Mikaelson lover

Oh you’re angry all right. He wakes in an alleyway, sun in his eyes and the toe of your boot pushing against his temple. You've got your arms crossed in a huff, brow furrowed, but he can’t help but see you as a deity, a jewel glimmering in the scum of King’s Landing. He’s pleased to see a guard with you, he’s well aware of what can happen in the places he frequents. You kick him again, gentle but enough for him to know he needs to rise. You take him back to the palace, berating him with every step. Does he know how dangerous it is for a Prince to be out on his own? Does he have no respect for you? What would you do if something happened to him? Daeron can’t seem to find it in him to be upset; he can almost see the steam coming out of your ears, but your voice is so captivating and your glare is so beautiful and you care. Care for the dirty, disheveled, drunk of a Prince, enough to stomp out into the city to find him when he didn’t come home. His heart hurts. How is he supposed to let you go now? 

You drag him back to your chambers, slamming the door and ordering the maid to draw a bath. Daeron listens when you tell him to strip, sinking into the hot water. It surprises him when you sit beside the tub, scrubbing his hair and rubbing the soap into his skin. His voice is quiet, hoarse, the first words he’s spoken since you found him:

“You should go.” 

You pause momentarily, hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

It's your tough love that grounds him. He’s not perfect; he continues to drink, he’s certainly not the Prince he thinks you deserve, but he does try. When you tell him he will join you at tea, he’s pulling himself together enough to find you in the gardens. He's got dark rings around his eyes and a splitting headache, but you look so pleased that he’s there that he finds it in himself to ignore the pain. It's in these moments he forgets he's trying to distance himself. It's selfish, but his heart won’t let him part from you. 

One night in bed you tell him you’ve fallen in love with him.

Daeron’s in your arms, your lips mumbling against his shoulder. He can’t see your face, his back tucked against your chest, but he can feel your soft smile on his skin. Tears well in his eyes, but he wills them to stay put as he turns over. Nose to nose, he searches for any sign of discomfort, of an untruth in your words, but you're looking at him with kinder eyes than he deserves. He kisses you desperately, starving and grabbing at you. He whispers his confession back against your mouth, tears finally falling and wetting your cheeks.  

Maekar:

Maekar is decidedly against the notion of taking a wife. The rebellion is over, he’s come back a hero, and a different man than he was before: physically and mentally. His back aches when he sits for too long, his skin is laced with more scars than he left with, and he carries himself with the weight of a man much older than he really is. So when his mother insists on a political match, he decides he won’t be sugarcoating himself for some prim lady. The crassness, the brutality, the cold stare and hard set of his brow; they'd given him the esteem of his fellow soldiers on the battlefield, surely they would give him an advantage in his marriage. 

Cut to him seeing you across the garden for the first time; you’re speaking earnestly with Myriah, sparkling in the afternoon sun, and he forgets, momentarily, how to breathe. It's not until Baelor claps him on the back with a laugh that he realizes he’s staring. He quickly squares his shoulders, tilting up his chin in an attempt to seem, what, princely? Maekar doesn’t really know, but his feet are moving him toward you and he’s hoping to the gods that his face isn’t red. Baelor watches with a fond laugh and a shake of his head. 

Maekar has prepared himself for the usual way conversations with ladies go. Polite, formal introductions, curtsies and clipped smiles, eyes lingering on the pox marked skin of his jaw, and then peering around him to eye his oldest brother. You are polite, but not in a way that feels forced for royalty. You curtsey, and offer your hand for him to kiss. You smile, and it's so bright he can barely look at it for too long. You do eye his face, the crease between his eyebrows, the scowl, and the pox scars too, but your eyes don’t linger; it's like you’re taking him all in. not once do you look to see if the older Prince is near. Maekar knows his brother is behind him, well within eyesight, but you seem genuinely interested in his short answers to your questions, you watch him closely when you’re looking for a reaction, and you seem pleased when he awkwardly asks you if you’d like to take a turn with him. 

Maekar, to his unyielding surprise, finds having a wife wholly delightful. Someone he can speak his mind with, who listens to his ranting and calls him out on his attitude. A hand on his shoulder when he feels himself getting angry, a grin and a wink when a lord says something stupid and he needs to know someone else heard it. Warmth in his bed- not just for making love, though he does wholeheartedly- but to throw an arm around, tuck under his chin, and keep safe. There is no doubt that he enjoys spoiling you. Often you don’t even ask; he’s already anticipating you needing something, or you liking something, and it appears on your vanity like magic. A fur-lined cloak when the weather turns, a tawny horse when you mention your love of riding, a book on the intricacies of flowers; the glee on your face is worth the gold, the searching, the orders. 

He does this all believing you do not feel the same. There is duty in what he does, he’s good at taking orders, especially from his mother. There are also his own growing affections. Though to some, he’s still the same callous Prince, those that know him cannot deny how smitten he is. Maekar is willing to give you whatever you desire, jewels, castles, dragons (he swears he’ll find a way, if you wish it), without ever thinking you’d return his desire.

When you do tell him you love him, and you’ll have to do it first, it's careless and offhand and sweet as anything. He’s complaining about something a lord said to him in a counsel meeting, lounging on the settee in your chambers. You have your head in his lap, in a way that has him sitting very still, watching him speak through your lashes with a grin. Maekar pauses to take a breath, intent on launching into another tirade about trade disputes, when you laugh, reaching up to pat his cheek and scratch at his stubble.

“Oh, my dear, I love you.” 

There’s no grand declaration, no perfect moment, just you, there, close enough to feel the warmth of your body. He’s suddenly reinterpreting every interaction you’ve shared in the months you’ve been married. It's very much a “We share a bed and take baths together and eat meals sitting beside one another and have no secrets but what are we?”

You immediately know what he’s thinking from the look on his face, and you sit up to wrap your arms around his neck. In an instant, his mouth is on yours, firm and desperate, mumbling something you’re certain is his frantic revelation of his love to you. After all, he’s been saying it through his actions since you met. 

Aerion:

When your marriage to Aerion is announced, the murmurings at court spoke of the terrible fate that had befallen you. A gentle, tender-hearted soul, kind to everyone you met and as lovely as a rose. Surely, they said, the dragon Prince would eat you alive. To the gentry’s astonishment, Aerion takes to you immediately. 

His eyes follow you about the room, piercing lavender through the crowds. He’s never far, a possessive hand gripping your hip, plastered to the small of your back, or, when he feels particularly possessive, gripping the nape of your neck. His family are bewildered by the pair of you; you’re giggling and smiling softly as Aerion whispers in your ear at dinner. What has come over the boy? Maekar turns his head with a grumble when he spots his son’s hand dangerously far up your thigh under the table. 

Some think he’s finally turned a corner, that this genteel, pleasant lady has finally pulled Aerion from the brink. 

That is not the case.

If anything, he has only fallen deeper into his compulsion. You're at a hunt, walking with your hand tucked into his elbow, smiling at confused passerby. You mumble something, softly, about walking so far, the stress of the day, the fatigue in your feat. Immediately, he stops, bending his head down close to your mouth. 

“Tell me, sweetling, shall I find you somewhere to rest?” 

Before you can finish nodding, he’s already snapping his fingers, commanding for a chair to be brought forth for you. He’s adjusting the seat, making sure the pillows are just so, extending his hand for you to sit and straightening your skirts. If you tell him it's too much, that people are staring and it's unprincely to dote on your wife, he’s scoffing. A dragon protects what's his, and what are you if not the dragon’s hoard? 

The day you met, Aerion knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that nothing would come between him and having you. You’d met at a tourney, a celebration of your betrothal to some sniveling Tarly boy. With the exception of knocking other men off their horses, Aerion had been wholly uninterested in any of the fanfare, until the announcement and introductions of the bride-to-be. The Prince perked up on his horse. You stood on the dias, draped in your house colors and smiling to the crowds. He pulled the dragon helm from his head, urging his horse forward and trotting up to you. At his approach, you gave a curtsey, with all the courtly flair fit for a Princess. He bowed his head, extending a hand for you to take. You did, though not without looking back to your parents with confusion. 

“Fair lady, it would be an honor to accept a favor from you.” 

No question, no permission, no asking for a gift, just the careful demand of a Targaryen. You were unsure of what to do; you were to wed another man, but to refuse a Prince would be treasonous, surely. Slowly, you pulled the bow from your hair, releasing the ribbon. Aerion leaned forward, giving you his arm to tie the satin around. The Prince’s voice echoed across the dirt of the field. 

“After I win this tournament, I will take this lady as my bride. Any man who dares to challenge that, can meet me at the lists.” 

It's easy, of course, to fall for a man who treats you like the world was built for you. There's no question that Aerion feels his emotions fully, intense and all-encompassing. 

It's not that he’s kind- he’s not- but there is a tenderness that comes from caring so deeply for someone. 

Dunk:

Dunk never, in all his life, thought he would ever be in a situation where he was given a wife. He’d dreamed as a boy of finding someone, kind and strong and beautiful, to share the work of a hard life, to take care of, to love. The reality of his situation is no shock to him; a poor hedge knight, nary a penny to his name, who sleeps under the stars and travels where the work is needed. 

He saves the heir to a minor house, a young boy with more courage than sense, who’d stepped into a fight he wasn’t prepared for. If not for Dunk, the poor boy would be nothing but a trampled mess, but his Father is so relieved to have his son back that he offers Dunk a wife. His youngest daughter, soft and sweet from years spent in a castle, and suddenly the hedge knight can barely form a sentence. He tries to stutter out a reply, something about being undeserving, his journey no place for a lady, but it’s clear the lord has far too many daughters and is pleased to rid himself of you. 

You’re trepidatious at first, clever and educated but having no idea how to survive in the world. Dunk doesn’t blame you; why would you be happy to hastily wed a destitute traveler? Your hands had shook in the Sept, and he couldn’t help but feel how soft they felt in his larger ones. 

Dunk resolves that he will do everything he can to make you comfortable. Wrapping his ratty cloak around your shoulders when the wind blows hard, sitting you on a log while he builds a fire, only touching you to help you from the horse or tie your boots. He thinks this is him being helpful, a good husband, but it’s honestly driving you crazy. Does he think you can’t figure out how to tie a horse to a tree? Or wash bedding in the river? You try your best to do things for him, reading to Egg, picking berries, mending his trousers; each time, he looks so positively startled you can’t help but giggle. 

He is completely bewildered. Why are you helping him? He’s dragged you across the Realm, a lovely lady who has no wish to be with him. You can’t understand him, either, never giving you inclination of wanting you closer. 

Finally you break, so fed up with his belief in your incapability to survive. He’s got you sat on a bed roll; you’ve asked him twice if he wants help cooking dinner, but he’s brushed off both attempts with a shrug and a mumble of, “S’no trouble, m’lady.” He’s attempting to shift the pot over the fire, which really should be done by two people, when you snap. 

“Gods above, let me help you. I problemise I’m not as stupid as you clearly think I am.” 

Dunk is utterly shocked, looking up at you with wide eyes and mouth agape. You look angry, your brows furrowed in a way he’s come to find endearing, but he doesn’t understand. Why would he think you’re stupid? You’re far better educated than he is, and you’re certainly better with your words. 

“I- why would I- I’d never think to call you that!” He sputters out. You shake your head. 

“No? Then why won’t you let me do anything? Do you think I can’t learn how to build a fire? Or cook a rabbit?” You reply, exasperated. Dunk stays kneeling, watching you. 

“I- I only thought, well, that a lady ought not worry herself over such tasks,” He bows his head, “I cannot give you what you deserve, but I can ease the trouble of traveling with me.”  

You pause, staring a moment before walking to him and taking his cheeks in your hands. His pretty blue eyes are cut low, focused on the dirt, and you have to tilt his chin up, hands cupping his cheeks. 

“Dunk, my love, listen. I could not have asked for a better husband. You care so much for me, but you must let me help you.” 

You punctuate your confession with a featherlight kiss to his chapped lips. The dopey grin that spreads across his face, and the ruddy pink of his cheeks, are worth the miscommunication. 

“Besides,” You say, brushing the hair from his forehead, “what would I do in that stuffy old castle anyway?”

Baelor:

As the heir to the throne, Baelor is deftly aware of his duty to wed a noble lady and give her sons. He’s respectful to a fault, following the careful rules of society, and how to treat a wife. Offering a hand to you on the stairs, dancing with you at feasts, and gentle intimacy to ensure the continuation of his line. He’s dutiful to your pleasure; making certain you’re comfortable and well cared for. It is all very much like a song, a pretty poem about a valiant knight and his lovely lady, but it's not exactly romantic. At least not yet. 

Baelor is a good man; he’s courteous and humble, polite and gentlemanly, but he’s devoted to his role as the Hand of the King in a way he’s not willing to part with. It disappoints you, at first, to think the perfect Prince you’ve married is uninterested in you. You know it's a blessing, to have a husband who is kind, who keeps his hands gentle and his words soft, but you wish for more. Deeper conversation, secrets only shared between the two of you, a proper ravishing. 

At first, you think you’ve done something wrong. Had you offended him in some way? Were you not clever or graceful or pretty enough? He’d never given you the idea of him being displeased in any way, but he spent so long in that damned tower of the hand that you couldn't help but feel like he was avoiding you. 

The truth, however, is that Baelor doesn’t know how to be anything other than the perfect son. Doing what is asked, going above and beyond, showing the realm that the Dornish-borne Prince is deserving of the crown. If he’s not penning ledgers or reading over correspondence, he feels like he’s not doing enough. If he’s not waking up with the sun, he’s losing precious time he could be trying to fix the many problems that face the Realm. He’s never more pleased than when he’s listening to you talk, or holding you in his arms, or kissing your neck, but there's the ever-looming sense of dread that he can’t seem to shake. 

You have to be the one to reach for him. He finds the note tucked between the pages of a reference book. The flower pressed alongside it immediately tells him it's from you, and the careful script makes him smile. It's short, a few words on missing him at breakfast, but he’s reading and rereading what you’ve given him. Baelor keeps it in a box on his desk, meticulously placed so as not to smudge the ink. As the weeks go by, his collection of little gifts grows. A heart shaped stone, an embroidered ribbon, silly musings about your day, he cherishes each trinket like it's made of gold. When he’s feeling particularly tense, ramblings of the day pressing down on his shoulders, he opens the box and slowly goes through each item. He knows them all by heart, has memorized the words you’ve written for him. 

You’re giddy the first time you find something from him. A ring, glittering gold and studded with a ruby, tucked between your perfume bottle and your hairbrush on your vanity. There's a note, too. Wear it and think of me, my love. A book on the histories, a bird made of folded paper, notes on how lovely you looked when you woke up that morning. Neither of you talk about the gifts when you’re together, neither of you want to break the precious balance, but you can feel the two of you growing closer through the exchanges. 

Instead of immediately rising from the bed in the morning, Baelor lazes in bed after you wake, kissing your forehead and petting your hair. No longer does he take his meals in the solar, you’ve coaxed him into spending a little time away from the dread of work throughout the day. At night, he comes to bed a little earlier, content in tucking his head between your thighs and murmuring his confessions of love. 

Lyonel:

Lyonel is disinterested in having a wife, someone he’s supposed to devote himself to. Why keep yourself from the pleasures of life just because your parents say you must marry? His opinion changes slightly once you meet, not demure and genteel but bright, feisty, interesting, immediately dazzling him. The two of you are fooling around even before you’re wed. kissing in dark hallways, grasping at each other's clothes and biting throats, grinding on thighs and groping flesh. You’re eager for him- who wouldn’t be? So tall and handsome and exciting- and he takes you in his arms every chance he gets. 

It's all fun and games until he realizes just how far he’s fallen. He’s been clear with his intentions. You’re husband and wife to the Realm, but he has no inclination to have you tucked away in a dusty old castle, pushing out heirs. He insists on the two of you staying casual, why ruin what you have with the complications of love? Nevermind that he hasn't looked at another woman for more than a moment since you met, or that the thought of you with another makes him so angry he has to go swing his sword at something. 

One evening, your relationship takes a turn. You’ve planned a lovely feast, lighting up the gloom of Storms End with the grace and power needed for a lady Baratheon. He’s watching, he’s always watching, when he sees you speaking with a handsome young knight across the hall. You’ve been making your rounds, addressing your guests with a smile. Lyonel sits up straighter in his chair when the man bows to you, kissing your hand. His hands grip the table in front of him, willing himself unaffected as you laugh at something the knight says. It's Lyonel’s job to make you laugh like that. He’s up before he knows it, stomping through the crowds and brushing off lords who try to speak with him. You look surprised when he takes your waist, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. His hands don’t leave you again that night, following you closely as you continue to speak with the gentry. 

You don’t mention it, but he knows you can sense his shift. He goes out of his way to spend more time with you; not just in your bed (or on his desk or in front of the fireplace), but sitting with you when you read, trying-and failing- to help you with your embroidery, and insisting on clipping your necklaces and pinning your hair. He knows he’s smitten, there's no denying how wrong he’d been about the notion of tender affections. 

It's a night in his tourney tent that his feelings come out. He sat at the head of the table, bruised but grinning wide from his wins in the day’s tilts. The music is jolly, and sweet Arbor gold graces his tongue. You’re out on the floor, where he can see you, hair wild as you spin with your ladies. Your gown, so lovely at the start of the day, is mussed, with mud on the hem and a winestain on the sleeve. Your forehead is sweat-lined and your feet grow wary from dancing, but you're smiling so wide and he swears you’ve never been so beautiful. If anyone was to look to the high lord, they’d see his face soft, doe-eyes wide and grin like a man so completely bewitched. When the song ends, you find him, slinking up to the dais and bending to give him a kiss. You giggle when he pulls you into his lap, pecking your cheeks as you squirm. 

“Gods above, I love you, woman.”

he books a flight home and packs a bag and calls his professors and during none of these tasks does he raise his voice or break an object or do any of the things bobby would do.

brendan's rage is a freezer, not a furnace.

does he suspect bobby?

his gut says no. viscerally, and without hesitation. not because the timeline isn't damning, because it sure as hell is. not because the optics aren't terrible, because they are. three days of not noticing looks like three days of covering up, no two ways about it.

the cops will think so. the neighbours will think so, too.

but brendan has been watching bobby love you for years. that's the thing that overrides the optics.

brendan sat across from that love at every dinner table and in every back seat and on every couch where the three of you watched movies and bobby's hand found your thigh without looking.

brendan has heard bobby talk about you in private, the version of bobby that doesn't perform. late nights in the apartment when brendan was visiting, bobby with a beer and that unguarded look he only gets when he forgets to be cool, saying, "she makes me happy, bb. like, genuinely happy. I didn't know that was a thing that could just happen to a person." and another time, quieter, both of them on the fire escape with the santa clara skyline doing nothing interesting: "she's my girl, man. I know i'm bad at showing it. I know I get freaked, but she's mine and i'm hers, and if she ever figures out she could do better i'm royally fucked."

brendan KNOWS bobby loves you. that knowing is the reason brendan swallowed his own feelings so completely, so permanently.

if bobby didn't love you this would have been simple. brendan would have fought for you. brendan would have told you. the only thing that kept brendan's mouth shut for years was the certainty that bobby's love was real even when bobby's actions weren't showing it. bobby calling you "my girl" with that soft gravity in his voice, the weight he never put on any other word, was the lock on the door brendan never opened.

so no. brendan doesn't think bobby hurt you. brendan thinks bobby failed you, which is different and in some ways worse because failure implies the capacity to have succeeded, and bobby had that capacity. bobby had it in abundance, and he let it corrode while you got quieter and smaller and eventually vanished.

and THAT is what makes brendan shake. fury. pure, compressed, arctic fury at the waste of it.

brendan chose bobby's happiness over his own. made the sacrifice. swallowed the love. let the girl he wanted go because brendan believed bobby would take care of what he had, and bobby didn't.

bobby got scared and got comfortable and let the distance grow until the girl brendan loved enough to surrender was humming in empty kitchens, and bobby was in the next room not listening. now she's gone and her shoes are by the door and bobby didn't notice for three days.

three days. brendan would have noticed in three minutes. brendan would have noticed in three seconds because brendan has been tracking your presence in every room since the day you transferred and the idea of sharing an apartment with you and not knowing whether you were in it is so foreign to brendan's wiring that it genuinely doesn't compute.

the confrontation between them is ugly. the quiet kind of ugly, where brendan's voice drops lower with each sentence, and bobby's voice gets more defensive and more desperate.

"three days, bobby."

"I know."

"her shoes are by the door."

"I know."

"how do you not see her shoes by the door for three days and wonder where she is without them?"

bobby doesn't answer. bobby's sitting on the couch looking at his hands and his jaw working and his eyes are red. brendan can see the guilt eating him alive. bobby has been asking himself the same question on a loop since the moment he noticed, and the guilt is real and the pain is real, and brendan wants to forgive him and can't. not yet. maybe not ever.

bobby goes obsessive. bobby goes to the basement. bobby puts his hand on a wall and stays there, and brendan watches his twin brother dissolve into grief and magical thinking.

brendan doesn't join him at the wall tho.

brendan calls terrence.

because terrence is the third point. terrence has always been the third point. and terrence picks up on the second ring and says "i'm already on my way" because terrence has been on his way since bobby called him six hours before he called brendan, and terrence has been holding the operational pieces together because that's what terrence does. terrence shows up.

they meet at clark's store because that's where you worked and that's where the last people to see you would have seen you. clark opens the back office for them, looking ten years older than he did last month, and terrence and brendan sit at the desk where you used to do inventory and start building a timeline.

terrence brings the social knowledge. who you talked to, who you saw, which regulars you were friendly with. terrence knows your schedule because terrence makes it his business to know everyone's schedule and especially his people's. he pulls receipts from the register with your handwriting on them, finds your last shift in the log. tuesday morning. you clocked in at 9, never clocked out.

brendan brings the methodology. notebooks. maps. the obsessive thoroughness of a mind built for patterns applied to the most important pattern he's ever tried to solve.

he logs your last known movements with colored pins on a map of santa clara that he tapes to the apartment wall. he calls hospitals. checks bus stations. contacts your landlord, your bank, the DMV.

they make a good team in the worst possible circumstances. terrence's warmth opening doors that brendan's intensity would keep shut. brendan's precision catching details that terrence's emotion would otherwise blur. terrence talks to your neighbours with the easy charm that makes people trust him. brendan sits behind him taking notes in handwriting so small and so dense it looks like code.

the accusations come quickly despite that.

the cops circle bobby first because the cops always circle the boyfriend and the boyfriend didn't report you missing for three days. the boyfriend has no other alibi beyond "I was in the apartment editing footage" and the boyfriend's explanation, "I didn't notice she was gone," is the kind of statement that makes detectives lean forward in their chairs.

brendan defends him.

sitting in a police station during his interview, looking a detective in the eye, and saying, "my brother didn't do this. my brother loved her. he's careless and he's avoidant and he failed her in a hundred ways but he would never hurt her." saying it with absolute conviction, meaning it with absolute conviction, too.

the detective looks at brendan, looks at the notes, at the timeline brendan has constructed.

"you seem to know a lot about her movements."

"she's important to me."

the slow lift of eyebrows. "more important than she is to your brother?"

brendan's jaw tightens. the freezer door closing on something that would burn if he let it out.

"my brother is not a suspect. i'm telling you this as someone who has known him for twenty-two years. his negligence is real and it's indefensible but it's not criminal. look elsewhere."

they look elsewhere grudgingly. mostly because there's no real evidence to pin on bobby. the investigation expands from your shared apartment to the surrounding blocks and then to the city and then to the county. then it goes cold the way thousands of cases have gone cold in the past, leads drying up, tips amounting to nothing, the case file thickening with dead ends.

but brendan doesn't go cold. brendan's notebook keeps growing. terrence keeps showing up at the store after hours to compare notes. the two of them bent over clark's desk in the back office, surrounded by maps and phone records and the slow accumulating evidence that your disappearance doesn't follow any pattern that normal disappearances follow.

no body. no transaction on your bank account. no sighting, no contact, no trace. you didn't run and you weren't taken in any way that leaves marks on the world and you aren't the only one.

you just stopped existing.

brendan doesn't sleep. can't. terrence brings him coffee and the notebook keeps growing. the pins on the map multiply. and somewhere in the margins of brendan's dense tiny handwriting, a theory is forming thanks to bobby that has nothing to do with criminal investigation, and everything to do with a wall in a basement and the growing, insane, indefensible conviction that the answer to where you went is not a place on any map he owns.

brendan will need a different map.

he stalked into the living room, grabbing a beer from the fridge and popping the cap on the counter edge before heading for the couch. he was just sinking into the worn-out cushions, reaching for the remote, when he saw you.

you were coming out of the kitchen, and the look on your face was one he knew all too well. a hungry, determined gleam in your eyes that meant you were about to be all over him.

"hey, baby" you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too eager. "long day?"

"the longest," he grunted, his thumb jabbing the power button on the remote. the screen flickered to life, the sounds of the pre-game show filling the room. he fumbled for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, his movements jerky and impatient.

you didn't take the hint. you padded over to the couch, settling onto the cushion beside him, much closer than necessary. "i missed you," you murmured, leaning into his side. your hand came to rest on his thigh, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the worn denim of his jeans.

“i missed you more,” he finally got a cigarette out and stuck it between his lips, patting his pockets for his lighter.

you just hummed and leaned in closer, your lips brushing against the side of his neck. you knew all his spots, the little clusters of moles just below his jawline, the sensitive skin right behind his ear. you pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to one of the moles, and he couldn't stop the shudder that ran through him, "c'mon, baby, not now."

"i'm serious," he grumbled, but he didn't push you away. he found his lighter and flicked it, the flame dancing for a moment before he lit his cigarette. he took a long, deep drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs, hoping it would calm the thrumming irritation under his skin.

"i know you are," you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. "you just need to relax. let me help you relax." your hand slid higher up his thigh, your fingers brushing dangerously close to his crotch.

he was so tired, so pissed off, that his body wasn't cooperating. a part of him, the primal, lizard-brain part, was responding to your touch, to your scent, to the soft, pleading tone of your voice. but the rest of him was still stuck back at the garage, still fuming about the stripped bolt and the foreman's condescending tone.

"baby, please," he breathed, the words coming out as a half-hearted plea, half-growl. he took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling up around his face. "just...let me watch the game. five minutes. that's all i'm askin'."

but you were in full-on ovulation mode, a woman on a mission. you weren't listening to his words; you were listening to the tension in his body, the subtle way his hips shifted towards your touch. you straddled his lap then, your knees on either side of his thighs, your weight settling over him. you took the cigarette from his fingers, stubbing it out in the ashtray on the coffee table before he could protest.

"hey," he started, but you cut him off with a kiss.

it wasn't a demanding kiss, but a soft, coaxing one. your lips moved against his, gentle and persistent, your tongue tracing the seam of his mouth until he opened for you. your hands came up to cup his face, your thumbs stroking his stubbled cheeks. you kissed his jaw, his chin, his cheek…

"please, aerion," you whispered against his skin. "i need you. i've been thinking about you all day."

he let out a ragged sigh, his resolve crumbling. he could feel the heat of you through his jeans, the soft press of your breasts against his chest. his hands, which had been hanging limply at his sides, came up to rest on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh.

"can't ever take no for an answer, can you?" he murmured, but there was no heat in his voice now, only a cocky resignation.

you just shook your head, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips. "not when it comes to you," you whispered, leaning in to kiss him again.

this time, he kissed you back, his lips parting under yours, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, deep kiss. the tension was still there, coiled in his shoulders and his back, but it was changing.

he broke the kiss, his eyes dark as they bored into yours. "alright," he said, his voice a low growl. "you want it? you got it. but you're gonna do all the work. i'm too fuckin' tired to move."

you just grinned, already reaching for the button on his jeans. "deal," you whispered.

with a deft flick of your fingers, you popped the button and slid down the zipper. the sound seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet living room, punctuated by the distant roar of the crowd from the television. you didn't hesitate, your hands hooking into the waistband of his jeans and his boxers, tugging them down just enough to free him.

he was already half-hard, heavy and warm in your hand. you stroked him once, twice, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head, and he let out a low, guttural groan, his head falling back against the couch cushions. his eyes fluttered closed, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

"fuck," he breathed, his hips rocking up into your hand. "just like that."

you leaned in, your breath warm against his already-hardening length. you could smell him, a heady mix of sweat, soap, and something that was all aerion. you stuck out your tongue, giving him a slow, deliberate lick from base to tip, and his whole body shuddered.

you smiled, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip of his cock, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head. you took your time, exploring every ridge and vein. you weren't trying to get him off, not yet. you were just playing.

you kissed your way down his shaft, then you took one of his balls into your mouth, gently sucking it. he let out a string of curses, his hips bucking up off the couch.

"jesus fuckin’ christ," he gasped, his hand tightening in your hair.

you could feel him getting harder, thicker, his cock standing at attention, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. you leaned in, licking it away, savoring the salty taste.

"you're such a tease," he growled, his voice thick with arousal. "gettin' me all worked up for nothin'."

you looked up at him, "who says it's for nothin'?" you whispered, leaning back in to continue your sweet, slow torture. you had all night, and you were determined to make him forget all about his bad day…

Counselor!Dunk who’s appalled when he's only allowed to teach the campers tag rugby and football. No contact sports allowed. That's what he’s in the states for, for Christ’s sake. These Americans, man. Soft.

Counselor!Dunk who is perpetually soaking wet. He’s always pouring bottles of water over his head and stripping his shirt off to do laps with the campers bc he doesn’t think it’s fair they should have to exercise in this heat without moral support. And also, sometimes, he notices you looking. 

The only person in camp that uses the lake more than Tanselle. He wakes up early to swim laps and even when he's just walking around, will slip off to dunk (haha) his head under the surface, letting his t-shirt get soaked and shaking his hair dry like a dog.

Counselor!Dunk who, because of the heat, has an uncharacteristically short temper. Make no mistake—He's still the gentlest of giants. But he can be especially tough on the class clown types. And God forbid he get put on a shift with Aerion. The kids like watching them bicker but one of these days they're sure to get into a real fight. You don't fancy Aerion's chances.

Counselor!Dunk who like, actually can't talk to girls. Any of them. He stutters and blabbers around Tanselle, literally can't look her in the eye. With you? Hopeless isn't even the word. He grew up a total lad's lad–No sisters, no girl friends, no chatting them up at parties. Even in his first couple years at uni, all the other lads seemed to figure something out that he never got clued in on and now–Well, hopeless.

He and Valarr get on really well for this exact reason. Valarr's the charming one who women invite out to brunch. Dunk can get away with keeping his mouth shut because beside Valarr, people assume he's sweet and shy, rather than stupid.

Counselor!Dunk who meets you and knows, instantly, that you’re the one. He finds himself knowing this rather often, about pretty much woman who smiles enough at him. Often, it ends with pure daydreaming. Others, when he’s been lucky enough to end himself up with a girlfriend, she's grown bored of his dopey, soft-spoken tenderness and wanted him to make good on the expectations that six feet and seven inches of muscle and brawn set.

With you, he’s certain things will be different. He’s different now; the time out here has changed him, in more ways than one. So if big, rough and wild is what you want, it’s what you’ll get.

Get To Know Counselor Dunk:

[COMING SOON...]

Camp Counselor!Valarr who cried every night of his first week there, thirteen years old without a single friend. 

Camp Counselor!Valarr who learned pretty quickly that other kids use sweets rather than money to bribe their way into games, and that he uses proper grammar far more than anybody else his age

Camp Counselor!Valarr who met you and felt his tiny little teenage heart stop. You were the first person to let him join your Capture The Flag team without any bribe or dare (as far as Valarr’s concerned, camp kids beat frat boys for hazing rituals on all counts). Even after your team lost, you still sought him out and invited him to sit with your friends at dinner. It was the first time he’d ever had more than two friends at camp

In fact, you’re pretty much Valarr’s first everything. At fifteen, he kisses you during a game of truth or dare. At sixteen, he anxiously follows as your friend group slowly works up the courage to go skinny dipping after dark. At seventeen, he loses his virginity to you. 

By the time it’s your last summer together before uni, it’s both your second year as counselors. To Valarr, it feels like being married, like every day you’re shepherding your kids to school, then making sure they eat all their vegetables at dinner, reassuring the most jumpy young ones that the ghost stories are just stories. 

Camp Counselor!Valarr who can’t bear to leave you behind on the last day of camp. Who sneaks past your cabin a million times, thinking of doing something wild like actually proposing.

Camp Counselor!Valarr who scrolls through your instagram as soon as first year of uni starts, chewing on a hangnail anxiously as he searches for…What exactly he’s looking for, he isn’t sure. He never quite has the audacity to message you; something about those hazy days at camp seems sacred, untouchable. Talking to you for real might break the spell

Counselor!Valarr who graduates in business and interns for his father, while he waits around for something real to want. He signs up to become a senior counselor because four years out of high school, he can’t stop acting like Head Boy. What he tries not to think about, is that he can’t stop thinking about you. And that maybe, just maybe, if he goes back to the place he can’t stop thinking of as yours, then maybe. You might be there, too. 

Get To Know Counselor Valarr:

s'mores + almost-kissing | Stalker!Valarr pays you a nighttime visit

Anyway, whatever, he doesn’t acutally give a flying fuck what anyone thinks of him. What’s really irritating is the hypocrisy. For all the elbow-nudging and jokes at his expense, the second he gets his can of bug spray out, suddenly everyone’s an Aerion fan, the black cloud that seems to surround him most days miraculously dissipated. No one is worse for this than that oaf Dunk, who is every part the ideal, masculine, outdoorsy type. Dumb as a dog that rolls in the bushes and then wonders why it has fleas, he spends all day outside and shirtless, then scratches cluelessly at mosquito bites he swears he can’t trace  the origin of.  

On a Saturday night, the kids have just put on an especially impressive post-dinner puppet show. Even Aerion and his utterly relentless directorial style haven’t been able to kill their eagerness for that tradition so now, as an act of goodwill, Aerion is bringing them some beer. He carries two six-packs: one for the kids, one for the counselor-only campfire he’s actually left his cabin for. 

With his hands full, he can’t pull out the bug spray, which is why it’s just so wonderful when he runs into none other than the oaf himself. 

Dunk nods at him, grabbing one of the six-packs without mentioning it. “Where you going with these?” 

Instantly, Aerion pulls out his spray, aiming at a fat fruit fly bobbing towards him. Scowling, he holds the bottle up like a pistol, just daring anything else to head his way. “None of your business.” 

“Not to the kids, I’m sure.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” Aerion mutters. “Is it in the job description to be a fucking buzzkill? Did I miss that in the fine print?” 

To shake the oaf, Aerion course-corrects, headed for the lake. It’s on the way, doesn’t even shorten the journey. Wading through the water this late doesn’t even deter bugs, in fact the gnats gather in great, dark clumps over the surface. He’s dreading it, actually. 

“Are you going to follow me the whole way?” 

Dunk blinks, frowns. “We’re going to the same place.” 

Aerion mumbles under his breath about the irrelevance, about how there are plenty of ways to get there. It’s a little odd, he says, that of every option there is, the one that involves bothering him just happened to be the most convenient. He takes extra special care not to mention anything about the flare of hope that puts in his chest. Well, in his groin but whatever. 

He looks over his shoulder to grimace. “You’re really gonna make me go in there?” 

“I’m not–” Dunk shakes his head, still wearing that semi-irritated frown. “We can go through the woods, I’m just following you.” 

“Loyal mutt,” Aerion says, under his breath again. It’s almost impressive how blindly this man will act against his best interest if he thinks it’s what someone else wants. 

Dunk leans in to hear better, eyes narrowed. “Sorry?” 

“Don’t be.” Armed with his spray, he hands over the other six-pack and leads the way. When they get to the campfire, they’re half-soaked and both spitting and swearing, bickering about whose fault it is that they just made such an impractical, easily solved mistake. 

Aerion expects that to be the end of it but when he sits, still spraying himself a noxious cloud, Dunk sits right next to him. Right next to him, their thighs pressed together. Every time he sprays, the other man leans closer, until it’s happened enough times that the giddy, rising lightness in Aerion’s chest promptly deflates. It’s not him Dunk can’t separate himself from. 

Ever mature, Aerion tucks the spray into his back pocket and simmers. The only reason he came here tonight was to see you, and he’s here having to babysit the camp pet, just because he’s the only one smart enough to carry around insect repellant. Being driven half to insanity over it, too. To make matters worse, you haven’t looked in his direction in at least five straight minutes. The fuck was the point of all this, then? 

He’s just about ready to ditch the whole disappointing, pathetic affair, when you decide to sit. There isn’t room on the logs, so you pick Dunk’s lap and it’s only then that Aerion realises: he didn’t move. Despite the growing, buzzing horde, their thighs have been pressed together the entire time. And now, here you are, right next to him. In the oaf’s lap, sure, but here. Without breaking a sweat, without so much as thinking about it, everything Aerion wants has still ended up in his orbit. His mouth twists into a conniving smile. It’s working. 

He remembers the gruesome night out in the woods, right at the start of camp. Of almost being caught by you and Valarr, of the way a sparrow feels between your fingers when you’re snapping its neck. It was worth it, he thinks. Or it will be, soon. His smile gets broader, enough that you turn to him and ask about it. 

“What are you so happy about?” When he doesn’t answer, you give him a long look, smiling right back at him. He scoffs with disbelieving laughter. It’s working.

bobby and you reconciled after the events of your showcase. it didn’t take much for you to just roll over and ignore how hurt you were. much to aerion’s annoyance, wherever you went, bobby followed.

“where’s your shadow?” aerion asked you when you entered the library. you still don’t really understand how you and aerion got closer, but it was a welcomed surprise.

you look around, “don’t know, don’t care.” you shrug your shoulders. he raises his eyebrows at this, still staring at you. “we fought, he got drunk and was flirting with kat in front of me.”

his eyes look straight into yours, you start to feel goosebumps form and a chill go through your body at the eye contact. he looks at you up and down, before returning to your gaze. “and you haven’t let this guy go because?”

“he’s just so pretty,” you say with a bored tone.

“i have his face, leave him and just be with me,” he says it in a sort of joking tone, but his face screams business. you can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “i can do what that chump does and more. i show up when it counts.” he says this to remind you of the showcase, not that you needed reminding. “i’m genuinely all of the good things about bobby with no bad qualities,” he says, smugly.

“oh i can think of a couple bad qualities you have,” you smirk. he raises his eyebrows to make you continue. “for one, you’re self centered, bordering on narcissistic. two, you’re kind of a raging cunt. three, you’re a brat. four, you-”

he interrupts you. “name one time i was self centered and please elaborate on how i’m a ‘raging cunt’” he asks you.

“just now, you were being self centered just now. or, maybe, that was just you being arrogant. but saying you’re basically bobby if he was a better boyfriend makes you look cocky and arrogant and really self centered. also, i called you a raging cunt because the first time i met you, i called you ‘cunt dracula’ to anyone who would listen.” you shrug your shoulders and watch as his jaw drops.

“cunt dracula?” he asks.

“yes, and not the good cunt.” he laughs at what you’re admitting. “don’t laugh, this isn’t a good thing. a lot of people actually hate your guts, they just fuck you because you’re hot.”

“so you think i’m hot.”

“you have my boyfriend’s face, i would hope i think you’re hot.” he holds intense eye contact with you after this. you feel your heart beating faster, it’s like he’s slowly invading all of your senses. you feel heat rise to your cheeks, forcing you to look away first. “whatever, anyways, can you take me to clark’s empire or whatever? bobby won’t and kat is working there right now and i wanted to visit her on her lunch break.”

he rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. “i guess, let’s go before i change my mind.”

“thank you!” you chirp, a smile gracing your face. he just shakes his head and helps you pack up your stuff, holding your books for you. you let him lead you out to his car and wait for him to finish putting everything in the backseat.

he drops you off at kat’s work, and she’s waiting for you outside already. she waves at him as he drives away. you walk over to her and she leads you inside to the break room. you say hi to clark as you pass his office. the store is kind of unsettling, it feels abandoned despite the three of you occupying space inside.

you and kat are talking about stupid crap when clark walks into the break room. “hey, kat? that kid with the camera, can he shoot some stuff for the store? we need more advertising.” he looks at her, rubbing his hand down his face.

“bobby?” you ask both of them. clark nods, looking at you. “since when does bobby come here?” you ask, half joking, looking at kat.

she has a guilty expression on her face when she answers you. “sometimes he visits when it’s slow. i complain a lot about how creepy it is when i do inventory.” she’s watching your face, waiting for any sort of reaction.

“how often is this?” you ask, looking down at your hands. by now, clark is realizing he revealed something he shouldn’t have. “he comes when you’re creeped out? just, out of the kindness of his own heart?” you don’t believe this. bobby has never done anything like that for you, he didn’t even show up to an important event for you. for kat, he’s just going for no reason?

her eyes widen at the implication she put out there without knowing. “no! nothing is happening with us! i would never do that to you, i promise.” she reaches for your hands, “i just know that he’s been shitty and i know i shouldn’t reach out to him for company when i’m at work, but i never know who else to call.”

“you can call me,” you say, softly.

“i’m sorry,” she whispers. “nothing is happening between bobby and i. i just didn’t want to tell you because he started being flirty with me at that party and i didn’t want you to think something was going on when there wasn’t.”

you nod. “i just would have rather known. i would have liked to know the first time he came here to keep you company.” she’s nodding her head, furiously. you look at the clock, realizing that aerion would be picking you up soon. “whatever, it’s fine. i’m not mad at you, i’m more mad at bobby. why’s it so easy for him to be there for you, but not me? i’m his girlfriend.” you stand up, leaving.

“are we okay?” she whispers before you leave.

“honestly, not right now.” you leave the break room. you say bye to clark as you exit the store and beeline for aerion’s car.

he looks at you, and can already tell that something is off. “what happened?” he asks, putting the car into reverse.

“bobby comforts kat.” you say. “she gets creeped out at work and he goes to her, easily. no fight, just goes.” tears start to fill your eyes. “he’s never done that for me. not when we first started dating, not even to make up for when he’s a shitty boyfriend. he just never does that for me.”

he watches you from the corner of his eye as tears start to fall. he actually feels angry at bobby, before he just felt smug and triumphant that he was bringing you joy while bobby kept being a sore spot. but watching you cry, actually full on sob at the fact that your boyfriend is actually capable of being a decent lover, just not to you, made aerion feel a rage he hadn’t felt in years.

“he’s a fucking bum. you know that, right?” it’s like the rage made his mouth loose, he can’t stop himself from saying what he’s always thought. “you have actual goals, things that are going to bring you far in life. bobby, he’s genuinely nothing. he weighs you down and you let him.” he scoffs, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the center console and lighting it. “it’s actually pathetic, i’m sorry. someone has to be honest with you because clearly no one else is.”

you sniffle. aerion’s words, as harsh as they are, make a lot of sense. bobby bristles at the mention of a future between you two. bobby doesn’t do small acts of affection outside of sex and making out. bobby doesn’t comfort you when you want him to. “i know,” you whisper. “but i love him. i don’t know what to do.” you put your face in your hands.

aerion puts his hand on your thigh, comfortingly. his cigarette hangs in his mouth as he pulls the car into a parking lot. “first, we’ll eat. then, i’ll take you to my place. bobby doesn’t deserve to see you cry over him anymore.” you look up and you realize he drove you to the restaurant that had just opened up a few weeks ago. you, kat, and bobby were supposed to try it together. you realized you don’t care about them right now.

it’s at this time that you finally realize your appreciation for aerion. he’s rude and he’s brash and he doesn’t sugarcoat his words, but he’s never lied to you. he’s belittled you and your bullshit boyfriend and your best friend. he’s thought you to be stupid and pathetic. he’s also proven to be the most genuine person you’ve met at college. he’s genuine in the way he cares about you at your lowest, he’s genuine about wanting to better himself to prove himself to his family, he’s genuine about the way he thinks you deserve better than you allow yourself.

“i’m going to use the restroom,” you say to him after you tell him your order. you get up and ask a staff member where the restroom is and follow the directions they give you. you don’t even realize you left your phone at the table.

aerion does. he stares at the metal brick as if it offends him. it does, especially when it starts vibrating and lighting up with bobby’s contact photo. against his better judgement, he reaches out and answers it. “she’s busy,” he says into the phone.

“where the fuck is she, man? you were supposed to take her home after she left the store and kat told me she left like half an hour ago.” bobby scoffs from the other line. aerion can imagine the annoyance on his face rather than actual worry. the thought makes him angrier.

he sighs into the phone. “do you love her?” he outright asks bobby. he hears bobby’s breathing stutter into the receiver. aerion waits for bobby to answer, he doesn’t. “right.” he scoffs. “that’s why she’s not coming home tonight. you don’t deserve to see her after all this crap you put her through.”

“aerion-”

he cuts bobby off. “don’t worry, i’ll take care of her for you. do her a favor? don’t call her tonight. she knows about you and kat.” aerion deliberately ends the call after that. seeing that bobby doesn’t call immediately after, he knows that bobby’s heeding his warning.

“alright! did you order yet?” you ask when you sit back into the booth. he shakes his head and you fake cheer, looking at the menu. “i changed my mind, can i get a different drink?” you ask him.

he looks you dead in the eyes and asks “why the fuck would i care what drink you got?”

you put your hands up in defense, “my bad, your majesty, just wanted to make sure.” he scoffs and looks down at the menu before looking at you inquisitively. “oh yeah, i was thinking about getting a martini instead.” you tell him.

“get whatever you want, i’m paying either way.”

“no, i can get my own food aerion. don’t worry about-” he cuts you off with a stare, you feel silly again. you forget that aerion has a trust fund behind his name, you still feel bad when he does this. “i don’t want it to seem like i’m taking advantage of you,” you admit.

“you’re not. just order the fucking cocktail.” he dismisses you. you smile softly, you know him well enough now. his dismissal, at least when it’s directed towards you, is his affection trying to break through. it’s his way of telling you to do whatever you want when you’re with him, that you’re safe. you smile again at the thought, this was a safety net you’re not used to having.

Every morning his thoughts are immediately on you, purple eyes flicking to the back of your head as you lay beside him, cheek pressed flush against the goosefeather pillow, mouth slightly agape and chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. Aerion would pull you beside him, turning you around so you would face him. You would groan and find his warmth with your face tucked right on his bare chest. He would always seek you out, his great Arryn love that has managed to cleave his chest open and dig yourself into his heart.

Aerion thought you loved him, that you would die for him just like he would for you. But as he stares at you and the Lord of Storm’s End dancing in the middle of the feast with your hand in his, holding so tightly onto the man’s hand like he is your Lord husband not the prince— Aerion’s fury is palpable across the great hall. His fits shake, jaw tightly wound and nose flaring as his anger turns his blood hotter.

Your face is too close to Lyonel’s lips, his breath mingling with yours, his words rumbling in his chest that you could feel reverberate through your body when you’re chest to chest with him. Aerion watches you fall into step with him, a synergy that he thought you and him only ever have.

“Aerion…” his uncle Rhaegel calls for him from the feast table, right beside him is your Arryn aunt as she fails to hide the fear flickering in her eyes. She knows. “The falcon and the stag found each other again, didn’t they?” Rhaegal, sweet simple uncle Rhaegel has even noticed you and Lyonel, looking as if you two belong in each other’s arms. As if it was supposed to be from the start. “The falcon should soar…” he mumbles, picking at the frayed stitches of his doublet. “Dragon blood does not mix well with birds…the falcon’s talons are too long, too sharp, even for themselves.”

“Rhaegel, my love.” The chair under your aunt scrapes loudly as she vaults from her seat, tugging at her husband’s arm. “Let us not frighten our nephew.”

“I am not frightened, dear aunt.” Aerion spits the words out, fists trembling at his side. His wine goblet long abandoned on the table as he stares daggers at his aunt and uncle.

Words hurled at him don’t usually hit him, he has heard worse in his life being a second son of a fourth son. Nothing to inherit, styled to be a spare, a brother to a drunkard, a son to a dead mother, and a father who only looks at him when he has done him a dishonour despite everything he tries to do to bring honour to their branch of the family. He married you for that reason, you’re from a house that is as ancient as his own, an honourable house that has their own great keep and has borne dozens of great warriors. It was for duty, marrying you, he meant to tolerate you, to share your bed whenever he pleases and leave right after. To visit your chambers when duty calls to try for an heir. But you intrigued him, you talked back, you bit back and drew blood. You tamed a dragon, you who is merely a falcon, but you used your talons on him, you learned how to scratch and bite where he wanted, where he needed. His duty became a want, a want to be with you, to share your warmth. And then it became a need, he needed to be beside you, to be inside you, to hold you, to caress you, to hear your breathless gasps underneath him and to see you smile, and for you to seek him out in every crowded room.

He needs you like how a man needs air.

And yet, your eyes gazes into those dark stormy pools of the stormlord like you need him. Like he is the one you married not the man who stands beside his grandsire’s table like a lovelorn fool. He is a prince of the blood, he is the blood of the dragon, a descendant of great warriors and dragon riders. And his heart breaks for a falcon amidst the feast.

Your tender eyes shine underneath the candle lights, palm brushing along Lyonel’s cheek with longing. Aerion’s feet moves before he could think. His strides are long and quick, a man honed in on the pair in the middle of the dancing crowd as he pushes people out of the way. Some part for him when they see the intense look on his face, most scramble with their heads down the moment they hear his loud footfalls, already familiar with the sound that reverberates through the Red Keep.

“My, you two are awfully close.” Aerion keeps his wits beside him, he is furious, and he wants to unsheathe his dagger and plunge the blade right into Lyonel’s neck. But that would start a war, and he is surrounded by the stag’s bannermen, he would be ripped to shreds by the stormlanders before he could have the pleasure of seeing Lyonel’s blood trickle out of his opened flesh. His hand rests upon the handle of his dagger, brow raised, trying to act casual despite his hot red rage thumping inside his ribcage. His eyes are still locked on the contact between Lyonel’s fingers and your skin and you are awfully aware of that fact. “There are other people around, Baratheon. Comport yourself.”

“Aerion.” You startle, fingers unfurling around Lyonel’s hand that he refuses to completely let go as he still holds onto your fingers. “We’re…” you clear your throat, trying to coax a smile out of you as you feel the heavy tension between the two men that are staring at each other like two hunters between the only doe in the whole godswood. “We’re just dancing. This is—”

“I know who he is, my love. He’s in my keep.” His purple eyes keep glancing at Lyonel’s hand that still grasps onto you. He hasn’t raised his voice, and it’s much more terrifying than a yell from his throat. “And he is holding onto my wife.”

Lyonel has the audacity to smile, a smile that annoys the prince to no end. He has only seen glimpses of the Laughing Storm during the Ashford tourney, but his loud boisterous laugh can always be heard throughout the meadow. Aerion wants to cut out that laugh right from his throat.

“All in good fun, my prince.” Lyonel utters his title with hidden disdain, as his hands let go of you, now put up beside his head in mock surrender. “We were talking about the tourney where we met, did we not, my sweet?”

‘My sweet,’ Aerion would cut a lowly man for that if they had spoken to you in that very same manner, in that same tender tone and sweetened gaze. But Lyonel isn’t some stable boy or a hedge knight, he is a Lord paramount, a warrior just like himself.

You gulp down the lump in your throat, eyes flicking between the two men. “That we did.” Lyonel stands a foot taller than Aerion, but if looks could kill, Lyonel would’ve keeled over by now. Their egos clash like lightning against flames. “We were reconnecting, husband, you need not worry.”

Aerion’s steely gaze doesn’t leave the older man’s face. “Come, my love, you look tired.” His eyes turn to you, snatching your hand, fingers immediately weaving around your own possessively. “You must rest, remember what the maester said, hm?”

The prince could see Lyonel’s head tilt curiously from his words right in his peripheral.

Your brows furrow. “And what exactly did he say?” Chortling, you laugh easily, you are no stranger to Aerion’s teasing, nor his manipulation through his words. You just know that his next words would be vengeful but it would just bounce off of you like a pebble against armour like always.

“That the babe, our babe in your belly,” his palm holds onto your stomach, his warmth ebbing from him, searing hot, trying to burn through your gown. “requires you to sit and lay. Not to galavant around like an unmarried maiden.”

Blinking at him, your brows rise to your hairline, shock marring your face with a chuckle in your throat. “The what—” You expected him to spit venom at you and Lyonel, not this. Not an awful lie that gives you an answer to your indecision. Your husband just made it easier to decide.

“My sincere…congratulations.” Lyonel utters through his clenched teeth, monotone, reined in. His eyes turns to you, immediately softening. Aerion knows that look— pity. “I shall leave you be, princess, you must rest. And…” he steps closer, a thumb right on your wrist as you two share a look that Aerion isn’t privy to but wishes he was. “Remember what I told you, hm?” Taking your hand in his, he presses a kiss on your knuckles as his gaze never leaves yours. “My Lady Arryn.”

“My Lord Baratheon…” you answer breathlessly. Watching him leave and disappear into the crowd, taking the remaining air along with him.

My, the simple word shouldn’t get to the prince, it shouldn’t bash right at his chest and break his ribcage into pieces. But it has, you’ve taken his heart in your fist and threw it on the ground, stomping right on it even when it still sings your name. He should be yours and you should be his. But that word, ‘my Lord Baratheon,’ Aerion thinks you were never his to begin with. That you are a stag’s doe, not a dragon’s wife.

Aerion’s heart is shattered by his feet, he wants to take the sharp shards and cut you and himself so you would know the exact pain of seeing you look at someone else with love. He should be the only recipient of that, not some storm Lord that you happen to chance upon before you met him. He will take you to the grave with him if that’s what it takes.

“Come.” Tugging you away, taking your attention away from Lyonel, he leads you outside and into the dim gardens. Your heels clack against the stone, trying to catch up to his longer strides.

The weirwood tree stands tall before him, the wood is stark white, leaves as red as blood as the carved face bleeds crimson onto its bark. Crickets sing, fireflies light the way and the flowers are in full bloom just the way you like it. He knows you love the godswood for its flowers, and sometimes he would join you in your strolls or he would lay upon your lap as you read beside flower bushes, tucked in between the flowers, looking like the maiden of his dreams. But you seem to have come out of his nightmare as you let go of his hand like he burned you with his touch.

“What is wrong with you, Aerion?” You stand underneath the moonlight in his Targaryen colours, looking at him with disgust, not with love. “You embarrassed me, you embarrassed yourself! I have told you, I am not with child—!”

His blade is suddenly in his hand, the sound of it unsheathing stops you in your tracks as he stares at the dagger.

“Are you going to fucking kill me?” You say it calmly, too calmly, as if you have anticipated it long ago. “Try me, Aerion, you know I could hold out my own.” Dress hitched up to your thigh, you show him your own blade tucked into your garter. “I might get that sparring match I’ve always wanted.”

“Do you think of me so cruel that I would hurt you?” His purple eyes are darker here, not even the moonlight could illuminate it. The lingering adrenaline from a fight he didn’t get to have swirls in his belly like wildfire. “That I could kill you? My own wife?”

“You are capable of it.” You spit out with venom on your tongue. “I’ve seen it, Aerion, the cruelty you hide behind those eyes. The cruelty you hide from your father, from your uncles and grandsire. I saw it,” you nod, teeth bared at him. “I saw it when you dismissed Juniper and Andros, I saw it when you broke that poor stable boy’s arm for looking at me too long. I saw it when you plunged a blade into a merchant’s hand when his palm brushed along my own innocently.” Your tone shakes, but you don’t waver. “I saw it during our coupling, the first one on our wedding night. I do not doubt that you are capable of killing your own wife.”

“I could not,” his voice is awfully tender. “This is for him.” Dagger raised, he points at the great hall through the closed doors. “I will cut him, I shall cut him for how he touched you—”

“Gods be good! We were dancing!” Heaving, you step closer, dress still hitched up in case he strikes. “You would know where the hands would be if you actually danced with me!”

“Would you prefer if I danced with you?” There’s a child-like wonder in his tone, as if he discovered something new. As if dancing with you will fix everything.

“Gods!” Groaning against your hand, you stomp towards the weirwood, hand braced on its trunk as you slouch beside it, eyes tightly closed, repressing the want to stab him in the abdomen. “You are far too late for that, Aerion.”

“No, I’m not.” The dagger dangles in between his fingers by his side, his intense gaze burns a hole through the skirt of your gown. “We’ve been married a year, we could still—”

“What brought this on?” You whirl in his direction, exasperated. “Is this about our conversation before? That I might be barren?” You stop him from answering with a hand up as you continue. “Aerion, if you want a child so badly then annul our marriage. It is obvious that it will not bear fruit, nor will it ever be. Marry someone else, someone who could give you children.”

“But I do not want someone else!” Blade raised, he closes the distance over to you as you take a step back, your back hitting the rough bark of the weirwood. He notices, and he immediately puts his dagger down. “I want you, is that so hard to believe?”

“You do not love like everyone else, Aerion. So yes, it is hard to believe so.”

“And you know how it’s supposed to be? Like how you think the storm bastard loves you, hm?” He steps closer, making you back away further against the tree. “Does he love you, Lady Arryn?” The title is said with disdain. “Do you love him? Is that it? How you know what love looks like. How it should be?”

“We were dancing!”

“So you say! Do not play me for a fool.” His sword calloused palm pushes your shoulder into the wood, nails digging in. “I’ve seen your face while you were with him, and you do not look at me like that, your husband, someone who is supposed to be the object of your love.”

“Does this look like love to you?” The words tumble out of your mouth, filled with cotton that suffocates your throat.

Aerion notices the position, his hand grasping onto your shoulder as if you’re going to fade, nails digging into the silk of your gown, pushing you harshly into the rough wood that will surely leave indents on the skin of your back.

He lets go, guilt marring his sharp features. “I… is it so awful to be with me?” Stepping back, he sheathes the dagger that drips with the red sap of the weirwood tree. He just now noticed that he sliced a part of it open out of his own anger. He’s just glad it wasn’t your flesh as the sap drips onto your fingers, staining your skin crimson.

“I do not love you as you love me, if that is the answer you are looking for.”

You don’t wield a dagger in your hand and yet your words have the same effect of a blade striking him down, cutting his throat.

“I married you because I had no choice in the matter.” Voice softening, the sticky sap coats your hand, crimson dripping from your fingers. You are sure that Aerion has done some transgression against the old gods for what he did. “Just like you had. This is duty, Aerion, I have a duty to you, to my house, to my father. We tried, many times, and it still hasn’t borne fruit. It may never happen.”

“It will. Someday, it will. You will give me a dragon. And you will love me as I love you.” He says determinedly, taking a step forward as you don’t back down this time around, continuing to stare him down. “I could wait, I can wait.”

“You can’t,” you walk closer, a hand reaching for his cheek. “I know you, Aerion, you are impatient.” He leans against your warmth, heat seeking, breathing you in. You smell more like the weirwood than yourself, like the earth he will soon return to if you leave him. “This love of yours will wane, and you will discard me once I am old and withered, once no one else will take me.”

“It won’t.” Shaking his head, he holds onto your waist, trying to keep you from walking away. “It won’t wane.”

Your eyes soften, a small smile appearing on your moonlit face. “If you truly love me annul our marriage. Let me go.”

“So you could marry him?” His once soft purple eyes turn heavy and narrowed.

“Yes.” You answer without delay.

Aerion flinches and pulls away from you. “Then I should kill him.”

“You’ll lose.” You’re so sure of yourself as your hands tucks in front of you, the sap sticking to your reddened palms. “You’re a great fighter, but Lyonel is better. He will kill you.”

“Then I shall kill you instead.”

“You’ll only be proving me right, husband.” You don’t move to retrieve your dagger, staring him down over your nose as you stand there rooted like the weirwood. “I am right here.” Arms raised to your sides, you taunt him underneath the moonlight. “But I’ll maim you before I draw my last breath. I will kick and scream and draw my blade against you and cut off your manhood so you will never have your precious dragon.”

Heaving, teeth grating, Aerion’s whole body trembles with rolling fury. He stares at you with disbelief and hurt, before twisting around and going further into the gardens and out of the walled keep lest he takes his dagger and plunges it right into your heart.

—

Aerion doesn’t know how long he has been walking around the woods, but the grass around him has turned thick and tall, brushing along his hips as he trudges around aimlessly. The dappled moonlight through the tree branches lights his way, and the incessant chirping of crickets irks him. But he’d rather not be back in the castle, moreso in the shared chambers where you would be, where your scent lingers in every crevice of the room.

He is afraid of losing you, of accidentally taking his dagger to your neck and slicing you open. He cannot risk the possibility of harming you, the thought alone turns his insides sour. He is afraid that you are right, that he is capable of killing you. His love for you may not be as pure and saccharine as Lyonel’s love for you, but it is love. His love, so why isn’t that enough for you?

The scent of incense wafts in his nose, akin to the heady scent from the Sept, an earthy smoke that billows a few ways ahead from his right as it wisps into the chilly night air. Aerion’s chest flares with the buried fury, he wants to hurt, to cut something, to cut someone just to let it all out and come back home to you calmly, ready to settle beside your warmth in the shared bed.

His footfalls crunches underneath dry leaves as he crosses the distance, dagger in hand, cutting down the vines in his way. Then he spots it, a tiny cottage no bigger than a carriage, old and dilapidated, lopsided and tilting on its side, threatening to keel over right on the moss covered ground.

The scent is stronger now that he is closer, there is a ring of mushrooms growing around the area, small brown caps all lined in a circle, as if shielding the cottage.

Aerion’s eyes narrows at the door, violence calls for him, whoever is through that door will be the recipient of his fury rather than you or the stormlord.

He steps over the mushrooms and continues to stalk towards the door quietly like a hunter. The door swings open before he could touch it, welcoming him gladly into the threshold.

Aerion enters, dagger clutched near his chest, letting his anger lead him inside.

The walls are covered in dried bundled herbs and animal furs, its scent is potent and lingers in the back of his throat. It’s all old wood, damp and bloated that is barely holding the whole structure. There’s a bubbling iron cauldron in the middle of the room, its contents is bright green, akin to wildfire as it warms the whole cottage. Except for a chair and a shelf littered with various vials, it’s sparsely decorated. Aerion’s nose scrunches with disgust.

“We’ve been expecting you, my prince.” A voice echoes from behind as the door closes with a creak.

Aerion whirls around, chest heaving as he points the sharp end of the dagger at a woman draped in darkness. “You are far too close to the castle, you trespass in our woods, witch.”

She smiles crookedly, the moonlight shining on half of her face. “Or is it you who trespass onto our land, Targaryen?”

Scoffing, the prince smiles, not unlike the smile he gives you, but a wicked one, a dangerous one. “It’s unfortunate that I ran into you, wretch.”

He raises his dagger, striking right at her but he hits nothing but air.

Aerion looks at the clean blade curiously when it's supposed to be coated with thick warm crimson. “What—?”

“You do not want that, Aerion.” For a moment she sounded like you, he expected to see you when he turns around on his heel but he sees the woods witch instead, still cloaked in darkness. “Tell me, you wish for something. I know you do, men always want.”

“I do not want anything.” He utters through clenched teeth.

“Yes, you do. Why do you lie to yourself?”

“If I do, no one in the realm can grant it, except for this.” He throws the dagger right at her, hitting her dead in her chest, right in the heart. Aerion smirks victoriously, but she doesn’t bleed nor keel over, she stands there, as still as a rock. “What in the seven hells—”

“The seven aren’t here.” She mutters, taking the blade from her heart with a squelch of flesh. She twists it around her palm, handing it back to him casually. “Tell me what you want.”

He swallows thickly, staring right at her, never letting his eyes wander away from the witch. “Why aren’t you dead?”

“Why aren’t you in Lys when you should be? Why isn’t the falcon with the stag when they should be together? Why does the hammer still stand tall and breathe when he isn’t supposed to be?”

“Stop speaking in riddles, witch.”

“Take the dagger.” Her words are spoken through different voices, simultaneously uttering it.

His eyes glances at the blade with hidden trepidation. Aerion reaches for his dagger as it dangles from her fingertips above the bubbling cauldron. He takes it, the blade slicing her palm open as blood drips onto the pot, mixing with the emerald waters. She bleeds, Aerion knows that she is human, or at least when she wants to be.

“Who are you?” He asks, dagger in hand, looking at the clean blade when it’s supposed to be bloodied.

“I am no one, but you are someone.” She mumbles, swiping a thumb over her opened palm. “I shall grant you your wish if you grant me mine.”

Aerion scoffs loudly, a laugh from the deepest depths of his chest. “I? I grant you your wish? A prince does not give out charity.”

“It’s an equivalent exchange.” Her tone lilts playfully. “Especially if it means that your wife would love you as you love her.”

Her words give him pause, the crooked smile faltering. “What do you mean?”

“If you give me a drop of your own blood, your king’s blood, I shall grant you the love you deserve.” She steps forward into the light, she looks old and young at the same time, her face shifting with every bubble popping from the cauldron. Her long raven hair drapes around her, the ends brushing along the ground as she moves.

“You are mad.”

“Not as mad as you, Brightflame.” Her hand extends forward, it’s wrinkled and old above the pot. “Just a drop of blood for the love you want. She will be yours, and you will be hers. Most of all, she will give you a dragon. Its wings will be mighty, soaring above the seven kingdoms, conquering the whole realm under your banner.”

He could just picture it, a trueborn prince, a mix of his Targaryen features and yours, a result of his love for you, a great warrior that he can mold into a vision of himself. His son will be as mighty as Aegon the conqueror himself. And then there’s you, your eyes will never wander ever again, your hands will forever hold him tenderly, and you would love him, your husband for forever and a day. Just like how it is supposed to be.

Aerion holds his head up high, chest puffed as he looks at the strange woman over his nose. “What do I need to do?”

“Blood for the old gods.” She smiles wickedly, her fingers stretching, reaching out for his own. “Just a drop will do, a drop and all your wishes will come true.” Aerion places his palm above the woman’s hand. “Won’t that be nice, Aerion?” Your voice can be heard from her lips again, he’s taken aback when he hears it as clear as day. Before he could take his hand away, the witch seizes his wrist, pricks his finger with her nail and lets his blood drip onto the cauldron. It turns blood red immediately. “We thank you for the equivalent exchange.”

Aerion snatches his hand away, staring at the small bead of blood right on his forefinger. “What now? Is it done?”

“No, not yet.” Her tone returns, and she procures a small twig from her pockets. “Say your wish and snap the weirwood in two.”

“What?” He scoffs out a laugh. “I am not an idiot.”

Huffing, she sucks in her teeth. “Take it or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me when you have already given me your blood.”

Aerion licks his lips and takes the twig. “This better work or I will come back here and turn your home into a pile of ashes.”

“It will work.” She sounds certain. “Go to your Lady love before it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?” The wood feels rough against his palm.

Her eyes crinkled in the corners, grinning at him crookedly. “The stag has his sights on your falcon.”

That raging fury finds its way into Aerion’s heart again. “That fucking bastard!” He kicks the door open as he stomps away, the cottage and the scent fading from behind.

When he looks over his shoulder to see it, it’s gone, vanished, as if it was never there. The twig sits heavier in his pocket with every footstep.

—

Aerion could just tell it was you whispering in the corridors. He could always tell with you, from the sound of your footsteps to the smell of your perfume, he knows it’s you.

He lurks behind the corner, listening to you whisper to your handmaiden. He hears a few sparse words, ‘hour’, ‘cannot tarry,’ ‘cloak,’ and that bastard’s name, said in your sweetened tone that he thought was only reserved just for him.

Aerion was thinking of you the whole trek back to the keep. He thought of not breaking the wood in half when he is certain that you still love him, when he’s still the only one in your heart. That maybe, just maybe, he’s just seeing things, that his jealousy was just that, jealousy. That you really were just dancing with him, that you still love your husband with your whole heart. But now as he listens to you plot your escape with the Lord of Storm’s End, he takes the wood from his pocket and holds it with two hands.

“I wish that my wife loves me more than anyone else in the whole realm.” Aerion mutters in the dark, snapping the twig in half.

You’re suddenly silent, the whispering ceases.

“M’lady?” The handmaiden calls you in a hushed tone, asking if you are well.

Aerion could hear you tell her that you are quite alright despite the maid’s protests. The conversation ends when the chamber doors shut with a click.

Footfalls echo from the handmaiden as she leaves with more thoughts than before, and Aerion slips from the darkness, glaring at the girl’s back before heading inside.

He shuts the door closed behind him quietly, and he sees you standing there cloaked in the darkness of the shared chambers, as still as a fallen tree, as quiet as a mouse. The hearth is dead, cold with the entire room freezing.

Aerion says your name as your eyes glimmer. “Are you feeling well?”

He sees the outline of your smile. “Why wouldn’t I be, my love?”

“Aren’t you cold?” His breath hitches in his throat, eyes never leaving your form.

“No, now that you’re here I’m warm.” Your arms open for him. “Come, I need you, husband.”

“Don’t you love Lyonel?” He tests you, jaw tight as his hands flexes at his sides.

A beat passes, a breath, a mere eerie second as you stand there idly.

Aerion watches you closely, like a bug he found underneath a stone.

You step forward, or more like slide your foot on the carpet, sliding one foot next to the other, shuffling closer to him as the sound of scraping feet against fabric echoes in the chamber.

Your bare feet kisses the tip of his boots, and he could finally see your face draped in the dark, your silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light, eyes shining like two diamonds in your eye sockets.

“Why would I love a mere stag when I’ve got a dragon all to myself?”

It worked, or he is truly mad to think that it worked. Mayhaps you snapped back to reality, back to your old self as you cradle his cheek in your palm that still smells like the acrid weirwood sap. The tips of your fingers are still stained red as your thumb traces along his jawline tenderly. Aerion rests against your hold, heart beating rapidly.

“You smell good.” You utter, closing the distance, pressing your nose against the hinge of his jaw and just breathe. You breathe him in, inhaling his scent as your nose grazes his skin. “Gods, you feel good.”

“I need to see you in the light.” He whispers against the shell of your ear, hands cupping your hips in an almost bruising hold. “Do you love me?”

“More than anyone in the whole realm.”

His heart quickens at your confession.

You take his earlobe in between your teeth and nibble, the sensation running through him as he gasps and takes the back of your knees, holding you up as you wrap your legs around him. He carries you over to the plush bed, and drops you off onto the mattress. Your legs are immediately hooked around him, pulling him in between your thighs. The moonlight shines on you, and Aerion sees the love in your eyes, love that is aimed at him, and only him.

Aerion falls atop you, hands braced on the side of your head. “Gods…” it worked.

“Let me give you a dragon, my love. Please let me carry our own prince.” You plead, pawing at his doublet, trying to untie the laces in your trembling fingers.

He seizes your fumbling wrist as he pants over you, eyes blown, lips agape. “Promise me you won’t leave me.”

Your brows furrows, head tilted like you just saw a kitten wandering around the keep, cooing at him as you take his face in your hands. “I will never leave you. You are my great love, Aerion.”

A relieved smile appears on his face. “That is all I needed to hear.”

—

The sun basks around the chamber, illuminating your sleeping face as Aerion draws Valyrian runes on your arm, over the silk of your chemise. You’re wrapped around him, legs over his own, arms embracing him like you’re trying to meld together with your husband. You sleep soundly, eyes moving underneath your eyelids as he watches you with love in his tender eyes.

This is all he wanted.

The birds chirp outside amidst the sound of hooves in the courtyard and of men and women waking up throughout the Red Keep.

His index draws the Valyrian rune for love upon your skin, then a rune for protection and a rune for fertility. You awaken at the last rune, eyes fluttering open, immediately smiling at him.

“Good morrow, husband.” Your knuckles dance along his bare chest, caressing lovingly.

“Wife, you fell asleep whilst I was undressing.” He mirrors your smile.

“My apologies, the night caught up to me I suppose.” Lifting yourself up by your elbows, you move to straddle him, hands braced atop his chest. “But I’m well rested now—” Your face goes completely still. Eyes flicking from his face, to the bed, then over to the rising sun outside the window. “What the fuck!” Flinching, you fall from the bed, frantically getting up, crawling away from him with fear in your eyes. “How— what?!” You scream in horror. Heaving, eyes watering, lips wobbling as you stare at him with confusion. “What did you do to me?!”

“What happened?!” Aerion has his hands up, trying to calm you down. “My love, are you alright?”

“You fucking—” you were about to lunge at him before you went still again, comporting yourself as the smile returns. The look of sheer terror gone in a blink. “Oh, do you want to break fast?”

“What in the seven hells was that?!” Aerion marches over to you, gripping onto your shoulders. “What happened?”

“I’m sorry,” you’re doing that face again, that pitying look, that sorry, frowning look that makes you look less like you. “I thought I was still dreaming. I had a nightmare.” Hand on his cheek, you hold him. “Did I scare you? I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry, my love.” Cheek pressed against the crook of his neck, you embrace him tightly.

Aerion’s hands hover over you before returning the embrace. “It’s alright, you were confused, it was just confusion.”

“Forgive me.” You mutter against his skin, right on the hinge of his jaw. “Will you ever forgive me, my prince?”

“Of course, always.” Pecking your temple, he lets his kiss linger.

—

Aerion watches you reject Lyonel right in the courtyard. He’s leaning against the balcony, smirking to himself.

The Baratheon sigil flutters against the wind, the caravan is about to depart for Storm’s End, and their liege Lord is trying to coax you into coming with him. Aerion could only laugh at himself when you slap Lyonel’s hand away with a disgusted grimace. He sees the exact moment you break his heart.

He could only hear snippets of the conversation, Lyonel is confused, asking what happened to you, why all of a sudden you did not want him, why you are suddenly so fixated on the prince rather than on him. Aerion was right, you were trying to leave with the laughing storm, to become his Lady wife instead of a princess. He made the wish just in time, he made the right call.

“I can’t.” You’re shaking your head at Lyonel, turning your back on him. “Goodbye, Lord Baratheon.”

Aerion knows that look on his face, it was the same look he had when he saw you dance with Lyonel, and now he is feeling the same heartbreak he caused himself.

Hitching your dress up, you walk up the steps to the balcony whilst Lyonel turns his attention away from you over to Aerion. His ire, his fury is aimed right at him. He knows, the man knows he has done something to you. Did his love for you run that thick for him to question why you suddenly had a change of heart?

“My love,” you call for him, a hand upon his bicep. “Shall we go?”

“I thought you needed to do something important?” He teases, testing the waters.

“Nothing is important here anymore.” You give him a smile and a peck to his shoulder. “Come, our bed awaits us.”

—

A moon has passed and your love hasn’t waned, not even a little as he always wakes up to you peppering his face with kisses. The wish or what Aerion thinks is a spell is working well in his favour. You have never left his side, even during training at the yard where you’d be sitting atop a crate, watching him train with a sword whilst you smile at him the whole time. And in the shared chambers you never protested when he would lie on your lap with your fingers raking through his hair. It was those slow languid mornings he savoured every minute of.

You are completely spellbound.

Aerion would think that your increased presence would become vexing but it hasn’t, he’s enjoying every minute of your unbridled attention. He relished in it, your kisses, your touch, every saccharine words whispered in his ear as you gasped breathlessly atop him whilst during marital duties that isn’t a duty any longer, it has become a need for you as much as he wanted it too.

He should grant the witch a plot of land for what she has done for him. Especially when it did not take time for the seed to sprout, the maester announced your quickening on a warm sunny day, a day he will never forget. He could still feel the elation he felt from the news, and he could picture in his mind how a smile split your face open, jumping to hold him.

The news brought on great tidings from his family and from the nobles of the court. All except for a certain Lord in the Stormlands, whom he has heard isn’t doing quite well with the news. When he told you of the whispers about Lyonel, your face stilled in that eerie way he hates. A tear slid down your face before returning back to your smiling self, as if nothing happened, the only indication was the tears trapped inside your eyes as you told him that you did not care for him at all.

Gifts were brought to the shared chambers every day, from blankets embroidered with both Arryn and Targaryen sigils, to silver rattles and carved wooden dragons, the babe was already spoiled before he could come out of your womb. Aerion even gifted you a golden necklace with two dragons dancing together on a heart shaped pendant. You hugged him so tightly that you took the air right from his lungs, refusing to let him go that he had to push you away. You did that deep frown right after, walking backwards into the corner of the room unnervingly, heaving angrily at him until he had to placate you sweetly.

You’re always holding onto your stomach, if not there then around Aerion’s arm or hand. The maester examines you every night per the prince’s instructions, and he had said time and time again that you and the babe were fine. But despite that, Aerion has gone increasingly paranoid, that someone is going to take you, that something will happen to the babe. That Lyonel would take you in your sleep and proclaim you his.

You would always calm him down, holding him beside you as you grasp at his hand that rests atop your blossoming stomach. You have told him that you cannot wait to see him, to hold your son in your arms and to find out if he resembles a dragon or more of a falcon. Aerion is the same, he wants to meet the conqueror reborn. But the excitement for you is much more intense, on some days he would see you standing in front of the looking glass, caressing your stomach, eyes unmoving on the reflection.

You were never left alone for too long, there was once that Aerion had to leave for the whole day to attend to some river Lord he did not care for. You pleaded to join him, but in the end he had to placate you with a kiss and a promise to return as quick as possible. When he returned to the chambers, he saw you standing in the same place, still in your nightgown, and smelt like Flea Bottom. You were standing atop your own excrement, and Aerion felt like the wind got knocked out of him when he saw the state you were in. He had to call for the servants and berate them for leaving you like that whilst he scrubbed you in the tub. All they had to say was that you did not want to leave because he had asked you to stay where you were. And that you had screamed at them like you were being cleaved in half.

More moons go by and you grow increasingly odd, especially after your fourth moon of carrying his son. You grew antsy and impatient as your belly ballooned, always citing that you want to meet your son, you are far too eager to meet him. Too intense that it's frightening to see you with a knife. Aerion would calm you, telling you softly that the babe needs time to grow strong. The maester called it a woman’s sickness that most expecting mothers went through, and that it is normal and would soon wane when the child is born. But Aerion knows better, he knows that you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, screaming and crying at your belly, yelling at him, asking him what he has done to you before your face stills again, smiling, acting like nothing happened.

You never left the room, you always stared at the fire like your insides were freezing. You had your moments, the sudden stillness, the sudden weeping and crying out to be let go when you are free to roam around the keep. As quick as it came, that oddness faded, and you’re back to kissing him and sharing his bed. Those moments outweighed the oddities, especially when you would always go back to loving him, to being his beloved wife.

Aerion is happy, this is all he ever wanted. Or so he keeps telling himself every time you wake with a scream and cursing his name.

On the night of your sixth moon carrying his son, he wakes up to a squelch of tearing flesh and blood. Your side of the bed is empty, your perfume lingering on the pillow.

The room is warm, too warm, scorching hot as he sweats through the blankets. Your name falls from his lips, calling for you in increasing volume and panic.

Then he hears it amidst the roar of the fireplace and cracking wood— a hum, a song that he taught you to sing to the babe in your belly, an old Valyrian lullaby.

“My love?” Flinging the blankets away, he walks closer to you as you sit in front of the fireplace, your silhouette is unmistakable whilst you sway to the song you’re humming. Your thin chemise sticks to your sweaty skin, hair mused. “What—?” He smells it, it wafts in the air like your perfume— blood. Dread gnaws at his insides. Going around the settee, he steps onto a puddle, crimson sticks at the bottom of his bare feet, your own blood flowing from underneath you, pooled around you.

Aerion has never felt fear like this before.

The crooning stops abruptly, body stilling completely. “I couldn’t wait to meet him.”

“What have you done?” His voice trembles around the edges.

Your head turns slowly to him, face illuminated by the flames, arms cradling a bundle of bloody blankets with dragons and falcons soaring together.

“Oh, he’s beautiful, Aerion. Do you want to see him?” You smile weakly, trembling, colour drained. Twisting around on the carpet, tracking blood on the Targaryen fabric, you face him fully.

Aerion flinches away, back hitting the end of your vanity as he sees your belly cleaved open, insides pouring out and your own bloodied dagger laying beside your feet.

His vision blurs, eyes turning to the bundle as your trembling hand moves the blankets away to show him his son. His babe, his boy has scales instead of skin. Eyes completely shut, undeveloped on his face, wings half grown from his back, and a tail protruding from the small of his back, curved around his torso, melted across his scaly chest.

This is not his son.

“Look, he’s got your hair.” Your finger brushes along its head of silver. You laugh, a weak and awful laugh more akin to a death knell.

“What— why did you do that?” Aerion lunges, hands grasping onto your cold shoulders in a bruising hold.

Your tearful eyes look into his purple terrified eyes. “I bore you a dragon.”

This is the love he deserves.