the adjoining chamber, leaving the door slightly ajar. A reminder that this conversation was not private, that anything you said could and would be used.

You were too tired to care.

Brynden entered a few moments later, ducking slightly beneath the lintel. He had removed his traveling cloak, but his boots were still dusty from the road, and there was a weariness in his bearing that spoke of long days in the saddle.

"Little bird," he said softly.

The old nickname undid something in you. Your eyes burned, and you blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill.

"You came."

"Of course I came." He crossed the room and took the chair beside yours, his one red eye studying your face. "You look terrible."

A laugh escaped you, ragged and humorless. "So I am told."

He stood and closed the door to the adjoining chamber where Aerion lingered unceremoniously.

"Tell me everything."

You told him. The dreams, the visions, the sleepless nights. The way the child seemed to amplify everything: your senses, your fears, your connection to the old magic that ran in your blood. The way you had not left your bed in nearly a month except to use the chamber pot and attend the necessary formalities of Aerion's household.

Brynden listened without interruption, his expression unreadable. When you finished, he was silent for a long moment.

"Three moons," he said at last.

"Yes."

"And you are certain you wish to carry this child to term."

There was a weight to his words, a careful neutrality that hinted at something unsaid.

"I am certain." Your voice was steadier than you felt.

"Even if that blood carries madness? Even if the child you bear becomes the monster my visions have shown me?"

"You said yourself your visions were not certain. That you could not see clearly." You met his eye. "Have you seen something new? Something you did not tell me before?"

He hesitated. It was a small hesitation, barely a flicker, but you caught it.

"Brynden."

"No," he admitted. "I have seen nothing new. The visions remain...fragmented. Unclear. I know only that the child will be powerful, more powerful than either of us. But whether that power will be used for good or ill…" He shook his head. "That, I cannot say."

"Then I will not act on uncertainty. I will not destroy my child on the chance that it might become something terrible."

His expression softened. "I did not expect you to. You are too much your father's daughter for that." He paused. "And too much mine."

"You are not my father."

"No. But I have watched over you since you were small. I have taught you. Protected you. Loved you, in my own inadequate way." He reached out and took your hand, his fingers cool and dry against your skin. "I am sorry, little bird. I am sorry I could not protect you from this. I am sorry I could not give you what I promised, a child of our blood, a legacy free of dragon madness. I am sorry you are forced to carry his child in your womb and suffer its growing pains alone."

"You did what you could."

"Did I? I sent a spy to poison your tea. I kept secrets from you. I offered you a path I knew you could not take and then left you to walk the harder road alone." His thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand. "Some guardian I have been."

"You are here now."

"Yes." He lifted his gaze to meet yours. "I am here now. And I will help you, if you will let me."

"How?"

"By teaching you what I should have taught you long ago. How to control the dreams. How to build walls in your mind that the visions cannot breach. How to sleep without drowning in fire and blood."

You felt a knot of tension loosen in your chest. "You can do that?"

"I can try. The child has awakened your gift, but it has not changed it. The greensight was yours long before Aerion's seed took root in your belly. You simply never learned to master it." He squeezed your hand gently. "I taught you once, do you remember? A long time ago, at Raventree Hall."

You smiled. "I remember."

The memory was clear in your mind even though you were six years old then. It was summer, the air thick with the scent of wildflowers and the distant murmur of the wood. Your brothers were off riding with your father, leaving you behind because you were too soft, too slow, too much a girl to keep up with their adventures.

You had gone to the godswood alone, as you often did when the world was too loud and your mother's criticisms too sharp. You had pressed your palm to the pale bark of the oldest weirwood, the one your father called the Heart Tree, its trunk so wide that three men could not link arms around it, and you had listened.

And the tree had answered.

It was only a whisper, a rustle of leaves that sounded almost like words. But you had heard it. You had heard it, and you had been so startled that you had stumbled backward and landed hard on the roots, scraping your palms and tearing your dress.

"Clumsy little bird."

The voice came from behind you. You twisted around to find a man standing at the edge of the clearing, tall and pale, with hair the color of moonlight and a face marked by a strange, unsettling birthmark that spread across his cheek like spilled wine.

You knew who he was. Everyone knew. He was your cousin Brynden, the king's bastard, the man they called Bloodraven. Your mother had forbidden you to speak to him.

"You frightened me," you said, with the unearned indignation of a child.

"You frightened yourself." He stepped closer, his boots making no sound on the soft earth. "You heard the tree, and it startled you. There is no shame in that. The first time is always startling."

"The first time?"

"Of hearing. Of listening properly." He crouched beside you, bringing his strange eyes level with yours. "You have a gift, little bird. Do you know that?"

You shook your head, mute.

"Most people cannot hear the trees. They walk past them every day and hear nothing but wind and leaves. But you..." He reached out and tapped your forehead lightly with one long finger. "You are different. You carry the old blood. The true blood. The blood of the First Men, who carved the faces in the weirwoods and bound their spirits to the roots."

"My mother says the old gods are dead."

"Your mother is an Andal." There was no malice in his voice, only a flat, matter-of-fact certainty. "She worships the Seven and fears what she cannot understand. You are not your mother. You are a Blackwood. And Blackwoods remember."

That summer, he came to Raventree Hall three times. Your mother never welcomed him, she made excuses to be elsewhere when he visited, her lips pressed thin with disapproval, but your father tolerated his presence with the grudging respect due a kinsman who also held influence at court. You were too young to sit at the high table for formal dinners, so you saw him only in stolen moments, in the intervals between lessons and meals and the endless demands of a noble childhood.

But whenever he came, he found you in the godswood. And whenever he found you, he taught you.

"Close your eyes," he would say, settling on the roots beside you, his back against the white bark. "Put your hand on the tree. Not like that. Palm flat, fingers spread. Feel the texture of the wood. Feel the life moving beneath it."

"It only feels like bark."

"That is because you are not listening properly. Stop trying to hear with your ears. Hear with your mind. With your blood. The tree is speaking. It is always speaking. You must learn its language."

You tried. For days, for weeks, you tried. You sat with your palm pressed to the trunk until your arm ached and your fingers went numb, and still the tree was only a tree, silent, ancient and indifferent.

"I cannot do it," you said, near tears with frustration. "I am not like you. I am not a...a greenseer, or whatever you call it. I am only a girl."

"You are not only anything." Brynden's voice was patient, as it always was. "You are a Blackwood. You are my blood. And you can do this. You simply need to stop trying so hard."

"How can I do something without trying?"

He laughed, a rare sound, rusty with disuse. "A fair question. Here. Let me show you another way."

He lifted you then, his hands catching you beneath the arms and hoisting you into the air as though you weighed nothing at all. You shrieked with startled laughter, your legs kicking, your skirts billowing around you.

"What are you doing?"

"Teaching you to fly." He spun you in a slow circle, and the world blurred around you: green leaves, white branches, the pale sky wheeling overhead. "Birds do not try to fly. They simply do it. They trust their wings. They trust the air. You must learn to trust the magic the same way."

"I do not have wings!"

"Neither do I, yet I have learnt to fly." He set you down gently on a low-hanging branch, steadying you with one hand when you wobbled. "Now close your eyes. Do not think about the tree. Do not think about the magic. Think about something that makes you happy. Something that makes you feel safe."

You closed your eyes. You thought about your father's laugh, your brothers' rough affection, the way the sun felt on your face when you lay in the meadow beyond the walls. You thought about the taste of honey cakes and the sound of rain on the roof of the nursery and the way your pony nuzzled your hand when you brought her apples.

And there, beneath all of it, you heard something else.

A whisper. Faint as a breath, soft as a feather falling. Words you could almost understand, in a language you had never learned but somehow knew.

Your eyes flew open. "I heard it!"

"Good." He lifted you down from the branch and set you on your feet. "Very good. Now tell me everything you heard, every word, every whisper. Leave nothing out."

You told him. You told him about the voice that was not a voice, the language that was not a language, the strange, ancient welcome that had settled into your bones like warmth from a fire. He listened with an intensity that would have been unnerving from anyone else, but from him, it felt like validation. Like you had done something remarkable.

"I knew it," he said when you finished. "I knew you had the gift. Your mother will not be pleased."

"My mother is never pleased."

He laughed again, and this time you laughed with him. Then he hoisted you onto his shoulders and carried you back, ducking beneath branches and stepping over roots with an ease that seemed magical.

"Will you come back?" you asked, your small fists clutching his hair for balance. "Will you teach me more?"

"If your father permits it. If you wish it."

"I wish it."

"Then I will come." He tilted his head back to look up at you, and his red eyes were bright with something that might have been affection. "I will always come when you call, little bird. Remember that."

You remembered.

You remembered the lessons that followed, scattered across the years like seeds on a field. How to close your mind against the whispers when they grew too loud. How to open it again when you needed guidance. How to tell the difference between a true vision and the ordinary phantoms of a dreaming mind.

But you had been a child then, and the gift had been a child's gift: small, manageable, contained. The pregnancy had changed everything. The pregnancy had torn down the walls you had built and left you defenseless against a tide of images that crashed over you every time you closed your eyes.

You needed new walls. Stronger walls. Walls that could hold against the combined weight of your gift and Aerion's blood and the strange, powerful creature growing in your womb.

"Come," Brynden said, drawing you back to the present. "We will begin now."

He moved to sit on the floor, his back against the stone wall, his long legs folded beneath him. He gestured for you to join him, and you obeyed, sinking down onto the cushions he had arranged.

"We will start with breathing," he said. "Close your eyes. Breathe in slowly, count to four. Hold, count to four. Release, count to four. Again."

You breathed. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. The rhythm was soothing, familiar, a technique he had taught you years ago when the whispers first began to trouble your sleep.

"Good. Now picture a wall. Any wall. Stone or wood or iron, it does not matter. Picture it in your mind, strong and high and impenetrable. Place it between yourself and the dreams. Build it brick by brick, stone by stone, until there is no gap, no crack, no weakness."

You built. You pictured the walls of Summerhall, pale stone, weathered by wind and sun, solid and enduring. You placed them around your mind, shutting out the fire and the screaming and the weeping weirwood branches.

"The dreams will still come," Brynden said. "They will beat against the walls like waves against a cliff. But they will not break through. Not unless you let them. The wall is yours. It will hold as long as you believe it will hold."

"I am tired," you whispered. "I am so tired, Brynden."

"I know." His hand found yours again. "But you are stronger than you know. You have always been stronger than you know. Now breathe. Build."

For the first time in weeks, the chaos in your mind began to quiet.

How long you sat there, you did not know. Time lost its meaning in the space between breaths, between heartbeats. Brynden's voice guided you, patient and unwavering, drawing you back from the edge of exhaustion and into state of peace.

"Better?" he asked, when you finally opened your eyes.

"Better," you admitted. The dreams had not vanished, you could still feel them, pressing against the edges of your mind like water against a dam, but they were distant now. Contained. Manageable.

"The wall will need reinforcement. Practice every night before you sleep. Practice every morning when you wake. The stronger the wall, the quieter the dreams."

"And the child? The visions?"

"They will come regardless. The child is part of you now, and its power is bound to yours. But you can learn to control what you see, to choose when and how the visions appear. That will take time and practice, but I will help you."

"Aerion will not let you stay."

"Aerion does not have to let me do anything." A ghost of a smile flickered across his thin lips. "I will leave tonight, as protocol demands. But I will return. And if you need me before then, you have only to send word."

He rose. You rose with him, steadier now than you had been in weeks.

"Thank you," you said. "For coming. For teaching me. For…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "For being here."

"I will always be here, little bird." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your brow, the same gesture he had made a hundred times since your childhood. "I will not abandon you."

He straightened, his expression settling back into its usual guarded neutrality. "I will take my leave now. The prince is doubtless eager for my departure."

"Brynden..."

But he was already moving toward the door, his cloak swirling behind him.

Aerion entered moments later, as you had known he would. He crossed to you at once, his hands cupping your face, his eyes searching yours.

"You look better," he said, and there was relief in his voice. "The color is returning to your cheeks."

"I feel better."

He drew you into his arms and held you, his hand cradling the back of your head, his breath warm against your hair. You closed your eyes and leaned into him.

The ninth moon brought revelations. Your belly was swollen now. Moving from bed to chair required assistance. Sleeping required a fortress of pillows. Your back ached with a deep, grinding pain that no amount of rubbing or repositioning could ease.

The maester, a new one, older and more experienced than his predecessor, summoned from the Citadel at Aerion's insistence, examined you with careful, probing hands. His face, already lined with age, furrowed further as he pressed his palms to your distended belly.

"Two," he said at last. "There are two heartbeats. Two sets of limbs. My princess, you are carrying twins."

Aerion, standing vigil by the window as he always did during your examinations, went very still.

"Twins," he repeated.

"Without question, my prince. The size alone would suggest it, but I can feel them distinctly, two heads, two sets of feet. You are doubly blessed."

Doubly blessed. The words echoed in your mind as you stared down at your enormous belly. Two children. Two souls, tangled together in your womb. Two legacies of fire and weirwood, waiting to be born.

Aerion crossed the room and knelt beside your chair, his hands covering yours where they rested on your stomach. His eyes were bright, feverish, and his voice when he spoke was thick with emotion.

"Twins," he said again, softer this time, as though speaking the word too loudly might break the spell. "The gods have outdone themselves. Two sons..."

"Or daughters," you interjected, more out of habit than conviction.

"Sons," he repeated, with the unshakeable certainty of a man who had seen it in his dreams. "Two sons, born of our union. Two dragons to carry our blood into the future." He pressed his lips to your belly, and you felt the children stir in response, a flutter of movement beneath his kiss. "You have given me everything," he murmured against your skin. "Everything I ever dared to hope for."

You stroked his silver hair and said nothing. What was there to say? The children were coming whether you were ready or not. Two of them. Two souls bound to yours by blood and bone and the ancient magic that ran through your veins.

You hoped, with a desperation that bordered on prayer, that they would be healthy. That they would be whole. That whatever strange alchemy had occurred in your womb would produce something beautiful rather than something monstrous.

The gods, as ever, kept their own counsel.

The pains began on a stormy night.

Thunder rolled across the hills like the growl of some vast, invisible beast. Rain lashed the windows of Summerhall, and the wind howled through the courtyards. You woke from a restless sleep to find the sheets beneath you soaked with the clear, warm fluid of your waters breaking.

"Aerion."

He was awake in an instant, his hand finding yours in the darkness. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"The baby...the babies...they are coming."

Chaos erupted.

Servants ran for the maester. Midwives were summoned from their beds. Hot water was brought, and clean linens, and a dozen other items whose purposes you could not begin to guess. You were moved to the birthing chamber, a room you had never entered before, kept sealed and ready for this very purpose, and settled onto the great bed with its blood-red canopy and its three-headed dragon carved into the headboard.

Aerion refused to leave.

"My place is here," he said, when the midwives tried to usher him out. His voice was iron, brooking no argument. "I will not abandon my wife."

"Men are not permitted in the birthing chamber, my prince..."

"I am not men. I am her husband. And I will remain."

They glanced at each other, at the maester, at you. You were in no state to arbitrate disputes. The first true contraction had seized your body, a wave of agony that started in your lower back and radiated outward until every nerve was screaming. You gripped Aerion's hand so hard you felt his bones grind together, and he did not flinch.

"Stay," you gasped, when the contraction released you. "Please. Stay."

He stayed.

The hours that followed were the longest of your life.

Pain. There was only pain. Pain that came in waves, building and building until it crested in an agony that blotted out thought, reason, identity itself.

You screamed. You could not help it. The screams tore from your throat unbidden, raw and animal, and between screams you cursed everyone and everything you could name.

"The Seven take you!" you snarled at the midwives who urged you to push. "The Seven take this bed and this room and every man who ever thought this was a woman's duty!"

"Yes, my lady, very good," the midwife said, utterly unperturbed. "Now push again."

You pushed. You pushed until your vision went white and your lungs burned and your voice cracked into something barely human.

"Get out!" you croaked at the children who were tearing you apart. "Get out of me, you little..."

Another contraction. Another scream. Aerion's hand was still in yours, solid and steady, his voice a low murmur of encouragement that you could barely hear over the roaring in your ears.

"The head!" the maester called. "I can see the head! Push again, my princess, one more push..."

You pushed. You pushed with the last shred of strength in your body, with every curse and prayer and desperate animal urge that remained to you. And the child came, sliding free in a rush of blood and fluid and tangled limbs.

Silence.

Not the silence of relief. No sound of a healthy babe drawing its first breath and letting out its first indignant wail. A different silence. A wrong silence. A silence that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up even through the haze of exhaustion and pain.

The midwife holding the child had gone white as milk. Her hands, steady through all the hours of your labor, were trembling. The other women in the room had frozen where they stood.

"What?" you gasped. "What is it? Give me my child...give me..."

But they did not give you your child. They stood frozen, staring at the silent bundle in the midwife's arms, and no one moved, no one spoke, and the babe did not cry.

Aerion moved.

He crossed the room and snatched the child from the midwife's nerveless hands. You saw his face as he looked down at the infant, his son, his firstborn, the child he had dreamed of for so long, and you saw his expression shift from confusion to shock to something else entirely.

Wonder. His eyes lit up. His mouth curved into a beatific smile. He cradled the silent babe against his chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world, he turned to you, his voice thick with awe.

"A dragon," he said. "You have given me a dragon."

"Let me see him." Your voice was a rasp, barely audible. "Aerion, let me see my son."

He brought the child to you. When he placed the infant in your arms, you looked down at your firstborn son, and you understood.

He was large for a newborn, too large, as though he had spent an extra moon in the womb. His limbs were all in place: two arms, two legs, ten fingers, ten toes. His face, when you could see it beneath the blood and the birthing fluids, was shaped like any other infant's face, small and scrunched and somehow ancient.

But his skin.

His skin was not skin.

In places, on the backs of his arms, across his chest, in patches along his spine, his flesh was covered in scales. Tiny scales, gleaming faintly in the candlelight with a sheen that shifted between silver and gold. They were not sores, not a rash, not any malformation the maesters might have named. They were scales. Dragon scales. As though some part of the ancient blood had surfaced in his flesh and made itself manifest.

Your son. Your dragon-scaled son. He was not breathing.

"Breathe," you whispered, your cracked voice barely more than a breath itself. "Please. Please breathe."

He did not breathe. His eyes were closed, his small chest still, his skin, scales and all, beginning to take on a bluish tinge that made your heart clench with terror.

"He needs warmth," Aerion said. He was still smiling, still radiant with that terrible, beautiful joy. "Dragons need warmth. The eggs on Dragonstone would not hatch until they were placed in the cradle with the babes. He is the same. He needs fire. He needs..."

"Aerion..."

"He is perfect. Do you not see? He is perfect. A dragon born of our union, just as I foresaw. He only needs time. He only needs warmth. Give him to me..."

"No." You clutched the child to your chest. "No, he is mine. He is mine, and he needs to breathe..."

And then, as if your desperate prayer had been heard by some god, the child drew breath.

It was a small sound, a hiccup, a gasp, the first tentative inhale of a creature new to the world. But it was followed by another, and another, and then his tiny face scrunched up and his mouth opened wide and he let out a wail that filled the chamber from floor to ceiling.

"He lives," you sobbed. "Aerion, he lives."

"Of course he lives." Aerion leaned over you, his hand cupping the back of the infant's head with impossible gentleness. "He is a dragon. Dragons are not so easily extinguished."

The room was beginning to recover from its shock. The maester, his face still pale but his composure returning, cleared his throat.

"The second child, my princess. We must deliver the second child."

The contractions had not stopped. You had been so consumed by the first birth, by the terror and the wonder of your scaled son, that you had almost forgotten. But there was another child still inside you, another soul waiting to enter the world.

"Take him," you said to Aerion, and the words cost you more than any scream. "Keep him warm. Keep him safe. I must..."

You did not finish the sentence. Another contraction seized you, and this time the pain was almost welcome, something to focus on, something to do, a purpose that did not require you to think about scales and the strange, feverish joy in your husband's eyes.

The second child came faster.

Perhaps your body had learned what to do. Perhaps the second babe was simply smaller, easier to deliver. Whatever the reason, the pushing was briefer, the pain less all-consuming, and when the midwife lifted the second infant into the candlelight, the sound that filled the chamber was the sound every mother longs to hear.

A cry. A strong, lusty, ordinary cry.

"A boy," the maester announced. "Another boy, my princess. Healthy and whole."

The relief in the room was palpable. The midwives, who had been so frightened by the first child, clustered around the second with smiles and coos and exclamations of delight. They cleaned him with gentle hands, wrapped him in soft linen, and when they placed him in your arms, you understood their joy.

He was beautiful.

Perfect, unblemished skin, soft as rose petals. A thatch of silver-gold hair, fine as silk, already visible on the crown of his head. His limbs were straight and strong, his cry was demanding, and there was not a scale on him.

A Targaryen prince. Every inch of him.

"He is beautiful," you whispered, tears streaming down your face. "Aerion, look at him. He is so beautiful."

Aerion looked. He was still holding the first child, had refused all attempts by the servants to take the infant from him, insisting that the babe needed warmth, needed his father's heat to thrive. But he looked at his second son and his expression softened.

"Two sons," he said. "Two strong sons. One with the mark of the dragon, and one with the face of a prince." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your sweat-soaked brow. "You have outdone yourself, my love."

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cry. You wanted to sleep for a thousand years and wake to find yourself whole again, your body your own, your children grown and strong and unburdened by the weight of their strange inheritance.

But you were too tired for any of it. So you simply lay there, your second son cradled in one arm and your husband and firstborn beside you.

The midwives cleaned you. The maester examined both infants. The servants changed the bloodied linens and opened the windows to let out the smell of sweat and birth and effort. Through it all, Aerion did not relinquish his hold on the first child. He held the scaled infant against his chest, wrapped in his own cloak, his hand cupped over the small head as though shielding it from a world that might not understand.

The naming ceremony was held a fortnight after the birth, when you had recovered enough strength to stand and walk and hold your sons without trembling. Summerhall's great hall was packed with lords and ladies of the Marches, with household knights and servants and anyone of sufficient rank to wrangle an invitation. They came to see the twins, the dragon-scaled prince and his perfect brother, and they came with whispers already forming on their lips.

Aerion stood before the assembly with a son cradled in each arm. He had refused to let the wet nurses carry them. He had refused to let anyone but you so much as touch them. Now he faced the crowd with his head high and his eyes blazing, a man who had waited his whole life for this moment.

"My firstborn son," he declared, lifting the scaled infant for all to see. The crowd leaned forward, breaths catching, eyes widening. In the daylight streaming through the high windows, Maegor's scales gleamed like scattered coins, silver and gold and a faint, iridescent blue that shifted with every movement. "I name him Maegor. A dragon's name. A conqueror's name. Let any man who questions his fitness look upon him and know that the blood of Old Valyria runs true in his veins."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Maegor. The name of the Cruel. The name of the king who had died on the Iron Throne. It was a name heavy with history, with blood and terror.

And Aerion had chosen it for his firstborn. For his scaled son. For the child he believed was a dragon made flesh.

"My second son," Aerion continued, lifting the other infant: smaller, softer, perfect in every conventional way. "I name him Aeryn. A name of our house, a name of our blood. He shall be his brother's shadow and his brother's shield, as true knights are sworn to protect the realm."

More murmurs. Aeryn was a gentler name, unfamiliar but pleasing to the ear. The lords and ladies nodded in approval. This child, at least, looked as a prince ought to look. Silver hair, violet eyes, skin as smooth as cream. They could understand this child. They could accept him.

But their eyes kept drifting back to Maegor. To the scales. To the strange, unblinking gaze of an infant who seemed to see more than any infant should.

Now, six moons later, the names had settled into the household. Maegor and Aeryn. The scaled prince and the silver prince. Aerion's twin miracles.

Aerion's devotion to them, to Maegor especially, had only grown.

"He is watching me," Aerion said one morning, leaning over the cradle where Maegor lay kicking his small, scale-dusted legs. "Look at his eyes. He follows my movements. He understands."

"He is six moons old," you said from your chair by the window, Aeryn nursing contentedly at your breast. "He understands milk and warmth and the sound of your voice. Nothing more."

"You underestimate him." Aerion reached into the cradle and lifted Maegor with careful, reverent hands. The infant gurgled, his tiny fingers curling around Aerion's thumb. The scales on the backs of his hands caught the morning light, glinting faintly. "He is special. I have known it since before he was born. The dreams..."

"You and your dreams."

"They have never led me astray." He cradled Maegor against his chest, his hand cupping the back of the infant's head. "I dreamed of dragons, and you gave me Maegor. I dreamed of fire and weirwoods, and you gave me Aeryn. The gods speak to me, wife. It is not my fault that you refuse to listen."

You did not argue. You had learned, over the months of your marriage, when argument was futile. Aerion's convictions were not things to be reasoned with; they were forces of nature, like storms or floods or the wild dragons of old. You could build walls against them, but you could not turn them aside.

The door opened, and the maester entered, the old man who had been summoned from the Citadel and who had remained at Summerhall ever since, ostensibly to oversee the princes' health. He was a careful man, precise in his speech, and he had spent the past six moons examining Maegor.

"My prince," he said, bowing. "My princess. I have completed my latest observations."

"And?" Aerion did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on Maegor.

"The prince continues to thrive. His growth exceeds expectations for an infant of his age. His strength is remarkable, he can already hold his head up without assistance, and I believe he will sit unaided within the moon." Lymond paused. "However, I have been corresponding with colleagues at the Citadel regarding the matter of his…unique integument."

"His what?"

"His scales, my prince."

Aerion's head lifted. His eyes, which had been soft with paternal adoration, sharpened to something harder. "What of them?"

"There are precedents, my prince. Infants born with unusual growths, with excess tissue, with malformations of the skin. In many cases, these can be addressed surgically once the child has grown sufficiently to withstand the procedure. A skilled maester could, in theory, excise the scales and graft healthy skin in their place. The scarring would be minimal, and the prince could grow to manhood with no visible..."

"No."

The word was flat. Final. Aerion had gone very still, the way a cat goes still before it strikes.

"My prince, if you would only consider..."

"I said no." Aerion turned to face the maester fully, Maegor still cradled in his arms. His voice was low, a pleasant cadence, but there was something beneath it that made the hairs on your arms stand up. "You are suggesting that I allow a man with a knife to cut into my son's flesh. To carve away the mark of his dragon blood as though it were a tumor. To mutilate a prince of the realm."

"Mutilation is a strong word, my prince. The procedure would be entirely therapeutic..."

"The procedure would be treason." Aerion's voice rose, cracking like a whip. "My son is a dragon. The scales are proof of it, proof that the blood of Old Valyria runs true in him, proof that the gods have blessed our union with something extraordinary. And you would have me cut that proof away? You would have me render him ordinary, unmarked, unremarkable?"

"My prince, I only wished to present..."

"Get out."

He hesitated, eyes darting to you as if seeking support. You gave him nothing. You had learned, too, when intervention would only make things worse.

"My prince..."

"Get out of my sight before I have you removed from my household entirely." Aerion's voice had dropped again, soft and deadly. "And if I hear that you have raised this matter again, with anyone, in any context, I will consider it a direct attack on my heir. Do you understand?"

He bowed and retreated from the room with more haste than dignity.

Aerion stood motionless, his breath coming hard and fast through his nostrils. Maegor, oblivious to the storm that had nearly broken over his cradle, gurgled happily and grabbed a fistful of his father's silver hair.

"They will try again," Aerion said quietly. "The maesters, the lords, the whisperers at court. They will look at him and see a monster, and they will try to make him ordinary. They will try to cut away what makes him special."

"He is your son," you said. "No knife can change that."

"No." Aerion looked down at Maegor. "No knife can change that. But knives can wound. Knives can scar." He pressed a kiss to Maegor's brow. "I will not let them touch you. I will not let anyone touch you. You are my miracle, my dragon, my Maegor. And I will protect you from the world until you are strong enough to burn it."

You felt the familiar twist of love and fear and resignation that had come to define your marriage. Aerion's devotion was absolute, consuming, terrifying. He loved his sons the way he loved everything, with a ferocity that bordered on madness.

And Maegor, his strange and scaly firstborn, was the focus of that ferocity. The child of his dreams. The living proof of everything he believed about himself and his blood.

"Come," Aerion said, his mood shifting with the suddenness that still caught you off guard. "Let us take them to the gardens. The sun is bright, and Maegor likes the warmth on his scales."

You rose, settling Aeryn against your shoulder, and followed your husband into the light.

Prince Maekar arrived at Summerhall three days later.

His visits were never announced far in advance, he preferred to travel with a small retinue, moving faster than the lumbering royal processions that accompanied his brother the king. He rode through the gates at midday, dusty from the road, his hard face creased with the beginning of a smile when he saw his grandchildren arrayed in the courtyard to greet him.

"Let me see them," he said, dismounting without waiting for assistance. "Let me see my grandsons."

Aerion stepped forward, Maegor in his arms. The infant was awake, his pale violet eyes tracking the movement around him with an alertness that was unusual for a child his age. The scales on his forearms, visible where his sleeves had ridden up, gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Maekar looked at the child. Looked at the scales. Looked at Aerion.

"A fine boy," he said. "Strong. He has your eyes."

Aerion's smile was sharp with triumph. "And his skin, Father? Do you see his skin?"

"I have eyes." Maekar reached out and took Maegor from Aerion's arms with the practiced ease of a man who had fathered six children of his own. He held the infant up, turning him this way and that, examining him with the same assessing gaze he might have turned on a new sword or a promising warhorse. Maegor grabbed for his grandsire's nose.

"The Citadel has been sending ravens," Maekar said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Maesters, physicians, scholars of unusual births. They want to examine him. Study him. Write papers about him."

"And?"

"I told them to go hang themselves." Maekar settled Maegor comfortably in the crook of his arm. "He is my grandson. A prince. Not a specimen for their dissection tables."

Relief flickered across Aerion's face. "Then you do not think..."

"I think everyone is overreacting." Maekar's voice was flat, unimpressed. "The boy has a birthmark. An unusual birthmark, yes, but a birthmark nonetheless. Some children are born with port-wine stains. Some are born with extra fingers. My grandson was born with scales. It is no stranger than any of those things, and a great deal more interesting." He poked Maegor's belly, and the infant laughed, a bright, bubbling sound. "What matters is that he is healthy. He is strong. He shows no signs of feeble-mindedness or stunted growth. Your maester tells me he is ahead of his peers in every measure of development."

"He is," Aerion said. "He held his head up within the first moon. He..."

"Then there is nothing to discuss." Maekar handed Maegor back to Aerion and turned to you. "The other one. Let me see him."

You stepped forward and placed Aeryn in Maekar's arms. The second-born was smaller than his brother, had always been smaller, as though Maegor had claimed the greater share of nourishment in the womb, but he was thriving in his own right. His silver hair was thick and soft, his skin unblemished, his features already showing the delicate beauty that would one day make him a mirror of his father.

"Aerion's image," Maekar said, and there was something softer in his voice now. "You have done well, daughter. Two healthy sons. Two princes to carry on the line."

"Thank you, my prince."

"Maekar." He looked at you, and his expression was almost kind. "You are family now. You may call me Maekar."

You inclined your head. "Maekar."

He handed Aeryn back to you and turned to Aerion. "I will hear no more talk of surgery or mutilation. If any maester raises the subject again, send them to me. I will explain to them, in terms they cannot misunderstand, that princes are not to be carved up like festival hogs."

"Thank you, Father."

"Do not thank me." Maekar's voice was gruff. "I am not doing it for you. I am doing it for the boy. He deserves a chance to grow up without being treated like a curiosity." He paused. "Though you would do well to prepare yourself. The court will talk. The lords will whisper. They will call him a monster, a deformity, a sign of Targaryen degeneracy. They said the same things about Aegon's bastards, and they will say worse about your son."

"Let them whisper." Aerion's jaw was set, his eyes blazing.

Maekar gave his son a long, unreadable look. Then he shook his head and turned toward the keep.

"You are your mother's son," he said, and it was not entirely a compliment.

The months passed. Maegor and Aeryn grew.

Aeryn was an easy child: placid, sweet-tempered, quick to smile and slow to cry. He took to nursing without difficulty, slept through the night earlier than any child the wet nurses had ever seen, and regarded the world with a calm, curious gaze that reminded you of your own father. The servants adored him. The household guards would pause in their duties to make faces at him, and he would laugh and reach for their swords with chubby, grasping fingers.

Maegor was different.

Not difficult, exactly. He was not a colicky infant, nor a sickly one. But there was an intensity to him that set him apart from his brother. He watched everything. He studied faces, tracked movements, followed conversations with his eyes as though he understood every word. When he cried, which was rare, it was not the helpless wailing of an ordinary infant but a fierce, demanding shriek.

Everywhere Aerion went, Maegor went with him.

"He needs to be with me," Aerion said, when you suggested that perhaps the infant might be better served by a regular schedule of naps and feedings. "He is a dragon. Dragons do not thrive in nurseries. They need their sire's presence."

"You cannot carry him everywhere. You have duties. Meetings. Audiences with your father's bannermen."

"Then he will attend them with me." Aerion settled Maegor more firmly against his shoulder. The infant's scales, which had grown more pronounced as he aged, caught the light and scattered it like tiny mirrors. "Let the bannermen see him. Let them know what kind of prince they will one day serve."

And so Maegor attended council meetings, sitting on Aerion's lap while the lords of the Stormlands and the Dornish Marches discussed taxes and borders and trade disputes. He attended training sessions in the yard, watching with unnerving focus as his father and grandfather sparred with blunted swords. He attended evening meals in the great hall, propped up in a specially made chair beside Aerion's place at the high table, his strange, beautiful eyes tracking every face, every gesture, every whispered conversation.

"Does he ever blink?" one of the household knights muttered, not quite quietly enough.

Aerion overheard. The knight was reassigned to night patrol duty for the next month.

"I am not being unreasonable," Aerion said later, when you confronted him about it. "The man insulted my son. My heir. Would you have me let such slights pass unchallenged?"

"He did not insult Maegor. He made a jest about his staring."

"His staring is a sign of his intelligence. His awareness. A lesser child would gaze blankly at the ceiling and drool. My son watches. My son learns." Aerion's hand moved to cover Maegor's small head, a gesture of protection that had become almost unconscious. "He will need that awareness. The world will not be kind to him. He must be ready."

You looked at Maegor, who was watching you both from his cradle with those pale, knowing eyes. He was eight moons old now, and already he seemed larger than his brother not just in size, but in presence. There was something about him that drew the eye and held it, something that made people uneasy without knowing why.

"Maegor is a strong name," Aerion continued, his voice softening. "A warrior's name. He will need it. But he will also need guidance. Protection. Love." He looked at you, and his expression was almost pleading. "You do love him, do you not? Despite his strangeness?"

The question caught you off guard. "Of course I love him. He is my son."

"And Aeryn?"

"Aeryn is my son as well. I love them both equally."

Aerion nodded, but you could see the doubt lingering in his eyes. He did not believe you. Or perhaps he could not believe you, could not conceive of a love that was not obsessive, all-consuming, weighted with favoritism and fire.

"You love Maegor more," you murmured. It was not an accusation, only an observation.

Aerion did not deny it. "I love them both," he said. "But Maegor…Maegor is the dream made flesh. The prophecy fulfilled. When I hold him, I feel as though I am holding the future itself." He looked down at the infant in the cradle, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you know what I see when I look at him?"

"Tell me."

"I see wings." His hand traced the air above Maegor's back, above the place where scales clustered thickest along his spine. "I see fire. I see the doom of our enemies and the triumph of our blood. I see everything I have ever wanted, everything I have ever dreamed, sleeping in that cradle with scales on his skin and my name in his heart."

"They are only children," you said. "They are not prophecies. They are not symbols. They are only children, and they need their father to love them for who they are, not for what he hopes they will become."

"They will become what they were born to become." Aerion's voice was certain. "I will make sure of it."

That night, you dreamt a vision. Beneath a weirwood tree sat two figures. One was tall and silver-haired, his skin glittering with scales like scattered coins. The other was smaller, darker, his face turned away from you so you could not see his features. Between them, in the cradle of the weirwood's roots, something was growing, something with leaves of red and scales of gold, something that sang in a voice like rustling branches and crackling flame.

You woke with the sound of Aeryn's crying in your ears.

"Shh," you murmured, lifting him from his cradle and bringing him to your breast. "Shh, sweetling. Mother is here."

He latched on greedily, his small hands kneading your skin, his cries subsiding into contented snuffles. In the other cradle, Maegor slept on, undisturbed. He rarely woke at night. He seemed to need less sleep than his brother, as though his strange body ran on some other fuel than ordinary infant rest.

You looked at your sons, one nursing peacefully, one sleeping silently, and thought of Aerion's words.

I see the doom of our enemies and the triumph of our blood.

What enemies? The Blackfyres, across the narrow sea? The lords who whispered about Targaryen madness and Targaryen degeneracy? The maesters who wanted to study Maegor like a specimen in a jar?

Or something else? Something older and stranger, something that stirred in the roots of weirwoods and the embers of dragon eggs, something that had been waiting for centuries for the right combination of blood, fire and magic?

You did not know. You were not sure you wanted to know. But as you held Aeryn in the darkness, as you listened to Maegor's quiet breathing and the distant hoot of an owl in the gardens below, you made a silent promise to whatever gods were listening.

You would protect your sons. Both of them. From the world, from their father, from the prophecies and the dreams and the terrible weight of expectation that Aerion was already piling on their small shoulders.

a/n: Ok this was a long one. What do we think?

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synopsis: no one was more grateful than you when Aerion was sent to Lys, greatful for the break form his delusions and torment. But when he returns and you both remain unwed, Aerion insists you will be his bride, he doesn’t see any problem with it, for your as helplessly in love with him as he is with you, right? f!reader. (18+)

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Even here, in a town that saw more Dornish traders than Stormland lords, word of the princes at Summerhall had spread. They were the sons of prince Maekar, grandsons of the old king, and their reputation preceded them. Prince Daeron the drunkard, prince Aerion Brightflame, prince Aemon the scholar, and the youngest, who went by Egg. The town was close enough to Summerhall that everyone knew the stories. Everyone knew to tread carefully.

The prince’s gaze swept the room as his companions started to wander around the room, lingering here and there on a bare shoulder, a painted mouth, a curve of breast. The whores preened and posed, sensing coin, sensing the kind of patron who might toss a gold dragon as carelessly as another man might toss a copper. But Aerion did not seem impressed. He looked bored, that particular brand of noble boredom that was more dangerous than outright anger, because it demanded to be alleviated.

One of the Kingsguard, a broad-shouldered man with a handsome, weathered face and short hair, crossed the room and lifted you bodily from your bench. You let out a startled gasp as he settled you on his lap, his armored thighs hard beneath you, his gauntleted hands closing around your waist.

“This one’s pretty,” he said. “Quiet, too. I like them quiet.”

You knew his face from the occasional processions through town. Ser Ronald Crakehall, a knight of some renown. He was handsome enough, not old, perhaps forty, with laugh lines around his eyes that suggested he was not entirely humorless. His fingers found the curve of your hip and squeezed, not painfully, but with a proprietary confidence that made your stomach tighten.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, his breath warm against your ear. “And what’s your rate, sweetling?”

You swallowed hard, acutely aware of the prince’s gaze on you. Aerion had turned from his survey of the room and was watching the two of you with an expression you could not quite read. Appraisal, certainly. 

“It’s my first night,” you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected. “My first time here.”

Ser Ronald’s eyebrows rose. He looked at you more closely, taking in the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your hands had instinctively clasped together rather than reaching for him. He was not an unobservant man, it seemed.

“Truly?” he said. “A virgin to the trade. How novel.”

But before he could say more, prince Aerion was there, standing over the two of you with his arms crossed, his violet eyes bright with sudden interest. Up close, he was even more beautiful than the stories suggested, with the sharp, delicate features of old Valyria, high cheekbones and a mouth that looked made for cruelty. There was something feverish in his gaze, something hungry and not entirely sane.

“I’m bored, Ronald,” he announced, as if the knight’s name were an inconvenience. “These painted slatterns have nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times. But a new one…” His gaze dropped to you, lingering on the exposed curve of your breast above the silk gown. “I have always preferred to break things in myself. It’s the only part that’s any fun.”

Ser Ronald’s hands loosened on your waist immediately. He did not argue, did not even protest. You saw something flicker in his eyes, resignation, perhaps, or a long-practiced survival instinct, and then he was lifting you off his lap as easily as he had placed you there.

“She’s yours, my prince.”

Aerion’s hand closed around your wrist, his grip much tighter than Ser Ronald’s had been, and he hauled you to your feet. His fingers were long and elegant, but the strength in them was surprising. He did not speak to you as he dragged you through the common room, past the curious stares of the other whores and the careful blankness of the Kingsguard. He simply walked, and you stumbled after him, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

The room he chose was one of the larger ones, with a bed draped in amber silk and a brazier burning low in the corner. The air smelled of roses. He released your wrist only when the door was bolted behind you, and then he turned to face you, his head tilted slightly to one side like a hawk examining a mouse.

“How many men have you really had?” he asked. His voice was soft, almost conversational, but there was an edge to it that made the hair on your arms stand up.

“One,” you said. “My husband.”

Something shifted in his expression. Amusement, maybe, or disbelief. “Your husband lets you whore?”

“He lets me earn coin however I see fit.” You lifted your chin slightly, meeting his gaze. “We’re not starving, but we’re not rich. And you’d be surprised what a new oven costs.”

For a long moment, he simply stared at you. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound like a blade being drawn. “You’re not lying. How refreshing. Every woman in this place has been trying to convince me she’s the most experienced courtesan from here to Lys, and you stand there and tell me about your oven.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath and the faint, clean scent of some expensive soap. “What’s your name?”

You told him. Your real name, not the false one Margot had suggested. You did not know why. Perhaps because he seemed like the kind of man who would know if you lied.

“I am prince Aerion Targaryen,” he said, as if you might not have known. “And since you’ve been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. I am not about to be gentle with you.” His hand came up, and one finger traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, a startling contrast to his words. “But I pay well, and I don’t leave marks where they can be seen. Will that do for you, little seamstress?”

You should have been afraid. Part of you was afraid. But another part, a part you had not known existed until that moment, was curious, thrilled. 

“Yes,” you said. “That will do.”

He did not waste time after that. There was no more conversation, no more teasing. He took what he wanted, and he wanted everything. The silk gown was torn, he would later toss three gold dragons at Margot to pay for it, more than the dress was worth by a factor of ten, and you were bent over the bed, pressed against the wall, pulled onto his lap on the single velvet-covered chair. He was rougher than Merrett had ever been, rougher than you had imagined a man could be, but there was a precision to it, a control. He wanted to see you gasp, wanted to see your fingers clench in the sheets, wanted to hear the sounds you made when pleasure and pain blurred together until you could not tell one from the other.

It was a siege. He fucked with a detached, methodical cruelty, his every touch was a calculated experiment. He’d pinch the soft skin of your inner thigh until you gasped, then soothe the sting with a lazy, swirling tongue. He’d take you right to the trembling edge of a pleasure you’d never known existed and then stop, holding perfectly still inside you, his smile a slash of white in the gloom, while he watched the frustration bloom in your face. He wanted your reactions, your raw, unpracticed honesty, and he took them, one by one, until you were a shuddering, overwrought mess of nerve endings and confused ecstasy. When he was finally spent, he didn’t collapse. He simply withdrew, stood, and adjusted his clothing as if he were alone in his private chambers. Then dropped a small leather purse on the table by the door.

“That’s for the hour,” he said. “I’ll be back. Teach yourself something new before then.”

The purse contained five gold dragons. More than your husband earned in a season.

You did not tell Merrett the details. You told him only that a wealthy patron had taken a liking to you, and that you would be returning when the opportunity arose. He looked at the gold dragons, looked at you, and asked only if you were all right. When you said yes, and meant it, he kissed your forehead and said he would speak to the baker about the oven.

Aerion returned four nights later, and then again the week after that. Each time, he paid more, stayed longer. And each time, you learned a little more about what he liked.

He liked resistance, so you gave it to him, arching away from his hands so he would have to pull you back. He liked begging, so you learned to plead, not for mercy but for more, words tumbling from your lips in a desperate litany that made his violet eyes blaze. He liked to talk, sometimes, in the aftermath, lying in the tangled sheets while the candles burned low. He talked about dragons, mostly. The ones that were gone, the ones that might return. He talked about fire and blood and the way the world had been before the Dance, when his ancestors were gods among men. He never talked about himself, not really, but you learned to read between the lines. You that his older brother Daeron was a disappointment, that his younger brother Aemon was weak, that the youngest, Egg, was a nuisance. You learned that his father prince Maekar was a hard man to please, and that Aerion had stopped trying long ago.

You learned that he was cruel, but you also learned that cruelty was a kind of armor. He expected the world to hurt him, so he hurt it first. It did not excuse anything he did, but it explained it, and understanding was its own kind of power.

The third time he came, he brought a small velvet box. Inside was a pendant, a silver dragon with ruby eyes, delicate and beautiful and worth more than everything you owned.

“Don’t read into it,” he said, his voice clipped. “I simply don’t like my whores to look cheap.”

You wore it anyway, and when he saw it against your throat, something in his expression softened for just a moment before the mask slid back into place.

Aerion kept returning. Each time, he taught you something new, how to use your mouth in ways you had never imagined, how to position your body to drive him to the edge and keep him there, how to read his moods and respond to his unspoken demands. He was a demanding lover, capricious and intense, but there was a strange intimacy in it, a knowledge of each other that went beyond the physical.

“You are the only woman who does not lie to me,” he said once, in a rare moment of something almost like tenderness, his head resting on your shoulder, a finger tracing down your spine. “Do you know how exhausting it is to be surrounded by liars? Everyone wants something from me. Everyone simpers and flatters and tells me what they think I want to hear. But you, you just tell me the truth. An oddity. An honest whore with an honest cunt.”

You did not tell him that you were lying, too, in your way. That you were playing a role just as much as any courtesan. That the truth was simply another strategy, one that happened to work on him. Some truths were too dangerous to speak aloud.

It was perhaps two moons into this arrangement when prince Daeron found you.

When he stumbled in one evening with a retinue of laughing friends and a decidedly unsteady gait, you recognized him immediately. Daeron was softer, his features blurred by drink, his eyes holding a sorrow that even the wine could not entirely drown.

He did not choose you at first. He chose two other girls, giggling things who fawned over him and called him “my prince” in breathy voices. But you watched him throughout the evening, and you saw how he flinched at their simpering, how he drank to drown out their empty flattery rather than to enhance his pleasure. He was a man who was running from something, though you did not know what.

The third time he came, Aerion had been gone for a fortnight, off to some tourney or other, and the brothel was quiet. Daeron arrived alone, which was unusual, and he sat in the corner with a flagon of Dornish red and a face like a man attending his own funeral. The other whores gave him a wide berth. A drunk prince was unpredictable, and unpredictable patrons were bad for business.

You approached him anyway.

“My prince,” you said, sitting down beside him on the bench. “You look like a man who could use a kind word more than a warm body.”

He looked at you, and for a moment, surprise flickered in his bloodshot eyes, quickly replaced by suspicion.

“And what would a whore know of kind words?” he asked, but there was no venom in it. Only weariness.

“I’m not a whore,” you said. “I’m a seamstress. I mend things.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then he choked on a bitter laugh. “A seamstress. Of course. Why not? The world is absurd enough already.” He took a long drink from his flagon. “Do you know what it’s like to have dreams that don’t stop? Dreams that feel more real than waking?”

“No,” you said honestly.

“Lucky you.” He set the flagon down with a thump. “I dream of dragons. Every night. They’re calling to me, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. It’s like a word on the tip of my tongue, but I can never quite reach it.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were wet. “My father thinks I’m a disgrace. My brother Aerion thinks I’m a joke. And the dragons won’t stop screaming.”

You did not know what to say to that. So you did not say anything. You simply reached out and took his hand, holding it in both of yours, and you sat with him in silence while the candles guttered and the other patrons came and went.

Eventually, he led you to a room. It was not like it was with Aerion. Daeron was gentle to the point of apology, his touches hesitant, his movements slow. He kept asking if you were all right, if he was hurting you, if you wanted him to stop. He was not a bad lover, exactly, but he was a sad one, and when it was over he wept silently into your shoulder while you stroked his hair.

He came back the next week, and the week after that. He never talked about dragons again, but sometimes, when he was lying beside you in the dark, you could feel him trembling. 

He liked to be held. He liked it when you ran your fingers through his hair. He liked to fall asleep with his head on your chest, and he always left a pile of coins on the nightstand when he woke, far more than the hour was worth, and never counted.

“You’re kind to me,” he said once, his voice slurred and sleepy. “Do you know how rare that is? People are always bowing and scraping and wanting things. But you’re just..kind.”

You did not tell him that kindness was part of the service. You did not tell him that you pitied him, this sad, drowning prince who was trying so hard to destroy himself. You just held him a little tighter and let him sleep.

The gifts from Daeron were different from Aerion’s payments. Aerion’s gold was  a transaction. Daeron’s was careless, extravagant, almost an afterthought. He would empty his purse onto your dresser without counting, wave off your attempts to give him change, press jewels into your palm with a vague, “Here, this matches your eyes,” even when it didn’t.

You never told Aerion that his brother visited you. And Daeron never asked if others from Summerhall came to the Moonblooms. It was an unspoken agreement, a delicate balance that you maintained with the same care you used when stitching fine silk.

Then prince Maekar came.

That was a shock. The prince of Summerhall, the King’s own son, a man who could have summoned any woman in the Seven Kingdoms to his bed with a snap of his fingers, walked into the brothel on a rainy evening with his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight and a fury simmering behind his eyes that made the air itself feel charged. He was not as beautiful as his sons: his jaw was heavier, his brow more prominent, his hair a lighter shade of silver, but he had a presence that filled the room, a weight of authority that made even Margot’s practiced composure falter.

He did not want the simpering girls. He did not want the ones who draped themselves over him and whispered empty compliments. He wanted silence, and he wanted release, and when his gaze landed on you sitting quietly in the corner with your sewing, you had taken to bringing small mending projects to work on during slow nights, his eyes narrowed.

“You,” he said, pointing. “Come here.”

You set aside the tunic you had been hemming and rose, approaching him with the same calm you had learned to project with Aerion, with Daeron, with all the men who passed through looking for something they could not name.

“My prince,” you said, curtsying.

“Do not simper,” he snapped. “I’ve had enough simpering to last a lifetime. What is your name?”

You told him. Your real name. It felt important, somehow, to be honest with these silver-haired men who could have you killed with a word.

“I am prince Maekar,” he said, though you already knew. “I have spent the day listening to my sons disappoint me in increasingly creative ways, and I have a headache that could fell an ox, and I do not want to talk. Can you manage that? Can you just be silent and let me fuck you without pretending you’re enjoying it?”

“Yes,” you said. “I can.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting such a straightforward answer. Then he nodded and led you to the room.

It was different with him. Not rough like Aerion, not sad like Daeron. It was desperate, almost frantic, as if he were trying to outrun something inside his own head. He did not speak, and he did not want you to speak, but when it was over he did not leave immediately. He lay beside you, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. Then he reached for the pitcher.

He drank the wine in one long swallow and set the cup aside. Then he looked at you again, his gaze more assessing than it had been before. “How long have you been doing this?”

“A few moons. I was a seamstress before. I still am, during the day.”

“A seamstress.” He seemed to find this amusing. “And what does your husband think of your…second profession?”

“He doesn’t mind. He trusts me.”

Maekar’s eyebrows rose, the same expression of surprise his son had worn. “A remarkable man.”

“He is,” you agreed.

Something in him seemed to crack. He lay beside you, his breathing harsh, and you saw his hands were trembling. Without thinking, you reached out and covered one of them with your own.

He flinched, but he did not pull away.

“Are you all right, my prince?” you asked softly.

“No,” he said, and his voice was raw. “I am not all right. I have not been all right for a very long time.”

He turned his head to look at you, and for a moment, he was not a prince. He was just a man, tired and weighed down by responsibilities and disappointments he could not escape.

“My sons are a trial,” he said quietly. “Daeron drinks because he dreams of things he cannot understand. Aerion burns because he feels things too deeply and has no outlet for them. Aemon hides because the world is too sharp for him. And Egg…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Egg is too young to be a disappointment yet. But he’ll get there. They all do.”

You did not know what to say, so you said nothing. You kept your hand there. He did not pull away.

Maekar came back. Not as often as Aerion, not as regularly as Daeron, but every few weeks, when the pressures of Summerhall became too much, he would appear with a face like a thundercloud and seek you out. He never wanted conversation, but sometimes, afterward, he would talk. About his father the king, about the weight of a crown that would never be his, about the sons he loved and did not understand. He brought you gifts: a bolt of Myrish lace so fine it looked like seafoam, a pair of silver hairpins set with sapphires, a small enameled box filled with Dornish spices that must have cost more than your house.

“For your husband,” he said gruffly when he gave you the spices, as if that explained anything.

You never told him about Aerion. You never told him about Daeron. And they never told him about you. It was a dance, a delicate, dangerous dance, and you were the only one who knew all the steps.

The Moonblooms prospered. Word had spread, somehow, that the establishment was favored by the princes of Summerhall, and custom increased tenfold. Margot hired more girls, expanded into the building next door, started serving food in the common room. She never asked you about your patrons because you had warned her that the princes would stop coming if she advertised you as their favorite, but she gave you the best room, the one with the feather mattress, and she never took more than her agreed-upon cut.

Your husband got his oven, his medicine, a new roof, a set of copper pots that gleamed like sunset. He never asked questions, and you never offered answers, and somehow, improbably, your marriage remained intact. Merrett still looked at you with wonder across the supper table, still reached for you in the night with a gentleness that none of your patrons possessed, still made you laugh with his dry observations about the townsfolk and their creative approach to accounting.

“You seem happy,” he said one evening, as you sat together in your small garden, watching the stars come out.

“I am,” you said, and you were surprised to realize it was true. “Are you?”

He considered the question with the same careful attention he gave his ledgers. “I am. We have good food, a sound roof, and each other. What more could a man want?”

A dragon, perhaps, you thought but did not say. A crown. A kingdom.

You had learned that princes were not happier than commoners. They were richer, certainly, more powerful, more dangerous. But happiness was a currency which did not care about bloodlines.

The summer stretched on, golden and hot, and the princes of Summerhall continued to visit.

You kept their secrets. You took their coin. And in your own way, you cared for them, each in their turn, each in the way they needed.

Part 2: pending...

Your shop is rather small, but you love it.

Behind the sturdy wooden counter—which itself is laden with misshapen plants sprouting from old teacups and half-filled bottles of sparkling powder—sits rows upon rows of shelves. The shelves are stocked full of your natural remedies and creations, vials big and small, pouches of linen and pouches of ribboned silk. You have everything, perfectly organised, by remedy and in alphabetical order.

For years, you’ve operated out of your little shop in a narrow side-street in the heart of King’s Landing, just a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare. You’ve helped countless travellers and residents with a range of issues: from sedatives for unruly hounds and salves to treat festering hoof-rot, to fast-acting contraceptives and bitter-tasting hallucinogens.

You can make anything.

And because you can make anything, you’ve become familiar with many a noble and knight in your time.

The door to your shop opens as you’re serving a little old lady, handing her a parcel of dried mushrooms. A cool breeze smelling faintly of winter rain and freshly baked bread sweeps into your shop, jostling the bundles of herbs you have hanging from your ceiling. You wave goodbye to the elderly women as you look up, smiling politely as you catch the unmistakable glint of midday sun against white armour.

“Ser Donnel,” you greet with a small bow of your head as the older kingsguard enters your shop, his gleaming armour making him appear like a pearl in the sand amongst your dim wooden shelves. “How is your finger? I trust the salve I made you helped the wound heal?”

Ser Donnel approaches the counter, offering you a small smile as he lifts his hand. He flexes his fingers, eyes lingering on the index, which he had sliced open a week prior.

“It did, thank you,” Ser Donnel says, his eyes lingering now on the shelves behind you.

“What can I do for you?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the solid wood of your counter, watching as the older knight spins slowly on his heel, taking in the other shelves and tables packed into your small shop.

“Don’t suppose you have something for horses?” He asks, back to you. When he turns, however, he gives you a rueful smile, then laughs. “Of course you do.”

“Of course I do,” you mimic, rounding your counter and leading the older knight across the room. You find a shelf near the shop’s far side, gesturing to an array of small vials, many labelled “Dog – Rash” or “Cat – Sneezing” and even “Chicken – Eggbound.” Ser Donnel looks at the array of small vials with complete amazement as you turn back to him. “What’s wrong with your palfrey, ser?”

Ser Donnel points to his own eye for emphasis. “Got something in her eye. All red and weepy and that. Not pleasant.”

“I see,” you say, then turn to your shelf. It takes you less than a second before you’re plucking a vial with dark brown glass off of the shelf. You hold it out to Ser Donnel. “Sounds like conjunctivitis. Very common, and, lucky for you, easy to treat. Just a few drops of this, morning and night, and she should be all better in a couple of days.”

Ser Donnel looks at you, visibly pleased, as you gently press the small vial into his palm. “You’re an absolute darling, you know that?”

“I try,” you reply, smiling as you return to your counter. Ser Donnel follows you, dropping the vial into a pouch and pulling out his coin purse at the same time. He drops several stags onto the counter, and you gape at him as they clatter loudly against the wood. “Ser Donnel, this is too much—”

“For the eye-drops,” Ser Donnel insists, pushing the stags towards you. “And for your services, okay? Now, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

You bite your lip, hiding your smile as you reluctantly scoop up the stags and slip them into the coin pouch on your belt.

“Well, can I at least give you something for your generosity?” You ask, ducking beneath the counter before he could even open his mouth to reply. You snatch up a small pouch and get to your feet, offering it to the knight, who peers at you as if you had grown another head. You sigh through your nose, amused. “Sourleaf. Fresh in this morning.”

Ser Donnel offers you another kind smile, taking the pouch of painkillers and slipping it alongside the pouch with the vial.

“Thank you,” he says, bowing his head, just as the door to your shop opens and another gust of wind blows in.

The cold breeze sweeps through the store, and the door bangs harshly against the side wall, creaking on its hinges from the force. You startle, and Ser Donnel whips around. Composing yourself, you’re quick to sink back, making yourself appear smaller, as Aerion Targaryen bursts into the room with eyes spitting embers.

“How long could it possibly take to buy an ointment for a fucking horse?” The prince seethes as he steps into the shop, looking around with genuine distaste. His eyes linger on a murky liquid in a large bottle on the wall beside him, before they drag through the dim to Ser Donnel. He makes a face, eyebrows raising like he’s expecting something. “Well? Did you get it?”

You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.

“Yes, your grace,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder sympathetically before stepping towards the prince. “We may be off now.”

Aerion scoffs, allowing Ser Donnel to brush past him, but his eyes lift and land on you. He peers at you, as if just noticing your presence, his gaze burning holes right through the centre of your face. He looks at you half with distaste—probably due to the leaves in your hair and the powder dusted across your arms and apron—and half with interest, like a merchant admiring a newly minted coin.

“So you are the woods witch Ser Donnel speaks so highly of…” Aerion comments, eyes unwavering in their stare. You shift your eyes to the floor. Aerion huffs, partially amused. “I expected an ugly old thing, but this—”

“Your grace,” Ser Donnel warns with a sternness akin to a strict father.

“—is unexpected,” Aerion continues, unphased. He traipses into the shop, cloak swishing behind him like a pair of raven’s wings. His eyes scan the walls of bottles and vials and jars, and he plucks a small one from the closest shelf. Spinning it between his fingers, he speaks with considerable disinterest, “How exactly do you know how to make all of this?”

You lift your head slowly, hands clasped in front of you. “My… my mother taught me, your grace.”

The vial he holds holds a sticky green liquid, the colour of forest moss. He peers at it strangely. The liquid inside sticks to the glass, viscous and slow-moving as he turns it.

“What’s this for?” He asks, and you know he doesn’t actually care. You lock eyes, and you realise he’s testing you.

“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.

Aerion drops the vial on the floor and it shatters against the wood. You flinch, startled by the sudden noise. You hear Ser Donnel protest with a gruff call of the prince’s title, but Aerion is undeterred, slipping behind the counter and appraising the towering shelves behind you. He takes another vial, the liquid inside a deep, mustard yellow.

“And this?”

“Inflamation caused by pox,” you answer. “Soothes the skin.”

He huffs, and drops that vial too. It shatters, but this time, you don’t flinch. You watch the syrupy yellow liquid leech between the floorboards, glass shimmering in the ghostly light streaming in through the only window near the door.

Aerion walks further behind the counter, and you shift until the small of your back is pressed to the solid wooden lip. The prince closes in on several vials on the very top shelf, and he has to stand on his toes to reach one of them. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you open your mouth to say something, but no words fall.

Aerion’s pale fingers snatch a small bottle from the top shelf. The glass is clear, and it’s labelless, but you know exactly what it is. The substance inside resembles wine: a deep, blood-red that bubbles a little on the surface as the prince sloshes the liquid around. There’s a small, oil-like sheen to it as he holds it up, violet eyes finding yours.

“What’s this?” He presses, and you wonder if he catches the fear in your eyes.

You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”

He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.

“It’s a stimulant,” you blurt out, stopping yourself from pulling the vial from his hands. Aerion continues, unphased, as he lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs. You can almost smell it yourself: overripe grapes, crushed honeysuckle, and what smells uncannily like the perfumed skin of an expensive courtesan. Aerion pauses, something flashing in his eyes as you continue shyly, “To… increase desire and maintain… maintain a man’s excitement.”

Aerion stares at you, slowly lowering the little bottle from his nose.

He holds it carelessly, and as Ser Donnel sends another warning from across the room, you attempt to prise the bottle from his fingers, your touch slow and gentle.

“Please be careful, your grace,” you utter, fingers skimming the cool glass of the vial. “It’s incredibly potent in large doses—”

Aerion jerks away, and you snap your hand back as though you’d been burned. 

The prince hisses at you, serpent-like as the pointed ivory of his teeth glint in the grey light. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”

“You’re trying to scare me,” he seethes, shaking the bottle enough for a few droplets to flick out and onto the pale skin of his fingers. It stains like mulled wine. He continues, staring you down. “How dare you even—”

“Your grace,” Ser Donnel’s voice booms through the small room, and you find yourself cowering back against the counter, stuck between two brewing storms. Ser Donnel sighs loudly. “Listen to her. She knows a lot more than you do, believe me.”

Aerion lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t mock me.”

You chime in hesitantly. “Please, your grace. It’s a concentrated mixture. I wouldn't want you to—”

“I can do what I want,” Aerion spits out, and before you can even react, he downs the entire vial in two quick mouthfuls.

You gasp out. “Your grace—!”

Aerion drops the vial and it shatters right at your feet. You jump back, avoiding the splash of broken glass, as the prince turns on his heel and makes for the door. You scramble after him, but you’re stopped by Ser Donnel, who places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

At the door, Aerion turns and gives you one last look, eyes trailing up and down your figure, before he rolls his eyes and vanishes back onto the street.

You’re breathing deeply, overcome with guilt. Ser Donnel strokes your shoulder gently, calming you.

“It’s alright, it’s his own doing,” Ser Donnel assures you, hand shifting up to pat you comfortingly on the cheek.

“But—he just—the entire thing.”

“Will it harm him?” Ser Donnel asks. His voice is firm and it almost makes you want to cry. “Will it kill him?”

You quickly shake your head. “No, ser! It—it will be very intense, and very, uh, difficult to remediate without—without help, but it will not harm him, no.”

“Can a cure be made?”

You feel yourself warming beneath your clothes, and you clear your throat, soothing your hands over your apron and your skirts.

“I suppose I can give you something to ease the racing heart,” you say quietly, ducking off to the side to pluck another small vial from a nearby shelf. You hand it to Ser Donnel. “Mix with hot water and it will ease the fast-moving heart, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid the other symptoms will have to be cured… in other avenues.”

Ser Donnel chuckles, taking the vial. “I suppose I’ll be taking him to the Street of Silk later tonight then?”

You offer Ser Donnel a sympathetic smile, nodding and trying to ignore the warmth in your belly. You put it down to the shock of the whole thing, and you give Ser Donnel a polite wave as he leaves your shop without another word.

You sigh, turning and examining the broken glass and spilled liquid across your floors. You grab your broom from near the door and set to work.

—✿—

Later that night, you’re setting a new set of vials on a shelf across the store, extinguishing the wall-mounted candles as you move. You hum to yourself, skirts brushing the dusty floor, the street beyond the small window empty and pitch-black as night falls across King’s Landing. A crescent moon hangs, thin and pale, above the horizon.

You take your apron off and place it neatly on a hook near the door behind the counter—the door which leads up a narrow flight of stairs to your home above. As you do this however, there’s a thud at the locked door. It rattles the old wood where it settles on its hinges, and your heart flutters a little in fright as you look over, spying a shadow through the stained glass. Taking a knife from a block behind you, you approach the door with your hand obscured behind your back.

There’s another thud. More like a knock this time.

“Are you alright?” You ask through the stained glass, the outer pane caked in grime kicked up from the street. You gently unbolt the door and open it a crack, peering out at the shadowed figure that hunches in your alcove. “I’m closed for the night, but if you are ill—”

“Let me in,” comes a familiar voice, and you squeak in fright when you recognise it. 

Quickly, you pull open the door, still holding your knife, and the shadowed figure slips into your shop. You close and bolt the door behind you, turning with your back to the surface as the figure drops his hood, and subsequently, his cloak, and you watch as Aerion Targaryen turns slowly as the thick black fabric pools at his feet.

“Your grace,” you mutter, dropping into a polite bow. Worry clenches tightly in your chest as the prince looks at you with narrowed eyes, features appearing gaunt in what remains of the shop’s fading candlelight. You spare a glance through the stained glass of the door, then through the pane of the window adjacent. “Your grace, I’m not sure if—”

“What have you done to me?” Aerion interrupts you, his question slicing through the nervous quiet like the blade you clutch. He takes a step forward and you suck in a startled gasp, slipping around him and hurrying towards your counter. You just want to put as much distance between him and you as possible. He groans when you breeze by him, slowly turning as he speaks, “You’ve poisoned me.”

You’re behind your counter now. “I’ve done no such thing.”

“You have,” Aerion hisses, and he takes another step forward. You notice he’s slightly wobbly on his feet, pitching forward chest-first as though his legs are too heavy. He catches himself on a nearby shelf, bottles clinking together as the wood trembles. “This is your fault. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve—you’ve cursed me.”

Your eyes grow wide. You shake your head. “Your grace, please, I would never.”

In the low candlelight, sweat sparkles like broken glass on Aerion’s forehead. His white-blond hair clings to his skin, damp near his temples, and there’s a dip in his brow that casts a dark shadow over his eyes. But when he cocks his head, staring you down, you see them flash violet in the ochre light, his pupils slowly expanding.

“Ser Donnel informed me of what I had taken, and what it would do to me,” Aerion mutters, his voice hoarse as he pushes himself off the shelf. His palms slam down on the counter directly across from you, and you take a step back, fingers tight on the bone handle of your knife. Aerion huffs, “So I drank your little tea for my heart, and I fucked a couple of whores, but nothing is working.”

You swallow, heart in your throat.

“I tried to sleep,” Aerion says, dragging himself around the counter. You mimic his actions on the other end, slipping to the other side to avoid him. He continues, one of his hands shifting to the thin buttoned tunic he’s wearing. He pops open the top button. “I tried to bathe, I tried to pleasure myself, and I went back to that fucking whorehouse twice more and nothing—” He groans, and undoes another button. “—is working. What have you done to me?”

Slowly, he exposes the pale, unblemished skin of his chest. He’s damp with sweat as you round the counter, skirts flowing around your ankles. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest as he advances on you lazily, eyes drawn to the movement of your body like a falcon.

“You drank the stimulant,” you tell him as gently as possible.

You’re at opposite ends of the counter now. He pauses, undoing another button.

“So it’s my fault?” Aerion hisses out. 

You watch as he pushes his hips against the lip of the counter and he groans, hoarse and animal-like from the back of his throat. It strings across a whimper, and heat floods your belly. You curse yourself, watching as the prince—the Targaryen prince Aerion Brightflame—ruts himself slowly against your counter. You can see the stimulant’s effects on him: the tent pitched in the front of his trousers, the beads of sweat that trek down beneath his now open-tunic, rolling between the grooves of his abdomen.

“Yes,” you say boldly, holding the knife. “You shouldn’t have drank it.”

Aerion huffs out, then groans again as he looks up at you, hips pressed firmly to the edge of the counter. “You’re a witch. Fix me.”

You release a shaky breath, then approach him. You move behind your counter, and he watches you with serpent-like concentration as you slowly place your knife onto the surface. He smirks at that, moving behind the counter too.

“You…” Your heart is wild beneath your ribs, and you can smell him as he nears. He smells expensive: smoked oud, honey-washed skin, patchouli incense from the Street of Silk. You smell sweat and wine too when he gets within a foot of you. You continue, “I cannot fix you, your grace. The easiest fix is to find… find a woman, or a man, I suppose, and engage in sexual intercourse until the effects wear off.”

You hope you sound confident enough. You fear you may faint as he looks you up and down, bare chest rising and falling, smoke trapped beneath shifting scales.

“This is your doing,” he says, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. One of his hands finds your hip and you seize up. “You will fix me. You will fix this.”

You find yourself shifting then as he pushes you up against the counter, the print of his hard cock pressing between your thighs as he pins you. You frown as he groans, the hand on your hip tightening while the other slowly rises to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I can’t fix it,” you whisper as he forces your eye contact. You’re trapped beneath him, but there’s a heat in your belly you can’t deny, and the pounding of your heart travels south, settling between your thighs despite your racing mind. “I, well, I can try and make a cure—”

“I don’t want an elixir or a salve or a bunch of dried fucking herbs,” Aerion utters as his fingers tighten on your jaw. He ruts his pelvis against your thigh, and you watch as something flits through his eyes, the black of his pupils having engulfed the violet of his irises. “I want you to fix me.”

You swallow. “Your grace—?”

“I want your mouth on my cock, and I want you bent over this fucking counter,” Aerion interrupts with a voice strewn through gravel, dark and hoarse. Something twists deep in your belly as he bends his head, dipping his nose against the curve of your jaw. He grunts when he inhales, lips vibrating against your skin when he speaks again. “Will that fix me?”

Your hands are tight around the edge of the counter. “Yes, your grace, but—”

Aerion hums, teeth just skimming the skin of your jaw before he pulls back. “Good. Then get on your knees.”

The heat of his body leaves yours then, and you blink up at the ceiling. Aerion Targaryen was telling you to get on your knees? Aerion Targaryen was currently pulling apart the knots of his trousers, panting like a wounded dog as he dips his hand into his breeches to fist himself? Your mind was a mess.

But you did what you were told. You could have easily overpowered him in this state. Simply leapt from his reach and locked yourself in your room. But you didn’t want to. There’s a heavy fire kindling in your belly, fanning out over your womb as blood pumps hot between your thighs.

You sigh gently, slowly pushing yourself off the counter and sinking to your knees, your powder-dusted skirts flowing out around you. The wooden ground is hard but well-worn from years of footfall, and you settle on your knees as the prince takes a step forward, his trousers gathered just beneath the curve of his arse. The print of his cock strains against the white linen of his breeches, the front wet with pre-cum, and the way his fingers tremble when he attempts to unknot them makes you whine.

“My prince…” you whisper, reaching your hands to take hold of the strings of his breeches. 

He stills above you, muscles in his abdomen clenching as you pull the knots apart. While you do this, one of his hands comes to rest on the back of your head, and he pulls you to him. Adrenaline is thick and viscous in your veins, but you let yourself be guided despite the hammering of your pulse up the side of your neck. You’re dizzy with both need and fear as you open your mouth and press it, hot and wet, to the front of his breeches.

He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”

You kiss over the line of his cock, open-mouthed and messy against the soft linen. You smell perfume and imagine the skilled hands of trained sex workers pulling the prince’s breeches down for him. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought, and you finally manage to pull apart the knots beneath his navel.

“Kiss me, that’s it,” Aerion groans out, holding your head firmly as your lips move across his covered cock. He’s burning hot and rigid beneath the fabric, and your hands find his thighs as you lave your tongue. That earns you a groan, and your eyes flit upwards to find him already looking at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “That’s it, fix me… fix this.”

Your head rocks beneath his hand as you mouth at his covered length. You feel him twitch beneath your lips, tip drooling out onto the fabric as you run the point of your tongue across it. Aerion hisses, hips bucking so harshly he knocks against your nose. Tears well along your waterline as he pulls you away then, just long enough to shove his breeches down.

He pulls his cock out, pale fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft. He groans at the raw contact, and you can’t help but gape as he clutches himself, tip a bruising red and wet with pre-cum. Pearlescent beads roll down the dip of his frenulum, and down his length as he slaps it against your cheek, then the other. He groans again when he pushes the tip across your lips, your eyes glassy as you watch him.

“Didn’t think witches could be as pretty as you,” he says suddenly as he ruts his cock along the warm lines of your face: over the curve of your cheekbones, rolling beneath the angle of your jaw. You kneel there, breathing hard, as he rubs himself over your skin. His words have heat flooding from your belly to your chest. The prince continues, “Might take you back to the Keep with me, huh? Keep you locked away…”

He tapers off when he groans, his balls drawing up tight. He grips the back of your head as he slides the head of his cock across your wet lips. He manages to bite out a quick “open” and you listen, opening your mouth and letting him slide just the tip in before he’s spilling in thick, hot spurts. Aerion groans, a shaking timbre from his chest as he rubs the head of his cock against the front of your tongue and spills into the warmth of your mouth. Some hits the back of your throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to choke as he releases, fingers firm on the back of your head.

After a moment, his cock jerks, but doesn’t soften. A loud, frustrated groan rips from Aerion’s throat as he pulls out and smears the remnants back over your cheek again.

“You did this to me,” he growls out as he shoves himself back into your mouth, barely giving you enough time to swallow. You open your eyes when he feeds himself into you, cock a velvet warmth against your tongue. He releases a stuttered breath, his other hand finding the back of your head as well. “So you’re going to take it.”

You gag when his hips rock forward and the leaking tip nudges down the back of your throat. You swallow, huffing out of your nose, and he groans loudly enough for it to echo. His hands tighten on your head and he physically starts moving you, pulling your head back and forth and fucking his cock down your throat. You try your best to lax your jaw, minding your teeth as you slide your tongue along the underside—you find a prominent vein easy enough, and you squeeze your thighs together as he whines, the muscles in his abdomen shifting.

The velvet of his trousers is plush beneath your fingers as you grip his thighs. They sit low on his hips, ties swaying as he pitches his hips, pulling your head back and forth. Every other thrust, he’s pushing you deep against him with a guttural groan, forcing your lips to the very root as the tip knocks against the back of your mouth. Your nose finds the neat white hair at the base, and the smell of perfumed oil should be a turn off, but it isn’t.

You whimper around him, cheeks hollowing. Your eyes are glassy and there’s a thin rivulet of saliva running from the corner of your mouth as he fucks your throat. Heat settles deep in the marrow of your bones, fluttering heart between your thighs. The feeling of spit rolling down your chin makes you whimper again, and suddenly, his eyes are on you. They’d been closed in, what you can only assume, is ecstasy as he chases another high. But now, he stares down at you with a subtle pinch in his brows. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“If I knew you’d take my cock like this,” Aerion utters, petting the back of your head as he stretches your lips apart. “I’d’ve skipped the fucking whores and come straight here.”

You moan, something like a protest, but it’s shoved right back down your throat by the leaking head of his cock. You choke and splutter when he rolls his hips and he, somehow, goes even deeper. Aerion pulls back with a groan draped across a chuckle, letting you suckle the head as you catch your breath. His balls twitch as he slowly ruts back in, and once you blink the tears from your eyes, you reach a hand up to cup them.

He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”

You let him press you to his pelvis, nose between the prominent lines of his hips. Your fingers and thumb work gently, rubbing over smooth skin as the grip on either side of your head tightens as he thrusts once, twice more before he begins to lose his rhythm.

“That’s it, that’s it, take it,” the prince moans, still looking at you, eyes black with lust as his hips slow and he forces you right down onto his cock again. He moans again when he spills—another thick, hot release that splatters down the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, practically holding your breath as his cock jerks, balls drawing up beneath your fingers. When your eyes close, Aerion lets out a quiet, “Look at me.”

It’s surprisingly soft. You blink up at him. His hand finds your warm cheek then, petting you two times like he’s trying to be gentle, and the effort puts a pit in your stomach. But it doesn’t last: his cock, still hard, dribbles as he pulls it from your mouth, taking a step back but still holding your head in one hand. His other hand finds the base of his slick cock and he moans as it pumps hot against his palm.

His bare chest is flushed, as are his cheeks. He pants like a dog too, and as he grips his cock, you watch with lowered lids as cum beads against the slit, then strings out like a spider’s web. It drips onto the floor as he groans, his lip curling up in a frustrated snarl.

“Why isn’t it working?” He asks you, fingers on the crown of your head.

You flick the point of your tongue across your teeth before you speak, tasting his release in the grooves. Overripe grapes linger in the back of your throat.

“You drank six doses worth,” you whisper, hands caressing his thighs.

“Fuck,” Aerion curses, and he watches with dark eyes as you lean forward, testing the waters, and press a wet kiss to the tip of his flushed cock.

You continue speaking as you slowly kiss down his shaft. “A single dose will usually allow a normal man three or four releases, if he’s lucky.”

Aerion grunts as you lick over the vein on the underside. It’s throbbing and hot against the flat of your tongue.

“But you, my prince…” Your tongue lowers and you lick a stripe from root to tip, and the sound that leaves him is more animal than human. You hide your smile. “Are not a normal man, are you?”

“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, but he’s preening. Like a cat being praised, a small groan lifts from his chest like a purr, and something flashes across his eyes. Pride. His hand pets your hair softly despite the venom in his tone, and he watches you in awe when the tip of your tongue darts out to collect a welling bead of pre-cum. He grunts then, pulling his cock away from your mouth with great effort. “Stand up.”

You do as you’re told. You clamber to your feet, and you feel slightly silly as you wait for him to kiss you. Of course he doesn’t—he spins you around with a grunt and pushes you roughly against the table. It hits your tummy as you bend, and you exhale a little “oof” as his hands make quick work of flipping up your skirts. He gathers them at your hips before he’s ripping your smallclothes away from your core.

“Cunt this wet from sucking my cock?” Aerion plasters himself to your back, leaning over to whisper in your ear as he runs the length of his cock from your arsehole to your pussy. You whine as he spreads you apart, slick webbing between your folds before they snap where he runs his cock through you. He groans at your heat, head dropping to rest between your shoulder blades as he rocks back and forth. “Gods, you’re dripping, sweet girl.”

The pet name has you reeling.

You hadn’t been expecting it, and it seems like he hadn’t been either. The length of his body stiffens behind you, as if his words were involuntary beneath the haze of his pleasure. With a grunt, he pulls back, taking the flat of his palm and muscling you down from between your shoulder blades until your tits are pressed tightly to the surface of the counter.

“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, still holding his cock as he drags the flushed tip through your folds. You suck in a breath, mewling when he slaps it against your clit. He makes a pleased sound, squeezes it out between clenched teeth, before he circles the tip at your entrance. “You did this to me. You did this to yourself.”

He pushes in with a low moan. There’s no slow stretch. There’s no slow.

The prince shoves himself in like it’s all he can do, the thick of his cock pulling you apart from the inside out. There’s a sting low in your pelvis and a dull kind of ache that festers like a bruise in the base of your womb as he bullies himself into you. A deep, keening sound is pushed involuntarily from your chest as you clutch the counter, followed by a gasp of “my prince” as he bottoms out, hips flush with your arse.

Your pussy is slick and warm around him and you squeeze tight when he pauses.

He’s panting. You can feel him straining behind you, his hands gripping your hips so hard it’s like he’s anchoring himself to you. The walls of your cunt hug around the thick of him in such a way that he’s completely lost himself.

“I—fuck… gods above…” Aerion mutters, slowly pulling out.

You press your cheek to your counter, attempting to look back at him, but the angle is awkward and you can only just make out the look of pure awe on his face. His dark eyes focus on the tight pull of your cunt as he slides out, shaft slick with you. A small whimper—he covers it quickly with a grunt—falls from his parted lips when his head notches at your hole.

“Maybe you belong in a whorehouse,” he whispers after a moment of tense silence. He rolls his hips and shoves himself back in, ears picking up the wet schlick as he slides home, balls coming to rest against the curve of your arse. He hums, pulling out again, then pushing back in. “Men’d pay good coin for a cunt like this.”

The prince sets a rhythm that rocks you against the counter. It’s sharp, desperate. You clutch onto the edge as if he might push you over, his cock rutting in and out of you at such a pace you’re becoming dizzy. He’s panting, frantic, the speed of his hips filling your small, dark shop with the echoing sounds of skin-on-skin.

His previous words settle and then he hisses like he’s offended himself. A disgruntled jeer as he grips your hips and fucks you back onto him.

“Too bad you’re here,” he utters. His thighs are a firm bracket behind yours as he fucks you. The way he speaks is dark and smooth. Dangerous flashes through your mind as you moan, a solid heat collecting in the very depth of your belly. He continues, “Too bad you’re here. With me. Too bad no one’ll stuff this cunt like your prince.”

You gasp around a small moan at his words. They hit you right in the stomach, churning something erotic inside you. You grip the counter, bottles nearby clinking at the movement, and you try to turn your head to look at him again.

“My prince—”

“Shut up and take it,” Aerion interrupts with a bite. A gnashing of ivory as he fills you over and over, the head of his cock finding that spot inside you that has you arching for more. 

Your body trembles, shaking against the counter as he folds you over it. The fat of your arse shifts with each of his thrusts, his fingers a bruising hold on your hips. Sweat builds beneath your dress, damp along the dip of your spine as you grow hotter and hotter. It’s an unbearable sort of heat that sparks in your womb, then spreads. It spreads up and out, flaring like a pair of glowing wings.

“Fuck, I can feel you, sweet girl,” Aerion says, his pace slowly losing it’s pattern. He’s scrambling now, sweat tracing down the back of his neck as his heart clatters against his ribs. Your pussy flutters around him like she doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, eyes slipping up your body, before resuming on where you take him. “Let me have it. Give it to me.”

You gasp out. “My prince, I—”

“Don’t fuss,” he snaps, hips stuttering. “Don’t fucking fuss and do what you’re told.”

There’s a heaviness in his tone that pins you down, but you expect nothing less. You instead focus on those gold-guilded wings spreading out inside you—filling your tummy, fanning heat through your chest as your tits squeeze almost uncomfortably against the wooden counter. The flames of pleasure are crawling down your spine now too, and with four more heavy thrusts of his cock against that perfect spot inside you, it reaches your core.

You can’t help what happens next: you call for him, his name, a sickeningly sweet “Aerion!” as you come around him, pussy pulling tight as the warmth overwhelms you. Your release is bulky as it takes hold, dragging you into ecstasy as his cock drives you through it. Your eyes squeeze shut, body shaking, as it takes over.

He mutters something under his breath then, hips rolling as he slowly begins to lose focus. You feel his cock jerk inside you as he slams inwards, tip nudging up towards the plug of your cervix. The feel of him is muddled in your brain and you feel sick with need as your orgasm begins to fizzle out, embers flickering.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans. 

He spills then, with his cock flattened deep inside you and his fingers vice-like on your hips. He curls forward, dewy forehead finding your shoulder blades as his cock twitches, filling you in hot strings. It’s thick and viscous and makes you moan, and Aerion matches the sound with his own, feeling the clutch of your pussy tighten around him.

Some long seconds pass and he’s still spilling. Your eyes fly open as his cock, still pulsing and hard and hot inside you, jerks with his release. Spurts of it, again and again. You whine at the feeling. Too full, too full, you want to mutter, but you can’t. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, throat dry as the prince rolls his hips, rutting himself against you with his face in the laces of your dress. You writhe, and he groans, open-mouthed and pained as he holds your hips, unwilling to let you go.

“No, stop, fuck,” he hisses out, muffled in the material of your dress. “Don’t fucking move—don’t—ah, ha, fuck, fuck.”

You still immediately, freezing like a scolded puppy. The prince breathes heavily against you as his cock jerks and jerks inside you. He whines into your dress. The sound has your heart fluttering.

“Gods above…” Aerion whispers after another long moment. 

His cock stills now, but he’s still hard. And he doesn’t pull out. He does, however, lift himself from you gingerly. His hands tremble on your hips, but you pretend not to notice.

“I can’t…” He tapers off, breathing heavily. 

There’s a searing pleasure in his abdomen that’s almost painful now, and his cock aches something fierce—like he needs to release again, like he’s edged himself for an hour. But he hasn’t. He’s spilled more times than he can count, but the pent-up need is making him nauseous with desire. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his skin feels too hot against his flesh.

He swallows thickly as he plugs your pussy full of his seed. His cock twitches and, much to his horror, he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. “I can’t… I need…”

“I know,” you whimper.

The change in his tone, in his demeanour, is a slap across the face. It’s abrupt and unexpected. You almost feel sorry for him—sorry for the man he’s become as he slowly rolls his hips, his cock barely moving inside of you—but you don’t. He’s done this to himself.

“One more,” he whispers, pulling out until only his flared head rests inside you.

“One more,” you repeat after him.

He groans, pushing back in once he’s caught his breath. You moan quietly, body pliant and spent beneath him now. There’s a prickle of overstimulation in your belly, but you don’t complain. His cock knocks right back up against that perfect spongy spot inside you and you shut your mind up with a string of whimpers.

The prince builds his pace again. His cheeks are pink with the effort, and strands of his white hair cling to his forehead as he ruts into you. A thin white ring builds at the base of his cock as he thrusts, his seed drooling through your folds as he bends and fucks you. It’s wet and loud, and paired with the little whimpers you’re trying to hide, it’s better than any sex he’s ever bought. And he didn’t spend a single coin on you.

“No one else took me like this,” he utters as thoughts of you, you, you clatter around his skull. You’re a witch. You’ve poisoned him. He grunts, almost mad at himself. “You take me like you were made for it.”

“Aerion,” you whisper, eyes drooping, another orgasm encroaching on you. This one is even heavier than before. You can feel it in your bones, seeping into your marrow as he fucks you and rambles all the while.

“Made for me,” he continues. “Made for the dragon.”

His thrusts are loosening, and he chases his release with his cock barely leaving you. He rolls his hips, sliding against you as he huffs and bends. To your surprise, he places a kiss between your shoulder blades, teeth tugging briefly at the laces of your dress before he pulls back. He rocks and rocks, a thick moan fighting its way out of his throat as the counter trembles. A glass vial topples with the force, rolling off and onto the floor. It shatters, but neither you or Aerion flinch, too consumed in your pleasure to pay it any mind.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl—” Aerion rambles, and then he’s spilling again.

He moans loudly as he ruts himself through it, cock shuddering inside you as he comes in more thick spurts. Back dipping, you feel him fill you even more than before, and you feel the heat of it seep like honey into your womb. It makes you dizzy, and it makes your own orgasm reveal itself from the ashes of the first.

You come with his name on your tongue again, holding onto the counter as you stiffen up. He groans when your pussy tightens around him, fluttering as the tension releases like blood pouring from an open wound. He falls over you as you tremble, sweat-slick chest finding your back as his cock gives one last jerk while your orgasm tapers off, slipping back into the shadows. He pants behind you, hands still on your hips, cock still inside you—but it’s softening.

The prince moans in relief as his cock slowly softens, his seed leaking from your spread pussy as he slowly, slowly pulls himself from you. A quiet moment passes before he exhales, presses one last almost imperceptible kiss to the covered space between your shoulder blades, then rights himself.

“I trust you have something to deal with… this,” Aerion mutters, and you feel two thick fingers drag through your folds before pressing inside you. Despite his words, obviously slightly concerned with the fact you’re filled with him, he plugs you, knuckles against your core.

You release a shaky breath. “Yes, my prince.”

“Good,” he huffs, still catching his breath.

You’re still bent over the counter. And his fingers are still inside you. He sighs, more to himself than to you.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sounding the most unlike himself of the entire night. 

That’s all he says, and you know he doesn’t want a reply.

—✿—

Three days—and several cups of moon tea and other fast-acting contraceptives—later, you’re restocking the shelf behind your counter when the door opens. You cast a glance over your shoulder, finding Ser Donnel entering, white armour gleaming as his mass fills the doorway. You turn and greet him properly.

“Ser Donnel,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “How is your horse?”

Ser Donnel smiles. “Fine. You fixed her right up.”

You smile back, busying your idle fingers by stuffing a small pouch with crushed willow bark. “That’s great to hear. What can I do for you?”

The knight clears his throat, looking around the empty shop for a moment before speaking. “He requires your presence. At the Keep.”

“I beg your pardon?” You cock your head. “Who?”

“The prince,” he says pointedly.

You frown, tying a knot around the little pouch and placing it to the side. Nerves spike in your chest as you wait for Ser Donnel to continue. He does.

“He’s earned himself a nasty gash—” Ser Donnel gestures to his own bicep for specification. “—during training. And he’s, uh, refusing the help of his maesters. He wants you.”

You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”

“But you can help him, can you not?” Ser Donnel interrupts you before you spiral. “You’re a smart wee thing. You can fix anything.”

You bite your lip, nervous. “Ser Donnel, I don’t think—”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request,” he says as gently as possible. “He won’t be taking no for an answer. I’m here to escort you.”

“Right…” You sigh, turning back to the shelf and gathering some supplies.

You shouldn’t have expected anything less from Aerion Targaryen.

———

be nice to the woods witch ❌

fuck her against her shop counter ✅

idiot (need him)

tags 🌿

Summerhall appears like a fortress carved from ivory amongst velvet green hills. Large windows glisten and reflect the midday sun, and the gardens tended around are thick and lush. Even the air is cooler out here, fresher than what traps stagnant in the alleys of your home slum. You can’t quite believe what you’re looking at as you clamber from the carriage with a timber-like stiffness in your bones. You clutch your satchel of medicinal supplies, a small trunk of your belongings at your feet.

Ahead of you, Aerion dismounts his horse with a flourish of his black cape. It billows around him like wings, and as he settles, his palfrey guided away by a servant, he spares a look in your direction. The corner of his lips quirk, something near a smile, as he appraises your expression of wonder, your eyes glittering as you stare up at the grand royal residence. Your fingers clutch nervously at your satchel, and there’s a subtle dip in your brow that tells Aerion all he needs to know.

But you’ll be fine here. You have him, after all.

He takes a few steps in your direction before he stops. He freezes, boots crushing gravel. There’s an obvious flex in his jaw as he watches a member of the kingsguard—oh, it’s Roland fucking Crakehall, Aerion immediately thinks—approach you with kind eyes and a disarming smile. Roland says something that snaps you out of your little trance, and you bow your head, saying something in return that makes the smile on Roland’s face split even wider.

Aerion watches you look up at Roland, and the nervous fidgeting of your fingers against the smooth leather of your satchel suddenly stops.

There’s a tick in his chest. A small, dull tug at the bottom of his heart and it sets off in a structured rhythm as he watches you and Roland interact. It has the nerves along his spine standing up, prickling with a heat he’s never felt before, venomous in its leeching through his diaphragm and up into his brain. He can taste it now—jealousy—and it’s sour on his pointed tongue, dripping from his teeth as his lip curls itself into a grimace.

He kicks himself from the gravel and approaches with meaningful strides. He feels the eyes of servants on him, hears the way they skitter out of his way like vermin. They drop their heads and lower their voices, and the tension that hangs treacle-thick in the air makes him feel great. It makes him feel alive.

He calls your name, and your eyes find his immediately. A rumble passes briefly through his aching chest, a proud purr as you respond so obediently to him. He snaps his fingers at a nearby servant then, gesturing to the wooden trunk at your feet. The servant nods, and immediately moves to pluck it from the ground and hurry towards the castle.

You frown. “Aerion, I am perfectly capable of—”

Roland speaks at the same time. “I was already offering—”

Aerion waves a hand, cutting both you and Roland off as though he had shouted at you. The silence is painful in the cool air, and you find yourself clutching your satchel firmly to your chest as the prince draws nearer.

“I will take my witch to her chambers,” Aerion says, and seizes you firmly by the elbow.

You do not dwell on the tightness of his fingers at your sleeve, nor do you dwell on his use of my witch. Instead, you offer Roland an apologetic smile as the prince all but drags you across the threshold, busy servants making quick work of throwing themselves out of his way.

You look around, possibly for someone to help. Not that you had belief anyone could save you from this situation, but maybe someone could at least offer you sympathy. But Prince Maekar was nowhere to be seen; neither were any of the other Targaryen siblings. Although, you think you catch a fleeting glimpse of dirty blond hair disappearing towards the kitchens, but that’s all it was: fleeting.

Aerion hauls you up a wide flight of steps, your footfall muffled by thick carpet. You shoot a glance downward as you ascend, in the general direction of the hall which would lead you, you’re sure of it, to the servants’ quarters. You were technically a servant.

“Your grace,” you begin as he hails you down a long corridor, grip still unrelenting on your arm. “Should I not take residence with the other servants? Surely—”

“You are not sleeping alongside the help.”

You scowl at his tone. “Well, I am the help, your grace.”

Aerion scoffs, pulling you around a corner. There’s another long hall that stretches, lit up by sunshine and hues of green where light passes through stained glass. It’s also empty, and you yelp when Aerion spins around and slams you roughly against the wall. You drop your satchel on instinct, the bag falling to your feet with a clattering of glass bottles—thankfully, not glass breaking—as your hands shoot up. Your palms rest flat to his chest as he presses close to you, one of his hands still on your arm, the other caging you in, propped up against the wall by your head.

“You are not the help,” Aerion begins, voice low. His eyes flit across your face, violet irises bright. “You are my help. You help me. And because you help me—you’re here for me—you will take residence where I tell you, yes?”

Your hands tighten against the red velvet of his gambeson. “I don’t think—”

“Yes?” Aerion repeats, the fingers on your arm clamping down. There’s a bite of blunt nails through the material of your sleeve too, and you draw in a calming breath as you try not to melt beneath the heat of his violet stare.

“Yes, your grace,” you whisper, dropping your head.

Aerion huffs, the hand on the wall shooting across to seize your jaw. You blow out an exasperated sigh through your nose as he forces you to look at him. The pads of his fingers are soft against the bone of your jaw, but his grip is tight. Unyielding.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says, cocking his head. He raises his eyebrows, imploring, waiting for you to speak again. “Speak up.”

“Yes, your grace,” you echo, louder this time. Your voice carries in a murmur down the hall, and you grimace hearing yourself bounce from the ornate walls.

But it pleases the prince, for he breaks out into a vulpine smile and pats your cheek firmly before stepping back. You release a tense breath, collecting your satchel from the ground as Aerion resumes his hold on your arm and leads you down the hall.

After a moment, he gestures to a door with a torch mounted to the wall nearby.

“These are my chambers,” he tells you, then leads you further down the hall. You pass by several more doors before the hall’s end greets you, where a door sits beneath a large Targaryen banner. He opens the door with a heavy hand. “And these are yours.”

The room is… not small. It’s grand and spacious, with the largest bed you’ve ever seen taking up a considerable amount of space to the right. Tall, latticed windows allow bright light to stream in, resembling ghostly fingers reaching for the Myrish carpet that covers the floor. There’s an empty hearth, plush chairs, and a writing desk nearby too. The desk is bare, and you approach it tentatively, placing your satchel down. As you take off your travelling cloak, draping it across the desk, you notice that your trunk of belongings already sits at the foot of the bed.

“This is excessive…” you find yourself muttering, turning and leaning back against the solid wooden desk.

Aerion looks at you from the doorway. “This is what you get.”

You grip the edge of the desk, looking around. “It’s not that I’m unappreciative, but—”

“Then thank me,” Aerion interrupts, stepping forward. He closes the door. “Say thank you.”

You look at him as he slowly crosses the room. You utter softly, “Thank you.”

“Thank you what?” Aerion stands before you now, trapping you against the desk. 

You can feel the heat radiating from his body; the blemishless shine of his pale skin. He leans in close and you can feel his breath ghost across you, tainted with mulberries and hazel. 

“Thank you, your grace,” you reply, challenging his gaze.

He grunts, a rough sound from the back of his throat, as he grabs your wrist. You let him steal your hand away from the desk, and you let him press your palm flat to the front of his trousers as he leans in closer. You smell ash and lavender wax soap across his skin. You bite your lip, ignoring the sudden wash of heat through your core, as he gently ruts his hips against your palm. There’s a shift beneath the fabric, and your lips part.

“Say it properly,” Aerion hisses, still looking at you. He runs your open palm against the front of his trousers, and you feel his cock give another jerk beneath the material. 

His hand is warm around your wrist, and you wonder if he can feel the thundering of your pulse beneath his thumb.

“Thank you, Aerion,” you whisper, and the lilt in your voice has his hips rolling deeper into your touch. “For the room.”

“Thank me for bringing you here,” he says quickly. He gently moves your hand up and down, and you can feel a tent pitching beneath your palm. “Tell me how lucky you are to be here with me.”

You frown, turning your head, his eye contact too intense. It’s cloying, overwhelming, molten heat that sticks to you the longer you look. You shake your head slightly, muttering, “Aerion—”

The prince’s other hand snaps up and grabs you harshly by the nape of your neck. He forces you to look at him, his other hand continuing to drag your palm across the bulge in his trousers. He looks at you, waiting.

“Say it.” It’s firm and venomous in its delivery.

The heat inside you doesn’t vanish. It swirls deeper, fills you broadly, and your free hand grips the edge of the desk in an effort to stop yourself from trembling.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you say quietly, and you notice something flash in the violet of his eyes. You continue, “I am… I’m very lucky to be here.”

“With me,” Aerion utters, hand squeezing the back of your neck.

“With you,” you add, a little breathless.

Silence stretches. The distant rustling of leaves seeps in through the windows behind you, and the rush of blood in your ears is loud enough to bring you some sort of comfort. Aerion stares at you, blinking slowly, pupils tracing the lines of your face as he continues to gently move your hand against his covered cock. He’s so close that you can see the tiniest little scar just above his lip—a well-healed blemish you’ve never noticed before.

His eyes find your mouth.

You press your palm harder against the length of him, and he lets out a strained groan, before tipping forward. With his hand still on your nape, he cranes your head slightly so he can bury his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, the sensation causing a shiver to rocket down your spine. His pelvis presses closer then, trapping your hand between his hips and yours. He groans into your shoulder, mouth against bare skin where the neckline of your dress exposes you.

You feel his teeth sink into your skin: not enough to break, but enough to have you squirming beneath him. You feel him chuckle, then pull away. A string of saliva stretches from the little indents at your shoulder, to his lips, but it snaps when he levels his face with yours. His tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.

There’s a wordless message passed between you. 

Your fingers find the clasp of his trousers and you surprise yourself by undoing it one-handed. Aerion seems impressed too: he smiles and shoves his hips forward, rutting against you. You find the ties at his waist next, pulling at the knots as he lets a low groan slip from his mouth. Heat is sticky and stagnant in your stomach, sitting heavy in your core as you undo the ties of his trousers, exposing the linen of his breeches.

He helps you, shoving his trousers down his thighs as you untie his breeches. You need another hand for this, fingers moving deftly, eyes directly down. But you can feel him looking at you still, waiting for you. As you yank the ties of his breeches open, he leans in and presses his lips to the curve of your jaw—a brief moment of intimacy before his mouth opens and he licks like a dog across your pulse.

“Aerion,” you breathe out, tipping your head in an attempt to flee his tongue.

He just chuckles, pulling away and peering down at where you finally push his breeches down. His cock, blushing warm and hard, hangs free. You shift to take it with reaching fingers, but he slaps your hand away. You jerk back, then forward when the gap between you increases, and suddenly he’s guiding you onto your knees by the hand on the back of your neck.

He fists himself as he settles you in front of him, your head parallel to the desk behind you. You peer up at him, hands resting against his thighs, and he peers down at you. There’s a mirror in your expressions: a silent need as you squeeze your thighs together and he grips, white-knuckled, around the base of his cock.

“Say thank you,” the prince whispers, dragging his cock along your cheek. He’s drooling out against your skin, leaving glistening lines in its wake as he smears himself across your lips. He’s warm and solid, skin soft and blushing and pliable as he rolls the shaft across your other cheek too. He grins, bringing the tip to your lips. “Say thank you, sweet girl. Thank me for this cock.”

“Thank you,” you manage to say, gripping the bunched material of his trousers.

Aerion grins, lilting, “Oh, you’re welcome, little witch.”

He bullies his cock between your lips then, and you part them with a grunt. Still grinning, fox-like and stretched across his pride, Aerion pushes his cock deeper into your mouth, feeling over the bumps of your tongue as you lower your jaw to take him deeper. An airy moan leaves him as he grips your neck and feeds his cock down your throat, pressing your face into his pelvis. You close your eyes, screwing them shut as you withhold a gag. 

He pulls out, then shoves back in. You manage to open your eyes, tears wet in your lashline as you look up at him. He’s already looking down at you, the smile still there but a lot smaller as he fucks his cock into the heat of your mouth.

“You’re here, in this room,” Aerion begins suddenly, vowels extended through a poorly hidden whine. “For me. You will come to my chambers when you are called upon, no matter the time. You will serve no one else but me.”

You want to argue. You’re a healer of the people. If someone else needed your assistance, it would go against all you believed in to disregard them.

But, of course, you can’t argue. Not just because you’re dealing with Aerion Targaryen, whose wrath sets ablaze like a dragon’s fire, but because you’re choking around the width of his cock, words beat back down your throat.

Instead, you moan around him. The vibrations tremble thick and fast through his cock, and he lets out a hoarse moan.

“For me,” he whispers, looking up and speaking it directly into the ceiling.

There’s a loud knock on the door and your heart drops into your stomach. Your hands squeeze his thighs tightly as he pulls you firmly against his hips, holding you there as he struggles to even his breathing. Aerion waits, and you swallow around his cock, saliva building uncomfortably in your mouth. His fingers tighten around the nape of your neck, a warning, as another loud knock rocks through the chambers.

“What?” Aerion calls, curt and obviously angry.

“Apologies, your grace.” Roland Crakehall. Aerion could murder him. Through the door, the kingsguard continues politely, “I’m looking for the lady.”

“Why?”

“Ser Donnel requests her presence in the main hall,” Roland replies, his voice slightly muffled through the thick wood. “Immediately.”

Aerion looks down at you, and you give him a pointed look. He shakes his head, and you take a gamble: gently scraping your teeth along the sensitive skin of his length. The prince sucks in a quick breath, and you manage to pull yourself from his cock, coughing lightly. Aerion is seething as you fend off his hold and get to your feet, hurrying towards the door whilst wiping your sleeve across your mouth.

You pull open the door and smile at Roland. “Hello.”

“Oh.” Roland bows his head politely. He addresses you by name. “I apologise if I’m interrupting something.”

You shake your head, smoothing your hands down your skirts. “Not at all. Shall… I come with you now?”

Roland nods. “Please. And bring your supplies.”

You nod, quickly rushing across the room to snatch your satchel from the desk. Aerion, hard cock stuffed back in his trousers, reaches a hand out, the tips of his fingers just brushing your arm before you breeze past him. 

He grunts, messily tying a knot in the laces of his breeches, shifting towards you with ire flashing in his violet eyes. “Now, wait—”

“Lead the way,” you say to Roland when you reach the doorway once more, ignoring the Targaryen prince looming. 

You quickly step out into the corridor and slam the door shut behind you. Roland can’t help himself: he lets out a small laugh as he begins leading you down the hall.

“I’m not sure if he wants to murder me or you,” the knight says plainly, thick with humour. His eyes sparkle as he looks at you, matching the gleam of his polished white armour. “You’re as brave as they say.”

You ignore his first comment with a playful roll of your eyes. Instead, you cock your head. “They?”

“Those who work for the household,” Roland tells you. “Word travels fast, and the woods witch Aerion Targaryen has taken a liking to makes for good conversation.”

“Great,” you mumble sarcastically.

Roland reassures you with a polite smile. “Don’t fret. You are well liked amongst the ranks, and Ser Donnel speaks very highly of you.”

That puts you slightly at ease as you traipse the sun-soaked corridors of Summerhall.

—✿—

As the sun sets, Aerion realises he hasn’t seen you since Roland whisked you away. You had vanished; seemingly slipped into the shadows, or danced off with the wind. He scoured the brightly lit halls, shoving open doors and tearing curtains from their hooks with dramatic flourishes as he peered out windows. You weren’t anywhere, it seemed, and there was a pit forming in the base of his stomach: a heavy stone, almost unbearable in its weight.

Having done three laps of the royal residence, Aerion huffs to a stop near the entrance to the servants quarters: the only place he hasn’t checked. He curses himself for being so ignorant as he stares down the dark, narrow hall that winds itself deep into the castle’s interior.

“Your grace.”

Aerion turns, finding Ser Donnel approaching. The kingsguard rests a hand casually on the pommel of his sword, which sits snug at his hip. He looks at Aerion with slightly narrowed eyes, a flat smile, and the look of a disappointed father.

“She’s in there, isn’t she?” Aerion questions, although it’s less a query because he knows. The shadows of the narrow passageway are thick, and he’d be a fool not to have noticed the way you looked at them when you had first arrived.

Donnel shrugs. “And what if she was? Do you intend to fetch her?”

“Yes,” Aerion replies quickly.

Ser Donnel lets out a mirthless laugh. It’s quick and sharp, and Aerion’s jaw twitches in response. The knight shakes his head too.

“Leave her be, just for the evening,” Donnel says firmly.

Aerion narrows his eyes at the kingsguard, the white of the armour appearing grey beneath the evening shadows and the flickering of mounted torches nearby.

“You sent her there,” Aerion mutters, recalling his little witch’s sudden—and unwelcome—departure from him earlier that day. “What did you say to her?”

Aerion grips the handle of his dagger, which rests comfortably at his side, sheathed in black leather. Donnel notices the movement and shakes his head, breathing out a chuckle. He nods towards the passageway, the air around him shifting.

“A few of the cooks suffered burns preparing supper,” Donnel tells the prince.

“We have maesters for a reason,” Aerion growls out.

Donnel gives him a pointed look. “Yes… we do.”

Aerion huffs, lip curling as he grips the black leather of his dagger. “Do not patronise me, Ser Donnel. She is mine. She is not here to serve anyone else.”

Donnel takes a step towards the prince, armour clanking. He drops his voice, speaking low, “You have already taken her from her shop, and her livelihood, and her people: the least you can do is let her help others while she is here.”

Aerion seethes. “How dare you speak—?”

“You do not need her help at this moment, your grace,” Donnel interrupts. “Please let her be.”

Aerion passes a challenging look to the kingsguard. Never in his life has anyone dared speak to him in such a manner, except possibly his mother or father. Ser Donnel matches Aerion’s glare with a calm look of his own, and Aerion realises that this knight really does care for you. He’s protecting you.

You don’t need protection from Aerion. You’re his.

Aerion spins on his heel and proceeds down the passageway. The firm, metallic footsteps of Ser Donnel behind him only spur him on, and he ducks down the narrow hall like a serpent shifting through stones. He breaks through a doorway and finds you sitting amongst a group of servants, your satchel open and resting in your lap. Beside you, a young woman admires a glistening cream-coloured salve—obviously your work—spread across her forearm, obscuring an angry burn. You hold a small bottle between your fingers.

“This is a natural disinfectant. It’s good for cleaning wounds, on both humans and animals…” You trail off, eyes lifting to find Aerion in the doorway. You swallow thickly, slowly placing the bottle back into your satchel as the servants notice his presence.

They scarper like rats, Aerion thinks, as he watches the group disperse in a flurry of limbs. Many scramble past him, disappearing down the hall, whilst others vanish through another narrow entrance across the room. They leave you alone, perched on the edge of a rickety wooden bed, the straw mattress threadbare and thinning beneath you.

“You grace,” you begin, getting to your feet and hefting your satchel over your shoulder.

“You’ve been hiding from me,” Aerion says.

You shake your head. “No, I’ve been helping—”

“You’re not here to help them,” Aerion spits, crossing the room now. “You’re here to help me, yes? You’re here for me.”

You look past Aerion as he draws within a few feet of you, and the prince turns to see Ser Donnel in the doorway. Your hands shoot out, finding the plush warmth of Aerion’s doublet, but your eyes are still on the kingsguard across the room.

Donnel frowns. “M’lady?”

“I’m alright, Ser Donnel,” you tell him gently, fingers balled in the prince’s shirt. It’s half to keep you grounded as you breathe, smelling cedar and smoke in Aerion’s clothes, and half to keep him in check, for you have a feeling he may lunge at someone. You nod at the knight. “I’m fine.”

Donnel looks between you and Aerion. “Are—?”

“She said she’s fine, did she not?” Aerion spits over his shoulder. “Now, be a good knight and fuck off.”

Ser Donnel, despite the worry flashing across his gently aging features, turns and slips down the hall and out of sight. Aerion was still his prince after all, and he knows better than anyone that the prince is… temperamental.

Aerion turns to you now, his hands finding the satchel on your shoulder. He carefully removes it, wordlessly, eyes near black in the darkness of the room. A small candle, dripping wax mounting at its base, illuminates part of the room, but the shadows here are consuming. They cling to your body as Aerion’s hands find your hips, rubbing up and down your sides, fingers ghosting across the top of your skirts.

You breathe out carefully, fingers loosening in his doublet. You rub circles across his chest, soothing. You pet him like a cat, fingers bending and circling. And he responds like a cat, eyes closing as a purr-like rumble stirs from deep in his chest. You feel the vibrations as he slowly moves you until the back of your calves hit the low bed.

“Aerion,” you whisper, and you mean for it to sound stern, but it’s breathless. 

Wood and ash, a smouldering hearth, is what you swims in the air around you as he leans over you, head dipping and finding the bend of your neck and shoulder. But there’s a sweetness in the white flicks of his hair as it brushes against the side of your face, his mouth drawing over your skin. Cedar and blackberry wine, sugared with the smell of sweat.

He says your name in response, muffled as his teeth skim over your skin. He bites again, a firm imprint of teeth, before he sucks hard. It lodges a whimper in your throat, head leaning to the side as your hands grip at his doublet once more. His own hands dip low as he hunches against you, guiding you down, down, down until you’re sitting on the narrow bed. You squeak out, aware that this isn’t your bed and this isn’t your chambers and Ser Donnel is only just down the passage—

“Too sweet for your own good, aren’t you?” Aerion mumbles against your neck as his hands bundle up the material of your skirts. He brings them up to your hips, exposing the clean linen of your smallclothes. He ignores the muffled whimper you let out, your lips pressed in a tight line. He tuts, “Such a good little helper. They just love you, don’t they?”

“Aerion,” you breathe out again, your hands finding his shoulders now. 

You feel the working of the muscle and joints as his arms shift to take hold of your smallclothes. His arm is thick and warm between the press of your thighs, but you don’t try to close them—in fact, you part them, shuddering as he pulls the linen away and exposes your slick cunt to the shadows of the quarters. His other hand finds the back of your neck as he picks himself out of your shoulder, lips shining with spit. He angles your head so he can trace the lines of your face with his swollen pupils.

“You enjoy spending time down here?” Aerion whispers as two fingers run down your slit, spreading you apart. He groans at the wet heat and the little moan you try to catch between your teeth. “With the servants and the maids?”

His fingers languidly shift, drawing your folds apart until they press to your hole. He wastes no time either: running a couple of circles around you, he dips his fingers inside you, slowly pulling you apart knuckle by knuckle.

“Yes,” you say around an exhale.

“More than with me?” His fingers crook inwards and your head tips back involuntarily, a hushed moan slipping from tongue to shadow. Aerion cradles the back of your neck, watching you carefully as you slowly settle your head to meet his gaze. You give a subtle shake of your head, and Aerion smiles. “No?”

“No,” you whisper, then bite down on your bottom lip, eyes closing. His fingers press against that perfect spot, your cunt clenching around the digits as something rolls in your tummy, a rope of tension stringing across the front of your womb.

Aerion rucks his fingers in and out of you. The silence of the room is filled with the slick plap-plap-plap of his fingers inside you as his movements pick up. You writhe, whimpering softly, and your fingers grip his shoulder tightly, pulling him to you. He obliges you, chest nearly against yours as he rests his mouth against your forehead. His lips press to the soft skin, not quite a kiss, as he pants against you, eyes fluttering as he feels the hot clutch of your cunt around his fingers. So wet and warm and wanting.

“Does being down here make you happy?” He asks, words breathed out against your warm skin.

You whimper.

“Answer me,” Aerion whispers, but it’s not harsh. It’s pushed out on an exhale and it’s surprisingly gentle. Smothered by shadow, carried away on a light summer breeze.

“Yes,” you manage to squeak out. “Yes, my prince.”

He crooks his fingers as he ruts them in and out. There’s slick dribbling slowly across his bottom knuckles, and there’s small sounds working out of your throat like the mewls from a kitten. His mind swims, cock half-hard and twitching in his breeches, sweat tacky on his forehead as his arm and fingers work.

“Okay,” he begins, pulling his fingers from you. He angles back, and you groan at the empty feeling that braces against you like a chill. Your orgasm recedes and you let out a breathy whine, fingers tugging at his doublet. He shushes you, the hand on your nape pulling you back and laying you on the mattress. “Okay, sweet girl, you can help them.”

You open your eyes properly. “Really?”

“But you will always help me first,” he says, and you’re already nodding. He doesn’t want to share, but he’s doing this for you. He takes his fingers, wet with you, and presses the pads to your lips. “You will help them when I say you can. Not—” he shoves his fingers into your mouth. “—when Ser Donnel says, yes?”

You hum around his fingers, tongue wrapping. He smiles, pleased, pulling them out. He pats your cheek before he shrinks back, parting your thighs. Hefting your hips, the prince bends and settles his face directly against your core. The abruptness of it has you keening, and the moan that leaves you is frighteningly loud. Aerion chuckles to himself as his mouth parts against your pussy, tongue splitting up between your folds, laving over your clit. You mewl, hand shooting down out of instinct to fist his hair. He groans in response as his fingers find your hole again, pushing in with an audible shlick.

“Oh, fuck, Aerion, wait—” You cut your whispered plea off with a moan as his fingers curl. Perfect, precise. It makes your hips grind down, twitching against his face as he licks across you simultaneously. The sounds that leave you, draped in shadow and hushed between the desperate clenching of your teeth, spur him on. You whine, that rope of tension in your lower belly pulling taut. “Aerion, my prince, please.”

Aerion’s other hand is tight on your thigh, dimpling flesh as he keeps it hooked around his shoulder. His head moves, eyes unwavering in their stare over the mound of your belly, the bunched fabric of your dress, the valley of your breasts, and onto your face. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen: eyes fighting to stay open, teeth sunken into your lip. You writhe beneath him, and you’re just so warm. Your cunt, wet and hot; your thighs soft and warm against his ears.

His tongue follows your sounds. The high-pitched mewls you try to hide when he licks over the puffy bud of your clit, or the low keen he feels rumble through you when he spreads your folds apart. Deft fingers push and pull, in and out, until he can see the way your body begins to tighten and tremble. He knows you by now.

The rope inside you frays and you arch off the thinning mattress. You press yourself deeper into his touch as your release snaps through you, fingers tightening in his hair as you cry out his name. It’s loud, and the little candle nearby flickers as the sound bounces off the stone walls. The shadows do nothing to muffle it as you shake, thighs tightening around his head as your pussy clenches around his fingers. The prince groans into you as you whisper his name, his cock painfully hard in his breeches.

Slowly, and with a pained grunt, he pulls himself from between your legs, wiping his mouth against the inside of your thigh. You make a noise of complaint, but he shushes you as he rights himself.

“Should’ve known this pretty pussy’d taste of the heavens,” Aerion whispers, more to himself than you.

You hum in response, reaching down and grabbing your smallclothes where they gather messily near your knees. Aerion shifts back and watches, palm resting over his pelvis, as you pull your undergarments back into place. You sit up, then stand on shaky legs, allowing your skirts to fall back into place. The prince sits on the edge of the low bed, not saying anything. He simply watches you.

“Come now,” you whisper, holding your hand out.

Something lurches in his chest. He takes your hand and gets to his feet. And then he follows you from the quarters, his hand fitting so perfectly into yours, and he doesn’t even bat an eye when they pass by Ser Donnel waiting at the entrance, ever the good knight.

—✿—

Three days later, you open your satchel in search of a small scrap of gauze. Rhae, having toppled from her pony, sits on the stone bench beside you with a small cut on the palm of her hand. Tears wet in her eyes, she watches you as you carefully rifle through your supplies. Butterflies breeze overhead, birdsong filling the garden as the sun shines warmly against your back. In your satchel, you find your roll of bandage, but what you don’t find is your pouch of moon tea. Where it usually sits, amongst your vials and bottles, is empty. You frown to yourself, pulling the bandages out anyway and setting to work.

“Thank you,” she mutters, watching you with glossy violet eyes as you wrap a small scrap of the linen around her hand.

Not long after, you send her on her way. You peer into your satchel then and confirm that yep, you’re moon tea is gone. You look up and around, annoyed. Aerion lounges across the garden, head tipped back with serene bliss stretched across his face, skin glistening like tallow. As if sensing your eyes on him, the prince, without even looking in your direction, simply crooks a beckoning finger.

You huff, but oblige, padding across the soft grass until you reach where he lays.

“Have you seen my moon tea?” You ask him. There’s a nagging in the back of your head. You know exactly where your moon tea has gone.

“Your what?” Aerion opens one eye.

“You know exactly what, your grace.”

Aerion scoffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll fetch some more.”

“Fine,” Aerion replies casually, closing his eyes again.

—✿—

That night, he has your face pressed into the pillows of his bed. They smell of him, of a settled dragon, as you suck in short gasps as he splits you apart on his cock. He kneels behind you, mattress dipping beneath his weight as he locks his fingers around the plush of your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts. His movements are deep and heavy, the thick reach of his cock nudging towards the base of your cervix as you arch your back for him. You grip the silken sheets either side of you, panting, legs trembling.

You come with his name muffled against feathers, a sob breaking free of your throat as you turn your head to moan through it. Your pussy sucks him in tightly, fluttering with the rapid beating of your heart as you release for the third time since he’d dragged you to his chambers.

The prince groans in response, hips slapping against your arse as he ruts into you, chasing his own high. “Fuck, yeah, ah shit.”

He angles deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, your knees threatening to buckle. A deep-seated moan, thick as stone, fills the room as he pitches forward. Pleasure sits hot in his lower belly, itching at the base of his spine.

“Here it comes, sweet girl,” he grunts behind you, one hand leaving your hip to smooth up the dip of your back. “Take it all—take your dragon’s seed like a good little—”

Aerion knocks forward as he comes, all but flattening himself into you as he falls apart. His jaw hinges around a moan of your name as he spills, cock pumping thick and hot inside you, right up against the plug of your womb. You don’t have the energy to respond with anything else but a loud exhale that snags the end of a whine as it passes through your lips. Aerion’s hips roll himself through it as he empties completely, and even when the movements of his hips still and he’s sticking to you completely unmoving, he doesn’t pull out. The thick of his cock plugs you full as he hovers behind you, hands roaming, kneading, squeezing as he settles back within himself.

And you fall asleep like this: with him stuffed inside you, your back pressed to his sweat-slick chest. Slumber finds you easily, although you wake hours later with a dull ache between your thighs and the soft length of him resting against the cleft of your arse. 

Gingerly, you pick yourself out of bed, careful not to stir the sleeping royal, wrap yourself in your cloak, and vanish out the door. You’ve gotten quite good at leaving unannounced.

In your chambers, you find your satchel.

You pause. The fresh moon tea you had picked up that afternoon was gone. You can’t help but roll your eyes, exhaling an exasperated sigh through your nose as you opt for one of your homemade remedies instead, plucking the small vial from its place in your bag.

You know exactly what Aerion is trying to do, and for the most part, it makes you fume. As you uncork your own vial, you stew in your anger: he’s trying to get you pregnant; he’s trying to tie you to him, a tether of flesh and blood. You down the bitter liquid in a few deep gulps and your face scrunches in disgust. It tastes, for lack of better words, fucking disgusting. Sour with fermented tansy, bitter with concentrated mugwort. The moon tea at least tastes a bit better than this.

However, there is a part inside you that grows hot. You place the empty vial back into your satchel, licking the aniseed from your bottom gums. Aerion wants you. His need grows teeth: long, sharp fangs that sink deeper and deeper into your flesh. He doesn’t want to let you go—he can’t let you go. And the thought, as you close your satchel and bundle your cloak tight around your naked body, sits heavy in the front of your mind.

A sticky heat prickles beneath your skin, the feeling of being in the sun for too long. You hurry out of your chambers and back into Aerion’s, taking your cloak off and slipping back into his bed.

So, he’s hiding your moon tea from you. He wants you with child.

You smile at his sleeping form, noticing the way his white eyelashes rest against his cheekbones. You can let him play this game for as long as he wants. He won’t win.

—✿—

Two days on, Aerion leaves his father’s solar and makes for your chambers. A carnal need claws against the hooked bone of his ribs. He needs you.

He pushes open the door of your chambers without so much as a knock, expecting to find you at the desk, or perhaps lounging by one of the grand windows with a book in hand. However, the hearth is cold and the room is empty. 

He frowns to himself and heads down the long hall.

He checks the servants’ quarters, startling those who huddle within. They spook, staring at him as more phantom than man as his eyes settle on women who are not you.

“Where is she?” He hisses, and one of the younger women—the woman you had treated for burns, he remembers—raises a shaky hand and points behind her, gesturing in the direction of the gardens. 

Aerion nods curtly and departs.

The sun greats him warmly, as does the sound of your laughter, and he physically feels his heart leap in his chest. His need for you has reached his teeth now, and his jaw works as he grinds his molars, gnawing on the desire to sink the points into your flesh. Your thighs, preferably, or the fat of your arse. Although your shoulder works just as well when he’s stuffed to the hilt inside you.

The thought has his cock jerking in his breeches.

Across the garden, you stand amongst blooming carnations, pink petals soft as silk. You rub the tips of your fingers against one—one that Ser Roland fucking Crakehall had plucked and handed to you. The knight hovers by your side, a pleased smile on your face as you speak to him, rolling the delicate flower between your hands. Aerion can’t make out what you’re saying as you gesture to the blooms around you, but Roland is paying close attention: his eyes never stray, his smile never falters, and he nods along as you ramble.

The need inside Aerion sheathes like cat’s claws.

Anger remains. Why can he never seem to keep you for himself? You’re his.

“I know that look,” Ser Donnel says around a tired chuckle, appearing at the prince’s side. He looks down at Aerion, then over at you and Roland. “You must let her have some freedom, your grace.”

“I do,” he spits a bit too quickly. “I’ve let her treat the servants.”

“You have,” Donnel replies, clearing his throat after. “Which was very gracious of you, your grace, but she is a young woman who deserves more freedom than you give her.”

Aerion scoffs, eying the knight suspiciously. “Since when have you ever spoken to me so openly, Ser Donnel? I could have your tongue for that.”

Donnel gives the prince a pointed look.

Aerion shakes his head. “She has freedom. I give her freedom.”

Donnel grunts, unconvinced.

Aerion looks back over to you. You’re bending, plucking another carnation from a nearby shrub, and the curve of your arse beneath your skirts is on full display. Roland ducks his head, preserving some kind of decency between the two of you. When you right yourself, you turn and accidentally bump into the knight, who reaches his hands out to steady you, fingers on your upper arms.

Aerion’s jaw twitches.

“Your grace…” Donnel warns, low and father-like, and it reminds Aerion, for a split second, of the day he first met you: the day when Ser Donnel had been taking too long in a healer’s shop. A healer the knight insisted was the best in all of King’s Landing.

Aerion ignores the knight though. Lightning quick, he reaches down and plucks Donnel’s knife from his side, ripping it from its sheath in one smooth movement. Before the kingsguard can even react, the prince slices the blade across his own forearm, ivory giving way to crimson. Blood ribbons over his skin as he hands the knife to a gaping Ser Donnel.

Aerion calls your name, approaching with one hand pressed to the finger-length wound on his inner forearm. You lift your eyes, smiling as the prince approaches, but it quickly vanishes when he presents you his arm.

“Oh!” You jump away from Roland and immediately take Aerion’s arm in your hands, the carnation you had been holding fluttering to the ground. Your touch is warm, soft. Caring. “Aerion,” you breathe, shaking your head. “What’ve you done to yourself?”

“I need your help,” he tells you, ignoring your question. He lifts his gaze and gives Roland a firm look. Roland shifts uncomfortably, before ultimately looking away.

You’re nodding before he even finishes his short sentence. “Okay, okay, come on.”

You take gentle hold of his wrist and guide him away. He spares a look at Ser Roland, and then another at Ser Donnel. Both read much the same: Aerion Targaryen gets what he wants.

Back in the sanctuary of your chambers, he sits on the edge of your bed. Clean, white sunlight fills the room and a pleasant coolness sweeps in from where one of the large windows sits open a crack.

You bandage his wound silently. And he watches you the entire time. You sit beside him, fingers wrapping, and he watches you with violet eyes glossy and nearly unblinking. There’s a heat in his gaze like the brush of a candle flame. You can feel it against the skin of your face, and you wonder then if the silence in the room is amplifying the hammering of your heart against your sternum.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him finally. The silence is too heavy.

“I’ll look at you however I want,” he replies simply. 

He cocks his head, dipping slightly to speak. He’s imploring, begging you to look at him, but you resist as you fasten the scrap of bandage into place. A beat passes, and he speaks again. He speaks your name, and it’s soft. Too soft for Aerion Targaryen. Too soft for a dragon’s tongue and teeth.

You relent, looking at him as you place your spool of bandage aside. Your hands fold together in your lap. It’s there again, the silence. His eyes dart across your face, feature to feature, and you see his pupils expanding the longer he looks at you.

“You’re such a pretty girl,” the prince whispers, and the hand of his non-injured arm finds your cheek. The backs of his knuckles trace across your skin, up over your cheekbone; a sweep of a raven’s wing, no scales or spines. You can smell the ash, the fire and the cedar and the blackberry wine, but you don’t see a dragon. He breathes out slowly, hand flipping so he can run the pads of his fingers down the side of your neck. “My pretty girl…”

“Aerion, don’t…” You whisper, watching the point of his tongue find the corner of his mouth. 

He doesn’t register your words as his hand finds and cups the base of your neck. “Gods, you always take such good care of me, don’t you? My sweet girl, so smart…”

You wait for a mock, a jibe, a force of his hand against your thundering pulse. But it doesn’t come, and the anxious weight in your chest quickly trades places with the needy weight in your stomach.

“What would I do without you?” He asks, hand travelling from your neck and over your jaw. His thumb presses to your lips. Words evade you. You let him press the tip of his thumb against the corner of your mouth. He continues, voice low, “What would you do without me?”

His hand shifts then, cupping your jaw and bringing your face forward. He carefully presses his lips to yours, the motion tender. And his lips are soft against yours. Years of care within castle walls; years of healthy food and drink at banquets; years of being coddled by the powers of coin and gemstones. A prince of the realm.

But his movements begin hard. He holds your jaw tightly now, coaxing your mouth apart as his lips move, and he groans against you when you obey. Your eyes flutter closed and your hands, once on your lap, shift to his chest and shoulders. Aerion makes another deep sound before he angles further inwards and his tongue graces between the split of your lips. You oblige him once more: parting with an airy whine and allowing the point of his tongue to slip over your teeth. Your tongues meet as you try and push back, need growing white-hot. You fist his doublet, pulling him tighter against you as his free hand sets on your hip.

You move like you’ve both been practising. Aerion pulls you up, the both of you standing. He breaks the kiss with a pained whine and spins you around so quickly you almost lose your footing.

“My prince,” you whisper as his mouth finds the side of your neck as his fingers—quick and experienced—begin unlacing the threads of your gown. You arch your neck into his touch, feeling the pinch of teeth. “Aerion.”

In seconds, you feel your bodice loosen around your chest and torso, and you help him by slipping out of the sleeves and kicking off your shoes. The dress pools at your ankles, and you kick it away as the prince spins you again and slams his mouth back to yours. This one is harsher, faster. He’s licking over your teeth like he’s committing your taste to memory, and you can’t help but whine as he kisses you again and again and again.

You tug at his doublet, and he gets the message. Parting from you, silence stretches thick as he throws the garment over his head. His tunic follows as your hands find the laces of his breeches. You easily pull the knots apart, and he discards himself of his boots. You lift your head and slam your mouth back to his, and he groans in surprise, one hand cupping your cheek, the other helping you in pulling the ties of his breeches apart.

Your movements are hurried, and when you get his breeches open, you break the kiss and try to drop to your knees—but he stops you. With his hand on your face, he urges you back to him and kisses you. You whine, pulling out of the kiss, and now you’re both panting.

“Aerion,” you breathe, but he’s not listening.

He grabs the material of your chemise. “Arms up.”

You listen, and he pulls the garment off your body. It flutters away and the prince lets out a long-winded moan that sets your core alight. You can’t help but squeeze your thighs together as he looks you up and down, eyes glazing over.

“My pretty girl,” he utters, dipping to kiss you again. Your tongues meet, passing ash and berries and sugar, as he guides you onto your bed.

You move as though you’d done it all before. You shuffle back and he chases you, mouths barely leaving, barely pausing in their movements. When he gets you flat on your back, Aerion pulls away and his hands immediately find your tits. Kneading, rolling your hardening nipples beneath his thumbs. Then, they travel, skimming over your sternum, your ribs, and down your tummy.

“Here she is,” the prince coos as he parts your thighs. One of his hands massages the pliable flesh there, the other grips the base of his cock. He’s hard, tip a bruising red and leaking from the slit, pearling and rolling down the vein on the underside. Your throat works around a moan as you watch him, his eyes on the slit of your pussy. “My prettiest girls.”

You moan. “Aerion.”

“Don’t start,” Aerion mutters as he pushes the head of his cock against you. You moan again, embarrassment crawling up your neck as you feel how wet you are—you feel the cool slick webbing between your folds as he parts you, the movement too slow, too gentle. Aerion chuckles as you squirm. “Oh, she’s wet. M’gonna slip right in, aren’t I?”

This is the Aerion you’ve come to know.

He chastises you as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit, coating himself because, as much as you burn from the inside–out, he’s right. You’re soaked, cunt clenching around nothing as you lay back completely bare for him. For him.

“Gods above, she’d be worth more than a few gold dragons, wouldn’t she?” The prince whispers, almost in disbelief, as he slowly pushes the leaking tip of his cock inwards. You suck in a breath—no stretch of his fingers, no circle of your clit—as your cunt parts around him. He groans, “But—oh, fuck—b-but I’m the only dragon you need.”

If he wasn’t spearing you on the thick of his cock, pushing in and splitting you apart with a lithe string of moans falling from his soft lips, then you would’ve rolled your eyes. You would say something to quell his ego, but you can’t. You simply moan, a desperate and loud sound that rattles through your skull, and arch. He leans over you as he rolls his hips, bottoming out with a moan of your name.

Then, he bends. His mouth is on yours like he can’t get enough. And, in all honesty, neither can you. Your hands find the back of his head, threading through white strands and tugging as your teeth clash and your tongues meet. Aerion grunts, hoisting your thigh up around his hips as he pitches forward, then shrinks back. You gasp out of the kiss when he notches the head of his cock just inside you.

And doesn’t move.

Sunlight spills across your joined bodies. Your nails scrape along his scalp causing goosebumps to appear along his arms. He pants like a worked hound, eyes on your face as he feels your pussy fluttering around his tip. Begging for it.

“You’re perfect,” Aerion whispers suddenly. It tastes like I love you on his tongue, but he knows that’s impossible. You’re perfect because you’re here. With him. Doing as he says. Aerion Targaryen doesn’t love. He continues, “You’re perfect and you’re mine.”

He doesn’t have the patience in waiting for your response. He thrusts back in with a curl of his spine. It’s rough and hard and it knocks the wind from your lungs. The sound that leaves you is distressed: a broken mewl as a bruising ache festers low in your stomach. But as the prince moves in and out, setting a rhythm that rocks you into the mattress, the pain subsides and is instead replaced by that simmering heat you’ve become all too familiar with.

“Oh, g-gods,” falls from your mouth as you take both hands and seize him by the shoulders. “Aerion, my prince, oh—”

You press little indents into his shoulders as you rock beneath him; the angle he’s made of you, with a hand on your thigh, driving him deep towards the plug of your cervix. He pries you apart so effortlessly with both his words and the length of his cock.

“That’s it, just like that,” Aerion grunts as he fucks you. Sweat glistens high on his forehead and there’s a light blush over his cheekbones as he drives you into the mattress. The fingers on your thigh squeeze, dimpling the flesh as he groans. “Taking your prince’s cock like an absolute dream, little witch.”

Heat moves through your body like steaming water. It coils tight in the pit of your stomach, sitting heavy behind your navel as he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over. You grip him with tightening fingers, pussy clenching around the thick of him. Your thigh on his hip presses inward, driving him closer to you as his pelvis meets yours.

The mattress groans slightly beneath you as you both rock. Dappled sunlight blurs through your lashes as you look up at him, whining when he dips his head again to kiss you. You take it with kiss-bitten lips, opening for him while he grunts. The wet grip of your cunt around him is silken soft, and it draws his thoughts away as his mouth moves messily against yours. You snake a hand to the nape of his neck and hold him to you as his hips roll deeper.

“Aerion,” you mutter against his mouth. You’re not kissing anymore. It’s an open press of lips as you both grunt and mewl and take what you need.

“Say it like you mean it,” he mutters back, the tip of his tongue flicking serpent-like over your parted lips. He pulls back slightly so he can shift his spine and push his hips further against you. “Say my name when you come, sweet girl, c’mon.”

Blood replaced by a golden-hot ichor, you tip your head back as you tremble. Your release builds hot in your veins and you’re right there, bathed in sunlight, as you’re taken apart from the inside–out by a prince of the realm. Your fingers scrape down his front as you arch off the bed, moaning—airy and wanton and loud—as you come.

“Aerion—!” The syllables are rich and honey-sweet in the warm summer air of your chambers. Your entire body trembles, limbs tightening as it takes hold: a gold-fingered grasp around your diaphragm as your moans turn to whines.

Aerion groans, smiling to himself as your cunt clenches tight around the width of him. Muscles pull taut, fluttering with your beating heart, and it gushes too—he can feel it, hot and slick as he rolls his hips, a thin white ring around the base of his cock. The clutch of your pussy around him, and the little whines you taper off with, some battling around whispers of his name, have the tension in his belly and spine contracting. 

He screws his eyes shut, muttering to himself, “Oh, sweet girl, my sweetest girl…”

He thinks of spilling inside you. He thinks of filling you with his seed and watching you grow round with his child. His poor little woods witch, pregnant with a bastard child but oh, how he’d look after you. You’d never leave his side. You’d be spoiled beyond reason.

“F-Fuck, oh fuck,” he curses at the thought, cock jerking inside you. You whine, fizzling down from your release, fingers tracing lazy circles across his chest. He opens his eyes at the sound, gazing down at you. He coos, “Oh, don’t cry yet, little witch, your prince is here. Your dragon’s right—fucking—here—”

You choke on a moan. You hadn’t noticed a tear slip from the corner of your eye.

He speaks around heavy, rolling thrusts, cock knocking up deep until you feel his body shudder beneath your touch. He groans, thick and leonine from the back of his throat, as his head dips down one last time.

The prince kisses you as he spills right up against your cervix. A low utter of your name passes from his mouth to yours as he licks over your tongue, his cock jumping inside you as he comes. Thick, hot ropes pulling deep from his being, and the weight of his orgasm has him collapsing half on top of you as he continues to spill. The pressure on your belly and the angle at which your legs part around his body makes you gasp, then whimper, but the prince licks the sound before it touches sunlight.

Aerion picks himself out of the kiss, sitting back on his haunches. You pant, hands gripping the sheets now as he slowly pulls his cock from you. He watches himself drool out of you. The feeling makes you squirm.

“Uh-uh, don’t be like that,” Aerion whispers, one hand coming to rest on your lower belly. He presses down firmly, and the throaty whimper that leaves you is completely involuntary. His other hand collects his seed from the curve of your arse, using two fingers to stuff it back into your cunt. You whine, and Aerion shushes you again. “Fussy girl. Can’t let it go to waste, can we?”

You bite your lip and stare up at the ceiling as Aerion curls his fingers into you. Your legs still bracket his hips and you can feel the ash-licked warmth radiating from his pale skin.

His fingers stretch you, curling and splitting against the silken walls of your cunt. They reach deep too, and after a moment of holding back your whimpers, you feel a prickling heat reappear beneath the press of his hand. Your legs shake before you can say anything, and the heat builds and builds as you attempt to lift yourself onto your elbows.

“A–Aerion, wait, wait—” You stutter out, then fall back onto the mattress as another orgasm rockets through you. It’s sharper, hits you in the base of your lungs and forces sounds from you you barely recognise as your own.

He watches you come undone again with a satisfied smile on his face, his softening cock giving a feeble twitch against his thigh. Your pussy squeezes around the thick push of his fingers, and he strokes you through it, pushing his cum right up towards your womb. The hand on your tummy gives you a gentle pat when you quit your shaking, and he carefully pulls his fingers from you, watching the way your slick and his seed webs between the digits.

You watch, vision blurred by your back-to-back orgasms and the early afternoon sunlight, as his tongue unfurls from between his kiss-bruised lips. He licks his fingers clean in a few curling movements, and you feel something jump in your belly, a flip beneath the press of his hand.

“My prettiest girls,” the prince whispers, wiping his wet fingers on your inner thigh before giving your pussy a quick pat—the sudden pressure making you jolt against the mattress—and manoeuvring himself beneath the sheets. 

He helps you with him, and after a moment of silence, you’re both tucked beneath the silks of your bed. You don’t say anything as he pulls you to him, tucking your body against his. But you do look at him as he rests against the pillows with his eyes closed. You admire the way little orbs of sunlight dance across the bare skin of his chest, shoulders and neck. You can’t help yourself: you reach up and trace the dappled light with your fingers, trekking up the side of his neck until you reach the curve of his jaw. His pulse jumps out to meet you.

He opens his eyes and peers at you sideways. “Something you want?”

You hum a no, then say, “You’re so pretty.”

Aerion rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Silence beats through the room like a racing heart.

Then, “Aerion?”

“Hm?”

“You cut yourself on purpose, didn’t you?”

The prince opens his eyes again and shifts his head to look at you. His eyes dart across your face as if searching for any disappointment or anger. But he finds none.

“Maybe,” he replies after a moment.

You sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“Ser Roland was too close to you.”

“We were talking about flowers.”

Aerion huffed. “You can talk about flowers with me.”

You give him a sceptical look, fingers tracing the sunlight on his shoulder now. “Do you even know anything about flowers?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then what kind of—?”

“They’re carnations,” he interrupts. He looks away from you. You pause, hand over his heart. He continues quietly, clearing his throat. “My… my mother had them planted.”

You pout. “Oh, Aerion…”

“So, yes, I know flowers, or whatever the fuck you’re interested in,” Aerion hisses, reaching an arm around and taking your jaw between firm, still slightly sticky, fingers. He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips before pulling back before you could plead for more. “And so the next time you want to talk about flowers with someone…” He looks away, almost embarrassed. His cheeks are pink. “You can talk to me.”

These words taste like I love you as well, and it makes him grit his teeth.

It’s not said possessively. He holds your jaw tenderly, and his words match his hold. He actually means it: it’s sincere and honest, and he’s bearing his heart to you and hoping you don’t tear it apart.

“I’d love that,” you respond, your hand finding his and guiding it away from your jaw. You kiss his knuckles as he closes his eyes again.

I love you is written all over that too.

———

they kissed and everybody cheered

tags 🌿

Your heart pounded as you walked toward your floor. You felt nervous, very nervous, because you knew what you had to do. You had made the decision the night before, when you couldn't sleep from thinking about everything that had happened. You were going to do it, even though you couldn't guarantee that everything would turn out well. It wasn't that you liked lying—not at all. You were an honest person, the kind who says exactly what's on her mind, but lately you had been feeling very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable every time you had to go down to the editors' floor. Every time you had to run into Benjamin Corvin. And that bothered you, because your job was something you genuinely enjoyed.

You had started working at the Daily Planet exactly six months ago. You were hired as a photographer, and from the very first day, you knew you had arrived somewhere special. The walls were tall, covered with framed old newspapers, awards, and photographs that told stories from decades past. The building smelled like paper and freshly brewed coffee, and the sound of typewriters and keyboards was like a background song that never stopped playing. You liked that noise. It made you feel like you were part of something important.

Your job was divided into two parts. Sometimes you were assigned to work with Cat Grant, the newspaper's most famous interviewer, the woman who could always get even the quietest artists and the most arrogant actors to talk. You accompanied her to interviews and took photographs of those stars who appeared in magazines and on television. You met singers who filled stadiums, actors who won awards, and film directors admired by everyone. And although being around them made you a little nervous at first, Cat taught you how to stay calm, how to find the perfect angle, how to wait for the right moment to press the shutter. She was demanding, but she was always fair with you, and you appreciated that.

Other times, you were assigned to Clark Kent.

And that was completely different.

But also much better.

Because Clark didn't interview artists or singers. Clark interviewed presidents, diplomatic agents, important people who made decisions that changed the country. And you went with him, taking pictures of those men and women in suits and ties, of those people who spoke in complicated terms and always seemed to be in a hurry.

But the best part of working with Clark wasn't the type of interviews.

It was him.

Clark was kind. Far too kind.

He always smiled at you. Always asked how you were doing. Always worried about whether you were too cold or too warm, or whether you were getting too tired.

And whenever you were assigned to work with him, you knew free pastries were waiting for you.

Clark loved buying sweet things. He said sugar helped people think better. And he always carried a little bag filled with cookies, donuts, or those cake pops covered in colorful sprinkles that you loved so much. He would place them on your desk without saying anything, simply leaving them there like a silent gift.

And at the end of the day, you always ended up at an Italian restaurant Clark knew, one located just a few blocks from the newspaper building. He claimed it was the best restaurant in the city, that the pasta was handmade and the tomato sauce was based on the owner's grandmother's secret recipe.

At first, you thought he was simply being polite. That he invited you out of obligation.

But one day, you told him it wasn't necessary, that you could eat alone at home.

And he looked at you with those big, clear eyes and said,

"It was a team effort. I'd feel bad eating alone."

So you smiled and accepted, because with Clark, everything was easy.

Everything felt simple.

Natural.

As if you had known him your entire life.

But not everything was like that.

As much as you wished everything could be like working with Cat or Clark, it wasn't.

Because the problem was downstairs.

That's where the editors worked. The people who corrected the writers' work, who reviewed every word, who changed commas and periods and sometimes entire headlines. It was also where the people who evaluated photographs worked, the ones who decided whether an image was blurry, whether the framing was wrong, or whether the lighting didn't flatter the interviewee.

That floor was quieter than the one above. People spoke in low voices. The phones rang with deep tones. Everyone moved quickly without making noise.

Honestly, it was a little intimidating.

At first, you didn't think much of it.

You would go downstairs, hand over the memory cards they gave you, and come back up.

Simple as that.

The memory cards were always requested so the files could be transferred into the newspaper's archive and historical records, ensuring nobody could plagiarize them. The newspaper took that very seriously. They didn't want another outlet stealing their photographs or articles.

So every time an interview or an important story was completed, someone had to bring the memory cards down to the editors' floor.

And at first, you did it because you had told Clark,

"No problem, I'll take them down. It'll give me a chance to stretch my legs."

And he smiled that calm, warm smile of his and said,

"Alright. Thank you very much."

Because that day he had to finish an extremely long article. He looked so stressed, surrounded by the clock, stacks of papers, and his computer, that helping him felt like the least you could do.

So it became routine.

Something you did without thinking.

You walked down the stairs, crossed the long hallway, greeted the people at their desks, dropped the memory cards into the editing intake tray, and headed back upstairs.

You did it many times.

Again and again.

Sometimes Clark was in meetings and couldn't go himself.

Other times he was transcribing interviews that had lasted for hours, his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard while his eyes remained fixed on the screen.

You never complained, especially because your photographs were always ready.

You kept them organized in folders, clearly labeled and properly arranged, waiting to be used.

You knew your images brought Clark's articles to life.

That they helped people stop and read.

That they caught attention.

And you liked that.

You liked knowing your work mattered.

But that was the mistake.

You never knew exactly when everything started.

Or whether it was because of a professional smile you accidentally gave one day.

Or a particularly cheerful "good morning."

Or maybe a "thank you" that sounded kinder than it should have.

But Benjamin Corvin, the editor who always sent your emails, began to change things.

At first, it was small.

He stopped tagging Clark in the emails.

He would send a message saying the memory cards were needed, but Clark's name wouldn't appear.

Only yours.

You assumed it was a mistake.

Anyone could make an error while writing an email.

But it happened again.

And again.

And after a few more messages, he stopped calling you down only for the memory cards.

He called because he claimed the photos hadn't been saved correctly.

That there was an error.

That the memory card was empty or corrupted.

But you knew it wasn't.

You always checked before going downstairs.

You connected the card to your computer, opened the folder, and looked through the photographs one by one.

Everything was there.

Everything was fine.

But he insisted otherwise.

Insisted that you come downstairs again.

Insisted that you stay for a moment while he "reviewed" the files.

And then it got worse.

One day, you went downstairs with the memory cards as usual. You greeted everyone, smiled politely, and watched him walk toward you with a cup of coffee in his hand. He moved slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if you had nothing more important to do. The other editors remained at their desks, typing or reading papers, and even though they were all nearby, it seemed like nobody was looking.

Or maybe they were.

Maybe they were simply used to it.

Maybe Benjamin did this all the time, and they had learned to keep their heads down and stay out of it.

"What are you doing after work?" he asked.

His voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that made you feel small. As if he was above you and you were beneath him, and that was how things were supposed to be.

You tightened your grip on the memory cards and searched for a quick answer. You didn't want to tell him the truth. You didn't want to say that maybe you were going home to watch television, or that you simply wanted to be alone.

So you made up an excuse.

The first thing that came to mind.

"I have a doctor's appointment," you said.

The lie tasted bitter in your mouth, but you felt relieved to have said something.

Benjamin nodded, but he didn't leave.

He stayed right there, standing in front of you with that crooked smile you disliked so much. It was the kind of smile that never reached his eyes, remaining only on his lips as though it had been carefully practiced.

Then he stepped a little closer.

Close enough for you to smell his cologne, a strong scent that seemed to fill the air around him.

"Mmm... sure," he said, sounding as though he didn't entirely believe you. "If you're ever free one day, let me know, alright?"

You didn't know what to say.

The words got stuck in your throat.

You wanted to tell him no.

You wanted to tell him that you weren't going to let him know anything.

That you'd rather stay busy forever.

But your mouth wouldn't move.

You remained frozen, your palms beginning to sweat, your heart beating faster than usual.

And at that exact moment—at the precise moment when you had no idea what to do—your phone rang.

The sound felt like a lifeline thrown into deep water.

You glanced at the screen and saw Clark's name.

You answered immediately, barely looking.

His voice came through clear and hurried.

"Hey, are you still downstairs?" Clark asked. "Come back up when you can. We just got assigned a new task. It's urgent."

You ended the call and looked at Benjamin.

He was still standing there, holding his coffee and wearing that smile.

You took a breath.

Let it out slowly.

And without saying another word, you turned around.

You walked toward the stairs with firm steps, feeling his eyes on your back.

You didn't look behind you.

You didn't want to see him.

You just wanted to go upstairs, see Clark, and feel safe again.

But he kept insisting.

He took advantage of every opportunity he could find to smile at you, approach you, run into you in the hallway, in the cafeteria, or even on your own floor.

Sometimes he came upstairs with some excuse—a document that needed your signature or a last-minute review.

You would see him approaching and immediately feel a knot tighten in your stomach.

The kind of knot that squeezes so hard it makes it difficult to breathe.

Sometimes you hid behind Clark so Benjamin wouldn't look at you.

And with how tall Clark was, you completely disappeared behind him.

You stayed there as though he were a wall.

A wall made of suits and ties that shielded you from Benjamin's gaze.

Clark never asked why you did it.

He simply continued talking as though nothing unusual was happening.

And you appreciated his silence.

You also stopped leaving the building alone.

Before, you hadn't minded walking out peacefully, listening to music through your headphones or scrolling through your phone.

Now you did.

Now you were afraid of running into him outside.

At the entrance.

In the parking lot.

Anywhere.

You were afraid there would be nobody around.

That it would be just you and him.

And that he would say something.

Or do something.

And you wouldn't know how to react.

One afternoon, everything you feared happened.

Clark had an unexpected obligation and left work early.

He apologized, saying he had to rush out and that he'd see you the next day.

You smiled and told him it was fine, that you were about to leave too.

But when you reached the elevator and the doors opened, you saw him.

Benjamin was inside.

Alone.

Leaning against the wall with that smile you had come to hate.

Your heart jumped.

Not from excitement.

Not from anticipation.

Not from the kind of nervousness that could sometimes feel pleasant.

Your heart jumped because of fear.

You were trapped inside a small metal box with a coworker who refused to leave you alone.

A place you couldn't escape until the doors opened again.

You stood frozen for a moment, wondering whether you could simply wait for the next elevator.

But Benjamin had already seen you.

He had already placed his foot between the doors to keep them from closing.

He was already smiling at you as though everything were perfectly normal.

So you stepped inside.

You positioned yourself in the opposite corner, as far away from him as possible, and stared straight ahead without speaking.

"Got plans tonight?" he asked in that calm voice that always sounded fake to you. "We could grab a drink. I know a good place nearby."

You shook your head without looking at him.

But he moved closer.

One step.

Then another.

Now he was closer than before.

Far too close.

He slowly raised one hand.

And you watched his fingers move toward your arm.

He was going to touch you.

He was going to put his hand on you.

And you didn't know whether you would be able to move or if you would freeze like a statue.

And then—

Just as Benjamin's hand was about to brush against your skin—

The elevator doors opened.

Lois was standing there.

Her purse hung from one shoulder, her keys in her hand.

She had been heading upstairs to grab her things before going home.

But the moment she looked at you and then at Benjamin, her expression changed completely.

She frowned.

Her jaw tightened.

And her eyes became small and hard as stone.

"Acting like a creepy fucking stalker again, Corvin?" Lois asked.

Her voice wasn't a shout.

Yet somehow it sounded louder than any shout could have.

You were incredibly pale.

You could feel it in your face.

In your hands.

Throughout your entire body.

And you knew Lois had noticed because she looked you up and down, and her frown deepened even more.

Benjamin let out a short laugh, as if Lois had told a bad joke.

He slipped one hand into his pocket and looked at her with those eyes that had always seemed cold to you.

"I was just inviting her out for a drink, Lane," he said, shaking his head as though she were the unreasonable one. "Not everyone is as bitter as you."

You felt your legs tremble slightly.

You didn't want to stay there.

You didn't want to hear another word.

You searched for something to say.

Anything that would get you out of that elevator and away from that situation.

"I have to see my brother," you blurted out.

Even though you were an only child, and everyone knew it except him.

But he didn't care.

Because he didn't know anything about you.

He only saw you as something pretty to look at.

"I'm sorry," you added.

Then you looked at Lois.

Lois met your gaze and nodded once.

A small, quick gesture that clearly meant:

"Get out of here. I'll handle this."

So you left.

You walked quickly toward the building's exit, your heart lodged in your throat.

And before stepping outside, you turned your head for just a second.

"Good night," you said.

Then you left.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Benjamin make a move to follow you.

To go after you.

But Lois stopped him.

She grabbed his arm firmly, with the kind of strength nobody expected from someone as slender as her.

"We need to talk about my article, Corvin," Lois said, her voice filled with fury. "And your edits. Right now."

She was saving you.

She was genuinely saving you.

You walked toward the street.

Toward the cool evening air.

Toward the people passing by who had no idea what had just happened.

And you made it home alone.

But safe.

That night, you couldn't sleep well.

You tossed and turned in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the fact that tomorrow, you'd have to go back.

But he continued.

He didn't stop.

As if nothing had happened.

As if Lois had never confronted him.

As if you hadn't left that elevator trembling.

The next day, there was the smile again.

Another day with a coffee cup in his hand and those slow steps heading toward you.

And then another day.

And another.

He was like a shadow that refused to leave.

Like a fly buzzing near your ear that you couldn't swat away.

Maybe that was why you hurried after Clark whenever he left.

Because if Clark was with you, Benjamin only watched from a distance and smiled, while you deliberately looked away.

You didn't want to see him.

Clark walked with you to the elevator or the building's exit, and Benjamin never dared approach when Clark was around.

Maybe because Clark was big.

Tall.

And even though he was kind, he was also intimidating without meaning to be.

Maybe that was why you were hurrying toward the floor's printer that day.

Because you knew Clark was there, standing near the machine making copies, and you needed to be close to him.

You needed to feel like you weren't alone.

Because your interactions with the editor were suffocating you.

You felt cornered.

Like a small animal being slowly trapped, leaving you with less and less room to move or breathe.

And yesterday, the stupidest lie in the world had slipped out of your mouth.

A lie you hadn't planned.

One that had come out on its own because you were so afraid.

You didn't like lying.

You never had.

But you were scared.

Scared that you'd be fired if Benjamin became angry because you rejected him.

Scared that if he made something up—something false about you, something awful you had never done—everyone would believe him because he had worked there for four years.

Four years.

Four years of knowing everyone.

Of making friends.

Of earning the trust of the bosses.

And you only had six months.

Almost seven.

But six months were nothing compared to four years.

That's why the lie came out.

A stupid little thing.

You said something that wasn't true just to make him go away.

Just to gain one minute of peace.

But it didn't work.

Nothing worked with him.

So that morning, as you walked toward the printer and saw Clark standing with his back to you, waiting for a stack of pages to finish printing, you felt your legs trembling again.

You hesitated when you were only a few steps away.

Lois had told you Clark would be there. That it would be a good time to talk to him.

But everyone said asking Clark for favors was easy.

That he never said no.

Except that over the past few weeks, you had heard the exact opposite.

You had overheard it in the break room when Steve was complaining.

Clark hadn't been there at the time.

"He actually told me no," Steve said, his voice high-pitched with outrage. "When he always helps me. Always. And now he suddenly tells me he can't."

You raised an eyebrow and looked at him.

Steve was the type of person who asked for favors constantly, as if everyone else existed solely to help him.

"How strange," you said, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. "Maybe because you've asked him about three hundred times."

Lois, who was drinking coffee nearby, burst out laughing.

The kind of laugh that came naturally.

Not out of politeness.

"Well," Zoe said, crossing her arms, "Clark used to be nicer. He told me no too. I asked if he could stay a few extra hours to help me with some edits. I know it was already quitting time, but we're coworkers, right? Coworkers help each other."

A spark of irritation flared in your chest.

You didn't like the way they talked about Clark.

As if he was obligated to help them.

As if his time mattered less than theirs.

"I'm happy about it," you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the table. "Maybe when someone is kind, people mistake that for being a fool. And Clark isn't a fool. You should appreciate his help when he gives it instead of complaining when he doesn't."

Everyone fell silent for a moment.

Lois looked at you with a small smile, as if she agreed.

"Well, maybe you won't be getting it anymore," Lois said, lifting her coffee cup. "Or any more favors. He's taking it seriously, it seems."

You remembered all of that as you walked toward the printer.

And you felt like a hypocrite.

A complete hypocrite.

Because there you were, on your way to ask Clark for an enormous favor.

A gigantic favor.

The kind of favor you didn't ask a coworker for.

And he would probably reject you, just like he had rejected Steve and Zoe.

Because Clark didn't do favors anymore.

Clark was setting boundaries.

And you were about to cross every single one of them.

You reached the printer.

There were people nearby, two employees you didn't know very well, sorting through folders.

Clark stood beside the machine, waiting for his copies.

You moved to stand beside him.

Very close.

And glanced at him from the corner of your eye without saying anything.

Your heart was beating so loudly you thought he might actually hear it.

Clark turned his head and looked at you.

He had those big, clear eyes that always made you feel calm.

But now there was a question in them too.

"Everything alright?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You knew you were being obvious.

You couldn't hide anything from Clark.

He always noticed when something was wrong.

"Yes," you said quickly.

Then you shook your head.

"No."

You looked at the other people still standing nearby.

You couldn't talk while they were listening.

You couldn't say what needed to be said with strangers around.

"I need... I..." you stammered, feeling the words tangle together. "Can we wait until everyone leaves?"

You whispered it so quietly that it was almost inaudible.

But Clark heard you.

Clark always heard you.

He nodded without asking any questions.

And you released some of the breath trapped inside your lungs.

You gave him a tired smile.

One of those smiles people make when they're too exhausted to keep pretending.

And Clark noticed it.

Of course he noticed it.

His expression became a little more serious.

A little more attentive.

The two people nearby finished gathering their things and left.

First one.

Then the other.

And when they were finally alone in that part of the hallway, you stopped pretending.

You stopped rearranging copies that didn't need rearranging.

Stopped looking away.

You took a breath.

And looked at him.

"Did something happen?" Clark asked.

His voice was gentle.

So gentle it almost hurt.

You fidgeted with your hands.

Squeezing them together.

Letting go.

Then squeezing them again.

You couldn't look him in the eyes.

If you looked at him, maybe you wouldn't be able to say what you needed to say.

"I know we have a professional relationship," you began, your voice sounding smaller than you wanted it to. "And I don't want to ruin it."

Clark said nothing.

He simply waited.

"I need a huge favor."

This time you lifted your head.

You saw him listening carefully.

Saw that he wasn't judging you.

But you didn't let him speak because you were afraid that if he said anything before you finished, you would lose your nerve.

"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend."

You blurted it out all at once.

Like throwing a stone into water and waiting for the ripples.

Then you fell silent.

Waiting for his reaction.

But Clark didn't say anything.

He remained perfectly still, looking at you, his copies tucked under one arm.

"In the newsroom," you added, just in case it hadn't been clear. "Only in the newsroom. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend in the newsroom."

He still didn't speak.

You bit your lip and felt your eyes sting.

But you weren't going to cry.

Not there.

Not in front of him.

"I know you said you don't do favors anymore," you continued, speaking faster now, as if all the words were trying to escape at once. "You told everyone. You turned everyone down. And I know this isn't professional. I know what I'm asking is wrong. That I shouldn't ask. That it's a lot, but Clark—"

"Okay," Clark said.

You stopped.

Your eyes widened.

You stared at him in confusion.

"Okay?" you repeated, your voice coming out so high-pitched that you barely recognized it.

"Yes," Clark said again with that calmness he always seemed to have, as though nothing could surprise him.

"You probably didn't hear me correctly," you said, gesturing with your hands as your fingers trembled. "The favor I want breaks professionalism a little. Actually, a lot. I want you to pretend that—"

"That I'm your boyfriend," Clark interrupted.

You nodded.

And just stared at him.

You hadn't thought he would say yes.

In your head, you had rehearsed this conversation dozens of times.

But every version ended the same way.

With Clark saying no.

Every single one.

Which was why you had never planned what happened afterward.

Because in every rehearsal, he said no.

But he had said yes.

And now you were standing there with your mouth slightly open, completely unsure what to do with that answer.

"Well..." you said, trying to continue with what you had prepared.

You were going to explain everything.

Tell him exactly what you had made up.

Give him every detail so he would know how to act.

But then you heard a voice outside.

A voice you already knew.

A voice that irritated you so much it made you clench your teeth.

Benjamin.

He was close.

Very close.

And at any moment he was going to open the door and see you standing there talking to Clark.

So you spoke quickly.

As quickly as possible.

Whispering so only he could hear.

"I told Editor Benjamin that we've been dating for two months," you whispered, glancing toward the door while your heart practically jumped out of your chest. "I told him we have a good relationship and that's why I can't go out with him. That's what I made up. I'm sorry. I know I should've asked first, but I was scared and it just came out and—"

You never finished the sentence.

The door opened.

And in that moment, without thinking, without planning it, your hands moved on their own.

They landed on Clark's jacket.

Right on the lapels.

And you started smoothing them down as though it were something you did every day.

As though you were really his girlfriend.

As though you genuinely cared whether his suit had wrinkles.

You moved a little closer to him.

Just a little.

Enough to make it look natural.

"So we're having dinner at my apartment tonight..." you said.

Your voice came out slightly louder than usual so Benjamin would hear.

You lifted your head and looked at Clark.

And even though you felt embarrassed, even though you could feel heat rising to your cheeks, you stayed in character.

"Sweetheart?"

Clark blushed.

You saw it clearly.

His cheeks turning a shade of pink you had never seen before.

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

As though he had suddenly forgotten how words worked.

"Yes," he finally said. "Yes, that's fine."

Then he fell silent for a second.

A second that felt incredibly long to you.

Until he spoke again.

"Sweetheart," he said.

The word sounded a little stiff.

A little forced.

But you smiled.

Well.

It was a good effort.

Clark wasn't the type to throw around pet names.

And that was one of the things you liked about him.

But right now, you needed him to.

"So Kent managed to get himself a girlfriend?" Benjamin said from the doorway.

You looked at him.

He was leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and that smile that always made your skin crawl.

But this time, you didn't feel quite so alone.

This time, Clark was beside you.

Large.

Steady.

Like a mountain.

You smiled, even though you were still trembling a little inside.

You hid slightly against Clark's arm and wrapped both hands around it.

So Benjamin would see.

So he would understand.

"We prefer to keep things private," Clark said.

And his voice sounded different.

Firmer than you expected.

He smiled, but it wasn't his usual friendly smile.

It was calmer.

More confident.

He looked at you for a second.

Then looked back at Benjamin.

"She asked for it that way. And a man does whatever he can for his girlfriend."

You nodded eagerly.

Making it look like you agreed.

Like it was true.

Like Clark was a wonderful boyfriend, even if he was only pretending.

And for a moment—

Just a moment—

You wondered whether he was feeling something strange in his chest too.

But no.

You couldn't think about that now.

"Oh, sure," Benjamin said with a short laugh. "Then I apologize. I asked her out without knowing you were together."

His eyes traveled up and down your body.

And a chill ran through you.

"You won the lottery, Kent."

You trembled.

It was only a small tremor.

The kind most people wouldn't notice.

But Clark felt it.

Because his arm pressed slightly closer against his side.

Not much.

Just enough to remind you he was there.

"I won the lottery, actually," you said.

And your voice sounded braver than you felt.

You lifted your chin slightly and looked directly at Benjamin.

"He made me fall in love without any pressure."

It was a good jab.

Although you knew Benjamin probably wouldn't understand it.

Or maybe he would.

Maybe he understood perfectly and simply didn't care.

Either way, you said it.

Because it made you feel better.

"I need to get back to work," you continued, carefully letting go of Clark's arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "I'll leave you two. So... I'll see you later?"

You looked at Clark.

He looked back at you.

His eyes seemed slightly brighter than usual.

Or maybe it was just the office lighting.

"Yes," Clark said.

You smiled.

The kind of smile that appears all on its own.

You were about to leave.

You already had one foot halfway toward the door.

When you realized Clark wasn't moving.

He was still standing there.

Looking at Benjamin.

And Benjamin was still standing there.

Looking at both of you.

You didn't understand why Clark wasn't turning to leave.

Why he wasn't taking the first step.

Until he turned.

But not toward the door.

Toward you.

He moved closer.

One step.

Then another.

Until he was standing right in front of you.

So close that you could see the tiny flecks of color in his eyes.

So close that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

Your pulse completely spiraled out of control.

Your heartbeat rushed into your throat.

Your temples.

The tips of your fingers.

Your entire body went on high alert.

As though something important was about to happen.

Clark looked at your lips.

You watched his gaze drop.

Then rise.

Drop again.

Then rise.

As though he were asking permission without saying a word.

"May I?" he asked.

You looked at him.

Swallowed hard.

You knew Benjamin was still there watching.

You knew you had to keep up the act.

That if you said no, the entire performance would fall apart.

But deep down—

In the deepest part of your heart—

You also knew you didn't want to say no.

And it would make Benjamin believe it completely.

"Yes," you whispered.

And then Clark kissed you.

It was a small kiss.

A brief one.

Barely more than a brush of lips.

But it echoed through the room.

That soft, intimate sound reached your ears.

And your cheeks immediately turned red as tomatoes.

When he pulled away—

When you opened your eyes, which you didn't even remember closing—

You saw Benjamin laughing.

Laughing as he shook his head.

As though he couldn't believe what he had just witnessed.

As though it were some elaborate joke.

You sighed.

A long sigh.

The kind that escapes after holding your breath for far too long.

"Goodbye," you said without looking at him.

You didn't want to look at Benjamin.

You didn't want to look at anyone.

You walked away quickly.

Your legs felt unsteady.

And your lips still tingled from the kiss.

Maybe it had been a good idea.

Of course it had.

You felt uncomfortable.

Clark helped you.

And that was all.

It didn't have to mean anything more.

It was a favor between coworkers.

A lie meant to scare off an annoying man.

Nothing more.

But there was something you had forgotten.

Something you hadn't thought about in that moment.

Something that completely slipped your mind because you were genuinely frightened.

Frightened that Benjamin would claim you had invented the boyfriend story.

Frightened that you would tell Clark and he would deny it.

Frightened that everything would go wrong and you'd be left alone with the problem all over again.

In the middle of all that fear, you forgot something.

Something very small.

Very small.

And yet very, very big.

You liked Clark.

You had liked him since the day you started working there.

It wasn't something new. It wasn't something that had been born from the fake kiss.

No.

It was older than that.

It was one of those feelings that grows slowly, without you noticing, like a plant taking root long before you ever see the leaves.

You had been watching Clark since the first day, from the moment he smiled at you and offered you coffee.

Not like a stalker.

Don't misunderstand.

You weren't the kind of person who stared or followed people around.

It was simply something you did.

Something that came naturally.

You worked with him.

He bought you coffee.

He bought you pastries.

He took you to dinner at the Italian restaurant and told you that you were an excellent photographer, even though you knew he only said that so you wouldn't feel less than anyone else.

But you liked it.

You liked his voice when he spoke softly.

You liked the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

You liked that he was tall enough to cover you when you hid behind him.

You liked that he was kind without expecting anything in return.

He was a gentleman.

The kind of man you only found once in a century.

And for that very reason, because he was so good, because he was so special, it had become difficult for you.

Because you couldn't tell him anything.

You couldn't ruin what you had.

You couldn't risk him pulling away.

Risk him feeling uncomfortable.

Risk him stopping the coffee invitations and the little pastries.

You preferred having him as a friend over not having him at all.

But now you had kissed him.

Well, he had kissed you.

But it was the same thing, wasn't it?

The kiss had been for Benjamin.

To make him leave.

To make him stop bothering you.

But your lips didn't understand excuses.

Your lips only knew that Clark had touched them.

And that it had felt good.

Too good.

The lie escalated on its own, without you being able to do anything to stop it.

The second week arrived, and there was no turning back.

Because, of course, how were you supposed to say from one day to the next that you were going to break up?

That would look strange.

It would raise suspicions.

And Benjamin wasn't stupid.

If Clark suddenly stopped acting like your boyfriend, the man would realize instantly that the whole thing had been staged.

So you had to keep playing the part.

There were necessary kisses.

Kisses you had to give so people would believe it, so Benjamin would see you and be convinced.

Kisses on the cheek when you ran into each other in the morning.

Quick kisses on the forehead when you said goodbye.

Kisses that lingered on your skin as though they were real.

But they weren't.

They were part of the lie.

Only that.

Clark had apologized for the first one.

You remembered that moment perfectly.

He had looked at you with wide, remorseful eyes, like a puppy that had done something wrong without meaning to, and said,

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that without asking first."

But you told him it had been the right thing to do.

That it had to happen that way if you wanted it to look real.

That he shouldn't worry.

Clark nodded.

But he still looked uncomfortable.

Then he added that if the kisses ever made you feel bad, if they ever made you uncomfortable, he wouldn't do it again.

He said it very seriously.

Very firmly.

As if making sure you were okay was the most important thing in the world to him.

But you didn't want him to stop.

And that was the problem.

Because you said you wanted everyone to think you were dating.

You told him that the more natural you looked, the easier it would be for Benjamin to leave you alone.

But the truth—

The truth you never told him—

Was that you didn't want to admit how much you loved them.

Those little kisses.

Those brushes of lips against your cheek.

Those hand squeezes you now exchanged in public.

You liked them far more than you should have.

And if you told him, if he knew you felt something, everything would become complicated.

It would become awkward.

It would ruin the friendship you had.

So you stayed quiet and kept pretending, even though every tiny kiss made your stomach flutter like it was full of butterflies.

That day, you invited him to dinner.

It wasn't a real date.

Don't get excited, you told yourself.

It was a necessity.

Because Benjamin had followed you both all the way to the bus stop.

You saw him out of the corner of your eye, standing there as though nothing was wrong, hands in his pockets and that smile you hated on his face.

He had stayed there watching you say goodbye, watching Clark kiss your cheek before you got on the bus.

And when the bus pulled away, Benjamin was still there, watching you leave.

So you couldn't go home alone.

You couldn't risk him waiting for you on some corner.

You suggested Clark go to dinner with you, only to buy time, only so Benjamin would lose track of you.

Clark accepted without hesitation.

As always.

At the restaurant, after ordering your food, you fell silent for a while.

You stared at your plate without really seeing it, turning the silverware between your fingers.

Clark didn't rush you.

Clark waited.

Patient as always.

His large hands resting on the table, his clear eyes fixed on you.

Until you gathered your courage and started talking.

You told him everything.

Everything you had felt.

Everything you had thought.

All the fear you had kept inside for weeks.

When you finished, you lowered your gaze and felt your eyes fill with tears.

"I'm sorry," you said, your voice tiny, as if all the blame belonged to you.

Clark was silent for a moment.

You saw him shake his head slowly, as though he was processing what you had told him.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked.

His voice didn't sound angry.

Only a little sad.

A little worried.

You looked at him, and he looked back at you with those eyes that seemed to see everything.

"I could have gone downstairs with you. I could have come looking for you. I could have walked with you every time you had to go to the editors' floor. You didn't have to do it alone."

"I thought I'd cause problems for you," you said, looking back down at your untouched plate.

The food was getting cold, but you weren't hungry.

"Even though I'm basically going to cause you worse problems than I would have if I'd just told you. Because now you're caught up in a lie, and if Benjamin finds out, he'll hate you too."

Clark didn't say anything, so you kept talking.

You told him what Benjamin had said many times, almost like a broken record.

That he had worked at the newspaper for four years.

That he knew everyone.

That the bosses trusted him.

One year longer than Clark.

Three years longer than you.

And you had thought that if he got angry, if you rejected him directly, he would file a false complaint.

That he would make something up about you.

And everyone would believe him because he had been there longer.

Because people knew him.

Because he had spent more time drinking coffee from the same machine and greeting the same coworkers.

"But if you didn't feel comfortable, you should have told me," Clark said again, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

You looked at him.

And then your eyes blurred.

You didn't cry, because you didn't want to cry in a restaurant, but the tears were there, rising without permission.

"And what was that supposed to do?" you asked, your voice sounding a little higher than usual.

Clark looked at you without understanding, so you continued.

"I... I always thought about what I would do if something like this ever happened to me. Always. Since I was a little girl, since I started working, I had thought about it thousands of times. I told myself I would defend myself. That I wouldn't stay silent. That I wouldn't let anyone make me feel small. That if a man ever crossed a line with me, I would stand firm and tell him no."

You took a breath and felt your hands trembling.

You placed them on the table, hiding them behind the plate so Clark wouldn't see.

But he had already seen them.

He saw everything.

"But when it started, when he came close to me, when he took advantage of the chance to get into the elevator when there was no one else around, I just froze," you said, your voice cracking slightly at the end. "I didn't know what to do. I was afraid. Afraid he would do something to me. Afraid I'd get fired. Afraid nobody would believe me. And it was a miracle that every time something happened, someone appeared at just the right moment. Lois, Cat, Jimmy, even you... even you. Someone always appeared, and he would back off. But if nobody had appeared... I don't know what would have happened."

"I'm sorry," you repeated again.

As if it were all your fault.

As if being frightened had been a mistake.

Clark shook his head.

Firmly.

From side to side.

Then his hands reached across the table to touch yours.

He took them carefully, with that gentleness he seemed to carry into everything, and squeezed them lightly.

"It's not your fault," Clark said.

His voice was firm.

Certain.

As if there was no room for doubt.

You looked at him, and he held your gaze without blinking.

"What he's doing has no justification. It's disrespectful, and he knows very well that he's making you uncomfortable. It's easy to tell when someone doesn't feel safe around you. He knows. He chooses to ignore it."

"Yes," you whispered, your throat tight.

"If you asked me for help, it's because you feel safe with me," Clark said, a small smile appearing on his face. "And I won't hesitate to protect you. For as long as you need me to pretend, I'll pretend. For as long as you need me by your side, I'll be there. I'm not leaving you alone with him again."

Your cheeks turned red.

You couldn't help it.

Clark's words entered through your ears and went straight to your heart, and your heart began beating faster, as if it had swallowed an entire cup of strong coffee.

You smiled.

A small but genuine smile.

And you thanked him with your eyes because, in that moment, the words wouldn't come.

And Clark followed through.

Clark had absolutely no problem pretending.

The very next morning, when you reached the corner before entering the Planet, he was already there waiting for you.

He saw you approaching and immediately straightened up, as if he had been rehearsing something in his head.

"Should we go in holding hands?" he asked.

His voice sounded slightly uncertain.

Slightly nervous.

You looked at him, and he fell silent for a moment, as though he were searching for the right words.

"It's just that I've never..." He paused awkwardly. "Well, I have. Years ago. But it's been a very long time."

That was how you learned Clark hadn't been in a serious relationship for quite a while.

You couldn't really picture Clark dating anyone.

He was so private.

So quiet about his personal life.

It almost felt as though he had always been alone.

And that made you feel a little sad for him.

But it also gave you a little hope.

Though you buried that hope deep inside yourself, where it wouldn't cause trouble.

"That's fine," you said, offering him your hand.

Clark took it.

His hand was warm.

Large.

His fingers wrapped carefully around yours as though you were something fragile that could break.

They entered the Daily Planet that way, hand in hand, walking together through the lobby.

They rode the elevator together, and every pair of eyes immediately landed on the two of you.

Some people smiled.

Others raised their eyebrows in surprise.

One of the receptionists even congratulated you as if you'd gotten engaged.

You blushed.

But you didn't let go of his hand.

You acted as usual.

You reached your floor.

Each of you went to your desk.

You focused on sending the photographs you had edited the previous day.

But it didn't take long before an email arrived.

The moment you saw it appear on your screen, that familiar knot tightened in your stomach.

"Is it him?" Clark asked from his desk, as though he had somehow felt your fear from across the room.

You looked at him and nodded silently.

Clark stood up.

He walked over and offered you his hand again.

You took the memory card containing the photographs.

He took the memory card with his article.

And together, you went downstairs to the editors' floor.

The moment they arrived, Benjamin almost turned in his chair.

He made a motion as though he were about to stand and approach them.

But he stopped himself.

Instead, he remained seated, fingers resting on his keyboard, watching them through narrowed eyes.

You could practically feel him judging.

Feel his gaze moving to Clark's hand wrapped around yours.

Feel the way he rolled his eyes as though the whole thing were ridiculous.

Clark paid him no attention.

He walked over to the submission desk, placed his memory card beside yours, and with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, said,

"I'd appreciate receiving the emails as well. I think they've only been going to my girlfriend."

Benjamin's jaw tightened.

He didn't say anything.

He simply nodded once.

Quickly.

As though he wanted you both gone as soon as possible.

You squeezed Clark's hand.

Then the two of you walked away at an unhurried pace.

Not rushing.

Not giving Benjamin the satisfaction of seeing you flee.

When you reached the hallway, when nobody was watching anymore, you finally released a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

You looked at Clark.

He looked back at you.

And for a second—

Just one second—

His eyes lingered on yours as though there was something else he wanted to say.

But he didn't.

He simply smiled.

Gave your hand one more gentle squeeze.

And together, you walked back upstairs.

After that, everything seemed calmer.

The weeks passed.

And the lie slowly became routine.

Like a new piece of clothing that feels strange at first but eventually becomes so familiar that you forget you're wearing it.

The two of you started going to lunch together.

You sat at the table in the back where fewer people gathered.

You shared your lunches without anyone bothering you.

You left the building hand in hand.

And Clark would stay with you at the bus stop, glancing around carefully, making sure Benjamin didn't suddenly appear.

Sometimes he even walked part of the way home with you.

Only for a few blocks.

Never all the way.

Because he didn't want Benjamin to know exactly where you lived.

He said Benjamin might follow you.

That it wasn't worth the risk.

You thanked him every time.

And Clark would simply smile and tell you it wasn't a problem.

But when his hand slipped from yours—

When it was time to separate at the corner—

When he walked toward his apartment and you headed toward yours—

You felt the cold.

The cold in your fingers.

The cold in your palm.

The cold of being alone again after spending the entire day with him.

It was a strange kind of cold.

The sort that didn't come from the air.

The sort that came from somewhere deep inside.

And it made you press your hand against your chest as though you could somehow keep Clark's warmth trapped between your fingers.

Because you had learned how to be with him.

Because the thought that the lie would eventually come to an end left you frozen.

And that happened because, perhaps, you longed for it to be real.

Not just a favor.

Not just help.

Not just a lie.

But something real.

Something that belonged to both of you.

Three weeks.

They had been doing this for three whole weeks.

And Clark had made those weeks so charming that sometimes you forgot it was all a lie.

For a moment, when he smiled at you from across the desks, or handed you a freshly made coffee without you even having to ask, or when his fingers laced with yours as you walked down the stairs, it felt real.

Like you were actually dating.

Like you actually cared about each other.

Like all of this would actually last forever.

But then you remembered it was a favor.

That Clark was kind to everyone.

That there was nothing special about the way he treated you.

And the cold returned.

They had thought a month would be enough.

One month of lies.

One month of fake kisses and intertwined hands.

And Benjamin would get bored and finally leave you alone.

That had been the plan.

But Benjamin didn't get bored.

Benjamin didn't give up.

If anything, the lie seemed to entertain him even more.

Because now he wasn't just bothering you.

Now he was making jokes.

And his jokes weren't funny.

They were the kind of jokes that made you freeze.

The kind that stole the air from your lungs.

The kind that made you grit your teeth to stop yourself from saying something you'd regret later.

One day, while everyone was at their desks, you and Clark were drinking coffee and Lois was flipping through a newspaper a few desks away, Benjamin approached with his mug in hand and that smile you hated with every fiber of your being.

He leaned casually against your desk.

Right in front of you.

And spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.

"Well, when Clark breaks your heart, please come to me. I actually know how to treat a woman."

He laughed as if he had said something incredibly clever.

And your blood ran cold.

Lois looked at him with such obvious irritation that it seemed like sparks might shoot from her eyes.

She opened her mouth, undoubtedly preparing a very colorful insult.

But she never got the chance.

Because at that moment, you felt your chair move.

Clark had grabbed the backrest and gently pulled you closer to him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Then you felt his hand settle against your waist.

His palm rested there, fingers spread, firm but never tight.

The warmth of his touch traveled through your clothes and straight to your skin.

It was a calm touch.

The kind that didn't say you're mine.

The kind that said,

It's okay. I'm here.

And it worked.

Every time Benjamin tried to make you uncomfortable, Clark appeared with a gesture like that.

And it felt as though the fear slowly dissolved.

Like a reward after a long week.

Like an unexpected gift that made you smile inside.

But it wasn't a possessive touch.

Clark never took advantage.

Never put his hands where they shouldn't be.

Never held you too tightly.

Never lingered longer than necessary.

It was simply a hand on your waist.

Steady.

Comforting.

The kind of touch that said,

I'm here. You're not alone.

And even though you knew it was part of the act—

Even though you knew he was only doing it to make Benjamin leave—

You still liked it.

Far too much.

"Then you'll have to wait a little longer," Clark said.

His voice was so calm it sounded as though he were discussing the weather.

"Maybe a few more months. Or years. Unless we end up getting married, of course."

The sentence made you go pale.

Married.

He had said married.

Your heart lurched so violently you thought it might leap right out of your chest.

You stared at Clark with wide eyes.

But he was still looking at Benjamin with that polite smile that wasn't entirely polite.

From Jimmy's desk came an explosive coughing fit, as if someone had choked on their own breath.

Benjamin's eyes widened too.

And for a second—

Just one second—

You saw him caught completely off guard.

Speechless.

Clark didn't give him time to recover.

He turned toward you.

Leaned slightly closer.

And looked at you with such gentle eyes that they almost hurt.

"Ready for lunch?" he asked.

With his free hand, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.

Then tucked it behind your ear with a tenderness that sent a shiver across your skin.

"Yes," you answered.

Your voice came out much higher than you intended.

But you smiled.

A real smile.

The kind that appeared without permission.

You grabbed your purse with trembling hands.

Clark took your hand.

He held it as naturally as though he'd done it a thousand times before.

And perhaps he had.

Three weeks of holding your hand had already turned into habit.

The habit of taking your hand.

The habit of walking beside you.

The habit of making you feel safe.

He pulled you gently to his side and draped an arm across your shoulders in a loose embrace.

Then he walked away with you toward the elevator.

Benjamin remained behind.

Coffee mug still in hand.

Expression twisted.

But you didn't look back.

You didn't want to see him.

You only wanted to leave with Clark.

When the elevator doors closed behind you and you were finally alone, Clark immediately stepped away.

It was almost as though he had been waiting for privacy to drop the act.

One step.

Then another.

He adjusted his glasses with a finger.

His cheeks were slightly pink.

And his smile looked much more shy than before.

"I hope I didn't overwhelm you," he said immediately, speaking a little faster than usual.

"The marriage thing, I mean. That was too much, wasn't it? I'm sorry. It just slipped out. I wanted him to leave already, and I couldn't think of anything else to say, and—"

"If this lie keeps going," you interrupted, a laugh escaping your chest, "we're going to have to adopt children and pretend they're ours."

Clark looked at you with wide eyes.

For a second, you worried you had said something incredibly stupid.

But then he laughed too.

A soft, warm laugh.

And his entire face relaxed.

"We could name the girl Sophia," he suggested, as though he were being completely serious.

You laughed.

A real laugh.

The kind that bent your body forward and made your stomach hurt.

"Sophia?" you repeated between giggles.

"It's a pretty name," Clark said with a shrug.

"And if it's a boy," you replied, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye, "we can name him Derek. Like Derek Shepherd."

Clark nodded.

His smile was so wide that dimples appeared in his cheeks.

"Derek Kent," he said, testing the name despite the fact that it didn't sound quite right.

He was obviously lying.

And you laughed again.

"Sounds good."

"We still have time to think about it," you suggested.

And both of you smiled.

Neither of you willing to admit how frighteningly easy it was becoming to imagine a future that was supposed to be fake.

Then came the newsroom party.

Clark told you about it the day before, during your "fake couple dinner", because that was normal now, wasn't it?

It was normal for the two of you to leave work together and go to the Italian restaurant afterward, to ask for the same table as always, to share pasta and talk about your days as if you had been doing it for years.

It didn't even feel strange anymore.

It was part of the routine, like going down to the editors' floor or getting coffee from the machine in the hallway.

But that night, while you watched Clark move the silverware with his large hands, something wouldn't leave you alone.

Something had been eating away at you from the inside for days, and you knew you had to say it.

"Clark," you began, letting your fingers fall onto the table, gently tapping the checkered tablecloth. "Do you think this is still okay?"

He lifted his gaze from his plate.

There was a little sauce at the corner of his mouth, barely visible, and you thought you should tell him so he could wipe it away, but you didn't.

You just kept looking at him.

Waiting.

"Because at the end of the day, we're..." You tried to find the right words, the ones that wouldn't sound so harsh, the ones that wouldn't make him defensive.

But you couldn't find them.

So you told the truth, even though the truth hurt a little.

"Lying."

Clark didn't say anything at first.

He only placed his silverware on the table, slowly, and leaned back against his chair.

He looked at you with those clear eyes that seemed to see beyond what you wanted to show him.

And you felt your stomach twist, because yes, of course you were lying.

Pretending was hard.

It was hard to wake up every morning and remember that everything you did, every kiss on the cheek, every hand held, every time he brushed your hair away from your face, was part of a show.

The hard part wasn't acting for everyone else.

The hard part was acting for yourself.

Because that lie was starting to make you feel strange around Clark.

But not strange in an uncomfortable way.

Not the kind that made you want to run away.

It was a different kind of strange.

The kind that made you wonder things you shouldn't be wondering.

Like whether Clark could ever truly fall in love with someone like you.

Because sometimes, in the way he looked at you, in how gentle his voice was when he asked how you had slept, in how natural it felt to have his hand on your waist, for one second you believed it was real.

You believed he felt something too.

But then came the question.

The question that always arrived like a cold shower:

And you? Did you believe Clark could fall in love with you?

The answer was no.

You didn't believe it.

Because Clark was kind to everyone.

Because Clark treated the cleaning lady with the same sweetness he showed you.

Because Clark didn't see you as someone special, only as one more person on his list of people to help.

And you weren't a reporter.

You didn't have interesting opinions like the people who wrote articles did.

You didn't know how to talk about politics or economics or the important things happening in the world.

You only took pictures.

You hid behind a camera and captured moments, but when someone asked for your opinion, when someone asked what you truly thought, your words got tangled and you either said something silly or stayed quiet.

You didn't have a well-formed opinion, and that made you feel strange.

As if you didn't quite fit there.

As if you were a guest who had stayed longer than she should have.

So continuing with that lie could only hurt you.

You knew that.

Every day you spent with Clark, every kind gesture he made for you, every time you laughed together, you were digging a deeper hole.

A hole that would hurt to climb out of later.

Because the lie was going to end.

It had to end.

And when it ended, Clark would still be Clark, kind to everyone, and you would be just another coworker.

A photographer he had once pretended to date.

And nothing more.

Clark smiled.

Despite everything, he smiled.

And that smile broke your heart a little because you couldn't read what he was feeling.

It was impossible.

His face was like a closed book, one with no title on the cover.

Did he feel anything after pretending for so long?

Or was this just another favor to him, like helping Steve with an article or walking Zoe to the printer?

You didn't know.

And not knowing was the worst part.

"Then we won't go to the party together," Clark said, and his voice sounded different, lower, as if he had made a decision that cost him something.

You stared at him with wide eyes.

You hadn't expected that.

You thought he would say you should keep pretending a little longer, that you should endure it until Benjamin finally got tired.

But no.

He chose the first option.

Separation.

And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.

"Well..." you began, but the words got stuck in your throat.

And then you knew.

You knew that what you were about to say was probably the reason you had decided to end all of this.

Because you couldn't keep going.

Because every day you spent falling a little more in love with him, every fake caress that made your heart race, was a broken promise.

And you didn't want to reach the point where you couldn't look at him without crying.

So you took a deep breath, clenched your hands under the table so he wouldn't see them trembling, and said it.

"I heard Sarah say she liked you."

Clark went still.

He blinked twice.

Three times.

As if he hadn't heard you correctly.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

You felt your throat burn, but you continued, even though it hurt to say, even though every syllable felt like swallowing ground glass.

"The other day, in the break room. She was talking to Marta and said she's wanted you for a while."

You lowered your gaze to your plate, to the pasta you barely wanted to eat anymore.

"Maybe you should invite her. To the party, I mean. Or out. Whatever you want."

Clark didn't answer right away.

He looked at you with an expression you couldn't decipher, something between confusion and surprise.

Then, after a silence that felt eternal, he spoke.

"So soon?" he asked, his voice strange, as though he were thinking out loud.

You lifted your head and looked at him in confusion.

"Soon?"

"Yes," Clark said, shaking his head as though what you had just said was absurd. "We're supposed to be breaking up today, aren't we? So... finding a date for Saturday's gathering wouldn't be very appropriate. Especially if I'm going to be devastated over you."

You laughed.

You couldn't help it.

A small, trembling laugh that came from deep inside your chest.

It made you laugh that he said "devastated," as if he were a character in an old movie, as if it truly mattered to him that people didn't think badly of him.

But you also laughed because it was sweet.

Because even though everything was fake, even though there were no real feelings behind his words, he wanted to be loyal to you.

He wanted to protect the lie until the very last moment, for you, so you wouldn't look bad.

And somehow, that hurt more than if he had said yes, that he was going to invite Sarah.

"Are you going with someone?" Clark asked, tilting his head to one side.

You shrugged, pretending you didn't care, even though inside you felt as if something you couldn't name was collapsing.

"Well, I can be the one who cries over you. That way you can invite whoever you want without it looking bad."

Clark frowned slightly, as though he didn't like the idea.

"Besides," you continued, speaking faster so you wouldn't have time to regret it, "I've already interfered enough in your life. Sarah probably wanted to go out with you for a while, and because of me, because of my lie, she couldn't. It isn't fair to her. Or to you."

"No," Clark said suddenly, with a firmness that surprised you.

He shook his head from side to side, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs.

"You can't cry over a man. I mean... you're far too beautiful to cry over anyone."

He fell silent as soon as he finished the sentence, as though he had only just realized what he had said.

His cheeks turned red.

Truly red.

He pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger.

Looked down.

Looked up.

Looked down again.

And a quiet, awkward "right?" escaped his lips in a whisper.

You laughed.

Again.

But this laugh was different.

Softer.

Warmer.

You laughed because Clark had blushed like a teenager, because he had said something so lovely without meaning to, because for one second, just one second, it seemed like his words weren't part of the show.

But then you thought you were exaggerating.

That surely he was just being kind.

That you shouldn't read more into it than there was.

So you stored that sentence in a secret place inside your heart, in that little drawer where you kept the things that made you happy but that you couldn't take out.

"Then we'll just go separately," you said, shrugging again as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "That way everyone will know we've broken up. And that's it. End of the lie."

"And what will happen with the editor?" Clark asked, his voice turning serious again. "Benjamin. Once he knows we're no longer together, he'll start bothering you again."

"I guess I'll face it," you said, and this time you didn't laugh.

Because that wasn't funny.

"And if it gets worse, I'll tell Perry. I don't know if anything will come of it, I don't know if they'll believe me, but maybe that's better than always dodging him, hiding behind other people, feeling afraid all the time."

Clark nodded slowly, his face serious.

He said nothing, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours for a long while, as if he were committing your face to memory.

"Thank you, Clark," you said, and this time your voice came out steadier.

A smile formed on your lips, the kind that appears when something hurts but you're still grateful.

"It was the best fake relationship I've ever had. Better than the real ones, even."

Clark smiled too, and that smile reached your soul.

It was sincere, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made people look even more beautiful.

"I only did the basics," he said, shrugging as if it wasn't a big deal. "What every man is supposed to do. Treat a woman well, take care of her, listen to her. I didn't do anything extraordinary."

You laughed softly and shook your head.

"To you, it's basic. To others, it isn't. To others, that's too much."

Neither of you said anything else after that.

You finished dinner in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need words.

Clark paid the bill, as always, and walked you to the entrance of your building.

You walked slowly, without rushing, your hands tucked into your pockets so you wouldn't be tempted to hold them.

Because there was no need anymore.

The lie had ended.

When you arrived, Clark stopped on the sidewalk, right before the steps leading up to your door.

He slid his hands into his pants pockets and looked at you with a slightly sad smile.

Or maybe that was your imagination.

Maybe you were only seeing what you wanted to see.

"Well," Clark said, moving his head as though he didn't quite know what to do with his body now that he couldn't kiss you goodbye. "Take care. And if anything happens, if Benjamin bothers you again, tell me. It doesn't matter if we're not a fake couple anymore. Tell me anyway."

"Okay," you said, a knot in your throat making it hard to speak properly. "Thank you for everything, Clark. Truly."

Clark nodded.

He took one step back.

Then another.

And turned to leave.

He walked a few meters away, hands still in his pockets, head lowered.

You stayed there watching him, watching as he moved farther away, as he became smaller in the empty street.

Your heart was beating hard.

Too hard.

And something in your chest begged you to call out to him, to tell him not to leave, to tell him you didn't want it to end.

But you didn't.

You stayed silent, arms crossed over your chest, watching Clark disappear around the corner.

And when he finally vanished, when only the echo of his footsteps remained on the asphalt, you felt the cold again.

The same cold as always.

Only bigger.

Heavier.

As if the entire winter had settled inside you.

You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, opened the door to your apartment, locked it behind you, and collapsed onto the couch without even turning on the light.

The darkness wrapped around you like a blanket.

And you stayed there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Clark.

About his smile.

About his hand on your waist.

About the way he said your name.

About how he had told you that you were far too beautiful to cry over anyone.

And then, before you could do anything to stop it, one tear slipped from your eye.

Then another.

And another.

You cried over Clark, even though he had told you not to.

You cried because the lie had ended, but the real feelings were still there, large and heavy and impossible to ignore.

You cried because you liked Clark.

Because you had liked him since the first coffee he offered you.

And now, after a month and two weeks of fake kisses and held hands, you liked him even more.

The next day, you arrived at the Planet.

The building looked the same as always, with those high walls and that smell of paper and coffee you already knew by heart.

You rode the elevator up, clutching your purse against your chest, feeling the eyes of people coming in and out on every floor.

You were calm.

Or at least, you were trying to be.

Inside, you still had that knot in your stomach, the one that didn't go away no matter how deeply you breathed or how hard you tried to think of pretty things.

The elevator opened on the top floor.

That was where they usually placed the crowded tables for social events, those folding metal tables that were always scratched and covered in coffee stains.

But not today.

Today, everything was different.

The tables were large and round, covered with white tablecloths that fell all the way to the floor.

There were flowers in the center.

Real flowers.

The kind that smelled lovely and clearly cost money.

The chairs had fabric covers and bows tied around the backs, and small lights had been hung on the walls, twinkling like stars.

Everything looked elegant.

Beautiful.

As if someone had spent the entire night decorating the room.

You walked through the entrance, and everyone looked at you.

There was curiosity in their eyes.

It was obvious from miles away.

Some people arched their brows.

Others whispered something into the ear of the person beside them.

And a woman from accounting looked you up and down as though she were doing mental calculations.

You knew why.

You knew it was obvious what had happened when they saw Clark hadn't arrived with you.

It gave the impression that a breakup had occurred.

So you sighed, squared your shoulders, and walked toward the table with the drinks and food.

You weren't going to hide.

You weren't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you uncomfortable.

There was everything on the table.

Sandwiches cut into triangles, cups filled with colorful juices, trays of cookies and little cakes, and a pile of fried things you absolutely loved.

You grabbed a plastic plate, one of those thin white ones that bends if you put too much weight on it, and served yourself some chopped fries.

You looked at them for a moment, took a bite of one, and chewed slowly as you watched the people around you laugh and talk.

"I knew it," a voice said beside you.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

You knew that voice.

You hated it with your entire soul.

You turned your head, and there was Benjamin, wearing his gray suit and that crooked smile, leaning against the table as if he owned the place.

You looked at him without speaking, only with your eyes, and felt the fries get stuck in your throat.

"It's just that you weren't Kent's type," he said.

His eyes moved over your face, up and down, as though he were measuring you, as though you were a trophy he had lost.

"You're more... I don't know. He seems nerdier, more boring. I told you I could be more fun."

He took one step closer.

Then another.

His voice became lower, more intimate, as if the two of you were alone in the room despite the hundreds of people around you.

You felt your skin prickle.

Felt your hands begin to tremble.

But this time, you didn't freeze.

This time, you moved your foot.

One step back.

Then two.

You moved away from him as if he were fire that could burn you.

"Benjamin," you said, and your voice came out firmer than you felt, "even if I left Clark and every man in the world disappeared, I would never, not even if I were born again, go out with you. So please, be more professional."

The man stared at you.

He blinked twice, as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard.

Around you, a few people turned to look.

A girl from human resources stopped eating her little cake and stared.

A guy from sports raised an eyebrow.

You had drawn attention.

But you didn't care.

You weren't going to stay quiet this time.

"You've become quite insolent," Benjamin said, and his voice was no longer soft.

It had an edge now.

A sharpness that made you clench your teeth.

"Do you call a woman insolent for trying to stop being harassed by a man who refuses to leave her alone?" you asked.

And even though you were trembling with fear inside, even though you felt like your legs might give out beneath you, you kept talking.

He couldn't do anything to you.

Not with so many people around.

Not in the middle of the party.

Maybe on Monday.

Maybe on Monday, when you were alone, he would find a way to retaliate.

But not today.

Today, you were safe.

"What a strange concept of kindness you have."

Benjamin smiled.

But it wasn't a pleasant smile.

It was the kind of smile people wear when they're planning something ugly.

He crossed his arms and leaned slightly toward you, just enough for you to feel his breath.

"Did creating a fake relationship with Clark Kent make you think you could make me jealous?" he asked, his voice a venomous whisper. "You're a—"

He never finished the word.

"Corvin."

Clark's voice arrived like thunder in the middle of the silence.

You turned your head and saw him walking toward you with long, firm steps.

He was wearing his blue suit, the one that suited him best, and his glasses caught the light from the party.

He wasn't smiling.

His face was serious.

More serious than you had ever seen it.

He came to your side, and his hand found your waist, right where he always placed it, but this time the touch wasn't for pretending.

It was to protect you.

You felt it in the way his fingers tightened slightly.

In the way he pulled you against his side as if to say,

This girl is with me.

"It's rude to disrespect a woman," Clark said, his voice calm but firm.

He wasn't shouting.

He didn't need to.

His height and serious expression were enough.

"Disrespect her with the truth?" Benjamin asked, shrugging one shoulder as if he couldn't care less. "I was only telling her things as they are."

"Well," Clark said.

And then he smiled.

But it wasn't a kind smile.

It was a knowing smile.

The kind of smile someone wears when they have an ace up their sleeve.

"You said the same thing to your secretary. And to the editor under your supervision. And to Lily's photographer. And to the receptionist downstairs."

Benjamin went pale.

His eyes widened slightly, and his mouth twisted as though he had bitten into a lemon.

"And it seems the complaints increased since yesterday," Clark continued, without dropping his smile. "Perry received all of them. Every single one. Signed and dated."

You looked at him in confusion.

Complaints?

What was he talking about?

Benjamin clenched his fists and opened his mouth to say something, but Clark didn't give him the chance.

"Now, please," he said, his voice turning colder, "show some respect to my girlfriend."

He held you by the waist and guided you away from there.

You walked quickly toward a corner of the room, behind a column where the others' gazes couldn't reach.

You were silent, your heart pounding in your ears, trying to process what had just happened.

"Clark..." you said when you finally stopped.

He positioned himself in front of you, blocking your body with his, and although his face was serious, his eyes held a different kind of brightness.

He was still looking toward where Benjamin had remained, with an anger he could barely contain.

"They're going to fire him," Clark said, his voice lower now, as though he didn't want anyone else to hear. "Starting tomorrow. Perry received the complaints from every woman he harassed. Not just the ones from the Planet, but also from other places where he worked before."

You stared at him, unable to understand.

Your eyes widened, and your mouth went dry.

"I spoke to each of them," Clark continued.

And now he did look at you, directly in the eyes.

"I convinced them to file harassment complaints. I told them they weren't alone, that if they all spoke together, nobody would be able to silence them. Cat and Lois are handling all the paperwork for the formal reports."

You drew in a breath.

The air entered your lungs as though you were breathing for the first time in months.

"Yours is still missing, of course," Clark said, his voice softening a little. "Only if you want to file it. I'll be your witness. I saw everything. I heard everything. I was there."

"Thank you, Clark," you whispered.

The words came out small, almost voiceless, because your throat had tightened again.

But this time, it wasn't from fear.

It was from relief.

From a happiness so enormous it almost hurt.

"I guess there's no need to pretend anymore."

Clark nodded.

A small smile appeared on his face, but his eyes were still serious, as if he were waiting for something else.

"Now you can go out with Sarah," you added.

And you meant it.

It hurt to say, but it was the right thing.

The lie was over.

Clark no longer had any obligation to you.

He could live his life.

Go out with whoever he wanted.

Be happy without having to worry about inventing fake kisses and embraces.

But Clark tilted his head.

He wrinkled his nose as though he had smelled something unpleasant, and his brows drew together in a small gesture of confusion.

"Pretend?" he asked, as if the word didn't make sense.

You stared at him, not understanding.

And then he took a deep breath, pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger, and continued speaking.

"I... didn't pretend."

Your heart stopped.

Or maybe it started beating far too fast.

You weren't sure.

"We pretended to have a three-month relationship," Clark said, his words coming slowly, as if he were choosing each one carefully. "That's true. But I didn't pretend when I said I liked you in front of everyone. That... that was true."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

Clark looked down for a moment. He adjusted his glasses again even though they didn't need adjusting, and when he looked back at you, his cheeks were red.

Red like the flowers decorating the tables.

"I just didn't want you to feel uncomfortable," he continued, his voice so quiet it was almost impossible to hear. "I waited for all of this to be over so I could... so I could tell you. So you'd know it wasn't just a favor. At least not for me. That I..."

He paused.

Swallowed hard.

You watched his lips move, and suddenly it felt impossible to breathe.

"I like you," he finally said. "Not since a month ago, when we started all of this. No. I..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if remembering something.

When he opened them again, there was a light in them you had never seen before.

"Four months ago," he said precisely.

The certainty in his voice stole your breath away.

"Exactly. Monday, June 5th. You were sitting at your desk, and I was walking by to take some paperwork to printing. You looked at me and said you liked my glasses."

A smile slipped onto your face.

You remembered that day.

It had been a rainy Monday, one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong. You had arrived soaked and in a terrible mood.

But Clark had walked over with his glasses slightly crooked, and without thinking, you had told him they looked good on him.

That they suited him.

That was all.

Just a silly comment, the kind people make without giving it any importance.

But he had remembered it.

Four months later.

With the exact date and everything.

"I wasn't sure if you were just being nice," you said, your voice rough, as though you were about to cry, but not from sadness. "I thought there was no way you could like me. That you were too good for someone like me."

"Oh, Clark."

This time your eyes filled with tears.

Good tears.

"I like you so much. So, so much."

Clark's eyes lit up.

They became bright, as though someone had switched on a little light inside them.

His hands trembled slightly at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them.

Carefully.

So incredibly carefully.

As though you were touching something fragile.

You tugged lightly on his jacket.

Your fingers curled around the lapels, pulling him gently toward you.

Clark understood.

Clark leaned down.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

Until his nose brushed against yours.

His eyes were still open, staring at you as though he couldn't quite believe this was happening.

And then his lips touched yours.

It wasn't one of the quick kisses you exchanged for Benjamin's benefit.

It wasn't a polite brush against your cheek.

It was a real kiss.

The kind of kiss given wholeheartedly.

The kind that carried every feeling that had been left unsaid.

Clark's hand returned to your waist, but this time it wasn't to protect you from a harasser.

It was to keep you close.

To hold on to you.

And you wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, letting yourself melt into him.

Maybe, after all, neither of you had ever been pretending.

Maybe all this time, without realizing it, you had been building something real.

A relationship that had begun quietly.

The kind that grows slowly, like a plant putting down roots long before anyone notices the flowers.

A relationship that was now, finally, more real than any relationship you had ever had before.

Clark pulled back just enough to catch his breath.

Then he looked at you with a smile so wide that dimples appeared in his cheeks.

"So," he said, his voice slightly rough, "am I still your boyfriend?"

You laughed.

A laugh that came straight from your soul.

Bright.

Free.

"Yes," you said.

And then you kissed him again.

"Yes. Of course you are."

And behind the column, while the lights twinkled overhead, while people laughed and music played softly in the background, the two of you stayed wrapped in each other's arms for a long time.

No lies.

No fear.

Just you and Clark.

Finally.

Being honest.

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