The royal box had been an exquisite torture.

All day, you had sat among the lords and ladies of the Reach, the velvet cushion beneath you doing absolutely nothing to comfort the restless ache that had taken root deep in your belly. The sun had beaten down on the tourney grounds, the air thick with the smell of trampled grass and churned earth and the distant roasting meat from the feast-fires, but you had barely noticed any of it. Your attention had been fixed entirely, hopelessly, on the black knight.

Your husband. Every time his black destrier thundered down the lists, every time his black armor caught the sunlight and gleamed like polished obsidian, every time his lance shattered against an opponent's shield in an explosion of splinters, you felt it in the pit of your stomach, a clench, a slow molten roll of heat that had nothing to do with the summer sun. Your fingers gripped the arms of your chair. Your thighs pressed together beneath your gown, shifting against the wetness that had gathered there. Your breath came shallow and quick.

He had unhorsed three men before midday. Three, and each time he rode past the royal box you could have sworn he lingered just a moment longer when his eyes found yours. Blue and brown. The gods had given him one eye the color of a summer sky and the other the rich dark of freshly turned earth, and you were absolutely certain they had done it specifically to ruin you.

You shifted in your seat for the dozenth time, squeezing your thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the throbbing pressure that had built between them. Lady Webber, seated beside you, leaned over with concern in her broad, honest face.

"Are you quite well, Your Grace? You look rather flushed."

"Perfectly well," you managed, not looking away from the grounds. Valarr was circling his horse at the far end, preparing for another pass. The way he sat in the saddle, the way his thighs gripped the horse's flanks, thick muscle flexing beneath dark steel, the easy confidence in his posture, the way he tucked his helm under his arm and ran a gauntleted hand through his hair, that silver gold streak on the left side catching the light—

"The heat," you added, gripping the arm of your chair until your knuckles went white. "It is only the heat."

But it was not the heat. It was remembering how those thighs felt when they were gripping your hips instead of a saddle. It was knowing exactly what that controlled violence looked like when it was unleashed in your bedchamber, when he was buried deep inside you and that same focused intensity was bent entirely on drawing scream after scream from your lips. It was the way his armor hugged his body and the way you knew every inch of what lay beneath, the lean muscle and warm skin, the trail of dark hair below his navel that you loved to follow with your tongue, the scattering of scars from a lifetime of training, the way his stomach tensed and jumped when you dragged your nails across it. It was knowing exactly what that body could do, the sounds it could wring from you, the positions it could fold you into, the seemingly endless stamina that left you wrecked and trembling and begging for more. And being forced to sit in polite company, smiling and nodding and making idle conversation, while he displayed all that power and grace and leashed violence before half the Reach—

By the time the final tilt was called and the tourney began to wind down for the day, you were fairly vibrating out of your skin. Your smallclothes were soaked through. You had imagined, in vivid and increasingly creative detail, at least seven different ways you wanted him to fuck you—bent over the railing of the royal box, on your knees in the shadow of the stands, on your back in the trampled grass with the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears—and you had reached the point where you no longer trusted yourself to speak to anyone without your voice cracking.

So when the crowds dispersed and the lords and ladies began drifting, you did not drift with them. You walked straight toward the black and red pennants that marked the Targaryen tents.

His squire was a boy of perhaps five and ten, all gangly limbs and anxious eyes, and he was already struggling with the straps of Valarr's vambraces when you swept through the canvas flap.

You did not break stride. "Out."

The boy's eyes went wide as saucers. "Your Grace, I was just—"

"Now."

He fled. The tent flap barely had time to settle before you turned to face your husband.

Valarr stood in the center of the pavilion, still armored, his helm already discarded on a nearby table. His odd eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile, the smile of a man who knew exactly what he had been doing all day.

"My wife," he said. His voice was slightly hoarse from shouting commands over the din of the lists, and the roughness of it sent a shiver straight down your spine, straight to the aching place between your legs. "You dismissed my squire rather abruptly. Have I done something to offend?"

You crossed the space between you in four strides. The tent was warm, lit by a half-dozen candles that cast dancing shadows across the canvas walls. The air smelled of leather and oiled metal and the faint, clean undertone of his sweat, that particular scent of him that made you want to press your nose to the base of his throat and breathe him in until you were dizzy with it.

"You have been offending me all day," you said, stopping so close that the steel of his cuirass nearly brushed your bodice. Your voice came out low and rough, barely more than a growl. "Parading around on that horse. Riding like that. Looking like that. Do you have any idea what you put me through? Do you have any idea how many times I had to press my thighs together just to keep from moaning aloud in front of half the nobility of the Reach?"

His brows lifted slightly, but the smile did not leave his lips. It deepened, if anything, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that was positively smug. "I was competing in a tourney. It is generally what one does at a tourney."

"You know exactly what you were doing. Every time you rode past the royal box, you looked at me. You knew I was watching."

"Enlighten me," he said, his voice dropping into something darker, more dangerous. "What was I doing?"

You reached up and pressed your palms flat against his breastplate. The metal was warm from the sun and from the heat of his body beneath, and you could feel the faint vibration of his heartbeat through the steel, steady, strong, slightly faster than it should be.

"You were magnificent," you said, your voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Every pass. Every impact. When you unhorsed Lord Ashford's cousin, when that lance hit true and he went flying, I thought I might scream. Do you know what it does to a woman, watching her husband ride full tilt with a lance in his hand, fearless, perfect, everyone in the stands cheering his name? Do you know what it does to me, Valarr, watching you dominate every man who dares ride against you, knowing that same ferocity is going to be focused on me the moment we're alone?"

His mismatched eyes had gone dark, his breath had changed, grown shallower. He did not move. "Tell me."

"It makes me wet," you said, blunt and shameless, your eyes locked on his. "It makes me ache. It makes me want to drag you off that horse by your hair and have my way with you in the dirt in front of everyone. I was ready to climb over the railing and ride you right there in the royal box. In front of Lord Ashford. In front of Lady Webber. In front of the gods and every noble house of the Reach. I would have let them all watch. I was so far gone I would not have cared." His breath caught. Through his breeches, you could see the growing evidence of his arousal, the thick outline of his cock pressing against the fabric.

"You are playing a dangerous game, wife."

"I am not playing." You pressed closer, your breasts flattening against the hard steel of his cuirass, your lips nearly brushing his chin. "I have been sitting in soaked smallclothes for hours, thinking about your cock. Thinking about how it feels when you first push inside me. Thinking about how you stretch me, how you fill me so completely I forget my own name. Thinking about the sounds you make when you're close—that raw, broken groan you try to swallow. I have been thinking about it all day, Valarr. And I am done thinking."

He kissed you. It was deep, hungry and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that matched everything you had been feeling all day. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, demanding, and you moaned into the kiss as his free hand found the small of your back and pulled you hard against him. Your body pressed flush against the unyielding plane of his armored chest, the contrast of cool steel against your heated breasts making your nipples tighten to aching peaks. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that was pure filthy promise.

You fisted your hands in the collar of his gambeson, pulling him impossibly closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that vibrated through his chest and into yours. You could taste the salt of his sweat, the faint sweetness of the watered wine he must have drunk between tilts, the heat of him. Your body was on fire. Every inch of your skin felt electric, alive, aching. The slick heat between your thighs had grown almost unbearable; you could feel it on your inner thighs, could feel how ready you were for him.

"Help me," you gasped against his mouth, your fingers fumbling with the buckles at his shoulders. "The pauldrons. Get them off. Get everything off. I need to feel your skin. I need your cock inside me before I lose my mind entirely."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his lips red and slightly swollen from your kisses. His eyes were blazing with a hunger that made your knees weak.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice a rasp that sent heat pooling low in your belly. "Exactly. Tell me every detail, and I will give it to you."

"I want you on your back in this tent." You wrenched one pauldron free and let it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. "I want to feel every inch of you against me without this damned steel in the way." The second pauldron followed. "I want to strip you bare and put my mouth on every part of you. Your throat. Your chest. Your stomach." Your fingers moved to the buckles of his cuirass as you spoke, your voice growing breathier with each word. "I want to take your cock in my mouth and feel you get harder on my tongue. I want to taste you, Valarr. I want to taste your release when you spend down my throat. And then I want you on top of me, driving into me so hard I cannot walk tomorrow. I want to feel you come inside me, hot and deep, filling me up until I can feel it dripping down my thighs. I want you to ruin me, Valarr Targaryen, until neither of us can remember our own names."

He stared at you for a long moment, his breathing ragged, his eyes burning. The bulge in his breeches was straining against the fabric now, thick and unmistakable. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

"You," he said, the word barely more than a growl, "are the most infuriating, intoxicating, utterly maddening woman I have ever known."

"Less talking," you breathed, reaching for the final buckles of his cuirass. "More undressing. I want to see what I do to you. I want to see how hard you are for me."

You made quick work of the breastplate, your fingers moving with a speed born of pure, desperate need. The steel plate hit the ground with a clang that echoed through the tent, and then you were pressing yourself against his gambeson, the padded fabric still damp with his sweat, the heat of his body seeping through to meet your own. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of muscle, down his stomach, lower—

"Gods," you whispered, your forehead dropping to his chest as your palm pressed against the thick ridge of his erection through his breeches. He was hard as iron, hot even through the fabric, and he twitched against your touch. "Do you feel what you do to me? Do you have any idea how much I want you?"

His hands—still gauntleted, curse him—slid down your sides, over your hips, and settled on the curve of your backside. He pulled you flush against him, grinding his hardness against your belly, and there was no hiding what this was doing to him. The thick length of him pressed against you, and you whimpered at the feel of it, at the promise of being filled.

"I have some idea," he murmured against your hair, his voice strained. "I have been half-hard since the first tilt, watching you watch me. Do you know how difficult it is to ride with a cockstand?"

"Then why are you still wearing so many clothes?"

You dropped to your knees. His hands hovered in the air where you had been standing, and he looked down at you with an expression that was equal parts shock and raw, naked want. His cock was at eye level now, straining obscenely against his breeches, and you could see the damp spot where his arousal had already begun to leak through the fabric.

"You are kneeling in front of me." His voice was barely a whisper, rough and desperate. "In a tourney tent. Where anyone could walk in. Where anyone could hear you when I make you scream."

"Then you had better be quick about deciding what comes next." You pulled one greave free and started on the other, your fingers brushing deliberately against the inside of his thigh as you worked. He shuddered. "Though I should warn you—I'm not feeling particularly quiet tonight. And I'm not feeling particularly quick. When you finally put your cock inside me, I intend to take my time."

The second greave came off. You stayed on your knees, your hands resting on his armored thighs, your face tilted up to meet his gaze, your lips parted and your eyes heavy-lidded with want. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. And Valarr Targaryen looked down at you like you were the most terrifying, wonderful thing he had ever seen like he wanted to devour you whole.

"Stand up," he said, his voice rough as gravel.

"Make me."

He reached down and pulled you to your feet in one motion, his hands under your arms, and then his mouth was on yours again and you were being walked backward toward the cot in the corner of the tent. Your back hit the tent pole, and he pressed himself against you, one armored thigh sliding between your legs and grinding against your aching cunt through the layers of your gown. The pressure was maddening, not nearly enough, and the sound you made was absolutely shameless, a desperate, keening moan that would have been heard three tents away if anyone had been listening.

"Yes," you gasped, arching against him, rolling your hips to grind against his thigh. "Yes, please, yes, right there, gods, Valarr—"

He kissed down your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point, his tongue soothing the sting, and you dug your fingers into his shoulders through the gambeson, your nails biting into the fabric.

"I want you," you said, the words tumbling out of you like a prayer. "I have wanted you since the first tilt. I have wanted you since I woke up this morning wet and aching from dreams of you. I want you all the time, Valarr, every moment of every day. I want your mouth on my breasts. I want your fingers inside me. I want your cock so deep I can feel you in my throat. I want you to fuck me until I cannot remember my own name, until my voice is hoarse from screaming yours, until I am so full of your seed that it takes days to stop feeling it drip out of me—"

He stopped. His mouth stilled against your collarbone. His thigh stopped its maddening pressure between your legs. His hands, which had been sliding down to the small of your back, went still.

"What—"

"My love."

The tone made you freeze. It was tender. Affectionate. Entirely too calm for a man whose cock had been pressed against your belly moments ago, hard and wanting.

You looked up. His eyes were soft now, the hunger banked, replaced by something warm and unbearably fond. And lurking in the corner of his mouth was that quirk, that maddening, insufferable little quirk that meant he was about to say something you did not want to hear.

"I am so very tired."

The words did not register at first. You blinked, your body still humming with unspent desire, your cunt still clenching around nothing, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "What?"

"The armor. You cannot imagine. I have been carrying it all day in this heat. Every muscle in my body aches. My shoulders. My back. My..." He gestured vaguely downward. "...everything."

"I will soothe your muscles. I will soothe every part of you. That is precisely what I am trying to do." You pressed your palm against the hard length of him through his breeches to emphasize your point. He was still rock hard. Still twitching at your touch. "This does not feel like a man who is too tired."

His smile widened. He was enjoying this. You could see it in his eyes, the way the blue one sparkled with mischief and the brown one warmed with suppressed laughter. He was enjoying this entirely too much.

"You are very sweet," he said, and leaned down to press a kiss, soft, chaste, utterly infuriating, to your forehead. Then he gently removed your hand from his erection, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with infuriating tenderness. "But I fear I would be poor company. I can barely keep my eyes open. A man of two and twenty is not so spry as he once was. The spirit is willing, but the flesh..." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "The flesh is very, very tired."

"You are two and twenty. And your flesh is very clearly willing."

"An old two and twenty. The joints begin to protest. It is a terrible thing. The maesters have warned me about overexertion."

"Valarr Targaryen, I swear to every god in the Seven Kingdoms, if you do not put your cock inside me right now—"

"Perhaps tomorrow, my love." He stepped back, "After a proper night's rest. When my strength has returned. Then I will be able to give you the attention you deserve." His voice dropped, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face and heaving chest and the visible stiffness of your nipples through your gown. "Every. Single. Bit. Of it. I will take my time with you. Make you scream until you cannot remember your own name—wasn't that what you wanted? But I will only do it properly when I am not about to collapse from exhaustion."

He was already moving toward the armor stand, where a simple dark tunic and breeches lay waiting. You stood frozen in place, surrounded by the pieces of his discarded armor, your body still humming with unspent desire, your soaked smallclothes clinging to your heated flesh, your lips still tingling from his kiss.

"You cannot be serious."

He pulled the tunic over his head with deliberate, unhurried movements, covering the sweat-damp linen of his gambeson. He turned back to you, looking for all the world like a man without a care, his hair still tousled and that silver streak falling roguishly across his brow. The bulge in his breeches had—through what must have been monumental effort of will—begun to subside.

"I am always serious," he said, utterly failing to keep the mirth from his voice. "I shall send for wine. Something cool, to help with the heat. You look rather flushed, my love. And your breathing is quite... irregular. Have you been sitting in the sun? Perhaps you should lie down. In the cot. Alone. To recover your strength."

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I have not been sitting in the sun. I have been sitting in the royal box watching my husband ride like a god of war and thinking about how much I wanted him to bend me over the railing and—"

"Careful," he said, raising a finger, his expression one of mock concern. "The canvas walls, remember? And I am so very weary I might faint at the details. Think of my delicate constitution."

You picked up the nearest object—a gauntlet—and hurled it at his head.

He caught it. One handed. Without looking away from your face. The man had been trained by knights of the Kingsguard since he could walk, and he caught it like it was a ball tossed by a child. He turned the gauntlet over in his hands, his smile widening into something that was pure, unrepentant mischief.

"Tomorrow, my love," he said, his voice dropping into something lower, something that promised and teased in equal measure. His eyes swept over you, lingering on your parted lips, on the flush that extended down your throat, on the way your hands were still clenched into fists at your sides. "I give you my word. Tomorrow, I will make you forget your own name. Tomorrow, I will have you in every way you described and several you have not yet imagined. Tomorrow, you will be so thoroughly satisfied that you will not be able to look at a tourney field without blushing for the rest of your life."

"Tomorrow," you repeated, your voice flat with disbelief and frustration and—gods help you—reluctant amusement.

"Tomorrow," he confirmed. And then he was at the tent flap, lifting the canvas, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder. His eyes raked over you one last time, and there was a flash of heat in them—a glimpse of the hunger he was so carefully restraining, a promise that he was suffering too, that every moment of this tease was costing him as much as it was costing you.

"Dream of me," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur that sent one last shiver down your spine. "Dream of what I'm going to do to you. In detail. I want a full report in the morning." And he winked.

The canvas fell closed behind him. You stood alone in the silence of the tent, surrounded by candlesmoke and the scent of him, your body still aching and your pride still smarting and your heart still racing and your cunt still throbbing with the orgasm he had denied you.

"Tomorrow," you muttered to the empty air, already beginning to smile despite yourself—a slow, predatory smile that promised retribution. "We shall see about tomorrow, my prince. You have made a grave tactical error. You have given me an entire night to plan." And somewhere outside the tent, you could have sworn you heard him laugh.

—

You woke to heat, a deep, liquid heat that was already pooling low in your belly, already drawing your thighs apart with an urgency that bordered on involuntary, already dragging you up from the depths of a dream you couldn't quite remember, a dream full of shadows and steel and a voice murmuring promises against your skin. Your body was responding before your mind could catch up, back arching slightly off the furs, fingers twisting in the linen sheets, a soft, confused sound escaping your lips that was half whimper, half question.

And then you felt it. The slow, deliberate, devastating drag of a tongue through your most intimate folds.

Your eyes flew open with a gasp that tore from somewhere deep in your chest. The world was waking up around you, ordinary and routine and utterly indifferent to the fact that beneath the furs, between your legs, was a head of brown hair with a distinctive streak of silver gold threading back from the temple like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.

"Valarr—" His name came out as a croak, half confusion, half moan, because his tongue had just circled the sensitive bud at the apex of your sex with devastating precision and your hips bucked entirely without your permission, your thighs clamping briefly against his ears before he pressed them back open with firm, unhurried hands. "What—what are you—isn't it—oh gods—"

He did not lift his head. He did not stop. He did not even acknowledge that you had spoken beyond a low, pleased hum that vibrated against your cunt and made your eyes roll back. His tongue flattened and dragged upward through your folds with a languid, unhurried thoroughness that spoke of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to use every single moment of it to reduce you to incoherence. One of his hands was splayed across your lower belly, holding you steady, pinning you to the cot with a casual possession that made your blood sing. The other was hooked under your right thigh, fingers dimpling your flesh, keeping you spread open for his attentions with an implacable gentleness that was somehow more devastating than force.

"Good morrow," he murmured against your cunt, the words shaped directly into your slick, heated flesh, and the vibration of his voice made you gasp and clutch at the furs beneath you.

"Isn't it—" You lost the words entirely as his tongue slipped inside you, just briefly, a teasing thrust that curled upward and made your hips roll in a helpless, seeking rhythm. "Isn't it a jousting day? The—the lists—you should be—you should be preparing—"

He hummed against you, a low sound of consideration, and the vibration coupled with the slow circle his tongue was tracing around your pearl nearly made you forget your own name, let alone your question. "The jousts have been suspended."

Your mind, hazy with pleasure and sleep and the insistent, expert pressure of his mouth, struggled to process this information with anything resembling coherence. "Suspended? Why would they—oh, right there, don't stop, please don't stop—why would they suspend the jousts?"

"The Bright Prince," Valarr said, pausing just long enough to press a hot, open mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin and leaving a trail of pleasant friction in its wake, "has demanded a trial of seven."

"Who—Aerion?" You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him through the disheveled curtain of your hair. His mismatched eyes gleamed up at you from between your thighs, one the deep blue of sapphires, one the warm brown of aged whisky, both filled with a lazy, predatory satisfaction that made your stomach flip and your cunt clench around nothing. "Aerion demanded a trial of seven? Against whom? Why? What in the seven hells happened while I was asleep?"

Valarr sighed, a warm exhale against your slick, swollen folds that made you shiver from your crown to your toes. "A hedge knight. Ser Duncan the Tall. He struck Aerion to defend a puppeteer girl, and now my dear cousin demands blood and calls it justice." He pressed another kiss to your mound, the tip of his nose nudging against the thatch of curls there. "He has accused the hedge knight of assault and the knight has demanded a trial by combat. Aerion, being Aerion, has escalated it to a trial of seven."

"That's—that's absurd, Aerion is—" You gasped sharply as his tongue dipped back into you, long and slow and curling, cutting off your outrage with a wave of pleasure that made your elbows tremble. "Valarr, I'm trying to—to care about this, it's important, you must let me—"

"I am between your legs," he said, his voice muffled against your cunt, his tongue tracing idle patterns through your folds that made rational thought nearly impossible, "with my tongue inside my wife, and she is asking about my cousin."

"You cannot simply—wake me up like this and expect me not to—to have questions about a trial of seven when—oh, gods—"

He had found your pearl again, circling it with the very tip of his tongue, a feather light touch that somehow managed to be devastating in its precision. Your elbows gave out. You collapsed back against the pillows with a moan that was frankly indecent, one hand flying to his hair, your fingers threading through the brown strands and brushing against that distinctive silver streak that marked him as surely as a banner marked an army. He made a sound of deep, masculine approval against your flesh and redoubled his efforts, his tongue working you with a rhythm that was devastatingly precise, alternating between broad, flat strokes that covered your entire cunt and focused, pointed flicks against your pearl that made sparks dance behind your closed eyelids.

"I am trying," he said between strokes, his voice low and rough with satisfaction, "to apologize for yesterday. For my behavior. For my cruelty."

"You are trying," you managed, your voice breathless and trembling and utterly lacking the sharp edge you wanted it to have, "to distract me from being angry with you. You're trying to lick your way out of the trouble you caused."

He paused, just for a moment, and looked up at you with an expression of mock-innocence that was entirely undermined by the slickness glistening on his lips and chin. "Is it working?"

Your hips were rolling against his mouth now, your body chasing its pleasure without any input from your pride, without any regard for your dignity. "No. Absolutely not. I am still—I am still furious with you—"

He sucked your pearl between his lips, gentle at first and then not, a sudden increase in pressure that bordered on overwhelming, and the sound you made was absolutely humiliating, a keening, desperate cry that you would deny to your dying day.

"You sound furious," he agreed, releasing you with a wet, obscene pop, his voice dripping with satisfaction and something deeper, something hungrier.

"You left me," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss. "You left me aching and desperate and so wet I was dripping down my own thighs, and you winked at me like it was a game, like I was a piece on a cyvasse board you'd already captured—"

"It was a game." He dragged his tongue through your folds again, slow and thorough, from your entrance all the way up to your pearl, savoring you like a man savoring the finest vintage. "A very enjoyable game. One I intend to play again."

"For you."

"For both of us." He pressed a kiss to your mound, then another just below your navel, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin, leaving a trail of tingling sensation. "I believe the terms of our game included a promise for tomorrow. And tomorrow, my sweet wife, has arrived. I woke before dawn thinking about this. Thinking about you. Thinking about how you looked when I left you—flushed and furious and so gods-damned beautiful I nearly turned around and took you right there on the floor of my tent."

You yanked his hair. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to pull his mouth away from where you desperately, desperately wanted it. He looked up at you, his lips glistening with your arousal, his chin wet, his eyes dark and amused and slightly reproachful at being denied his prize.

"I have not forgiven you," you informed him, proud of how steady your voice sounded despite the fact that your thighs were trembling and your cunt was clenching around nothing and every nerve in your body was screaming for him to put his mouth back where it belonged.

"So you've said." He tried to lower his head again, but you tightened your grip, keeping him in place. A flash of something dangerous crossed his features, annoyance, yes, but also interest. He liked this. He liked you fighting back. It was, after all, why he had married you.

"You teased me," you said, and now your voice was steadier, fueled by the righteous indignation that had kept you awake half the night. "You worked me up until I was practically begging—until I was saying please and Valarr and I need you—until I would have done anything, anything you asked, just to feel you inside me. And then you patted my head like a well-behaved hound and sent me to bed alone, aching and empty and so frustrated I thought I might scream."

"I kissed your forehead."

"Worse." You glared down at him, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that you were still flushed and panting and spread open beneath him, your slickness still visible on his face, your nipples peaked and visible through the thin linen of your shift. "It was a forehead kiss. The forehead kiss of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and is enjoying it far, far too much." You leaned up slightly, your grip still tight in his hair. "Do you have any idea how long I lay awake last night after you left me? Do you have any idea what I did, alone in your tent, thinking about you?"

His smile widened, slow and wolfish. "Tell me."

"Hours." You released his hair, letting your hand trail down the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the proud cheekbones, the slightly too full lips that were still wet with you. "Hours, Valarr. Thinking about what I was going to do to you today. Planning. Scheming. Touching myself in the dark while I imagined all the ways I would make you pay for your cruelty."

His eyes darkened further, the pupils swallowing the irises. "You touched yourself."

"I did. Twice. It wasn't enough." You let your hand drop back to the furs. "Nothing I did to myself was enough. That's what you did to me. You ruined me for my own fingers, and then you left me alone."

"Planning and scheming," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hip bone that was almost reverent. "And touching yourself in the dark. That sounds very industrious. What did you decide? What punishment have you devised for your wicked husband?"

"I decided you need to suffer the way I suffered." You watched his face carefully, saw the flicker of interest, of anticipation. "I decided I would make you want me so badly you couldn't think straight, and then I would deny you. I decided I would tie you to this cot and touch myself in front of you and let you watch, and watch, and watch, and never once let you inside me. I decided I would make you beg the way you made me beg."

He was very still now, his breath warm against your hip, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made your heart race. "That would be a cruel punishment indeed."

"You taught me cruelty. You should be proud."

"I am." He nipped at the sensitive skin just above your hip bone, hard enough to make you jump and gasp. "I am so very proud. My wife, a quick study in vengeance." His tongue soothed the sting of his teeth. "But I notice you are not tying me to the cot. You are not touching yourself. You are not denying me anything. You are lying here, spread open, wet and wanting, letting me taste you."

You smiled. It was not a sweet smile. "Where is your armor?" you asked.

Valarr blinked. The question was so incongruous, so utterly unrelated to the situation at hand, his face still wet with you, your thighs still spread, his cock visibly straining against his smallclothes, that for a moment he simply stared at you.

"What?"

"Your armor. The black plate. The gauntlets. The gorget. All of it. Where is it?"

"In the tourney tent, I imagine." He spoke slowly, warily, as if you were a strange beast that might bite him. "My squire would have cleaned and laid it out for inspection, as he does every morning before a day of—" He stopped. His eyes narrowed with suspicion and something that might have been dawning comprehension. "Why?"

You released his hair and sat up slowly, pushing yourself back against the pillows, drawing your knees together with a deliberate, pointed movement that made his eyes flick down to your thighs with undisguised regret. You looked at him with an expression you had been perfecting since last night, sweet on the surface, sharp beneath, like honey hiding a blade.

"Take me there."

"To the tourney tent?" His voice had gone very careful, very controlled.

"To the tourney tent. Where your armor is. Where your squire has laid it out so carefully."

His brows drew together, a furrow appearing between them. "You want me to stop—" he glanced meaningfully at your thighs, at the evidence of his attentions still glistening on your skin, at the obvious, aching hard on tenting his smallclothes— "this, and walk across the tourney grounds in full view of half the realm, to my tent, because you want to see my armor?"

"I want you to put it on."

The words hung in the air between you like a challenge, like a thrown gauntlet.

Something flickered in his eyes. "You want me to put on my armor."

"Not all of it." You let your voice drop into something lower, something darker, something that made his pupils dilate and his breath catch almost imperceptibly. "Just enough. Just the pieces I want."

He was silent for a long moment, studying your face, reading the intention there. Then he sat back on his heels, still kneeling between your legs, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes had gone very dark.

"You want me to fuck you in my armor." It was not a question.

"I want you to finish what you started yesterday." You sat up fully, drawing your knees together, letting the shift fall down over your thighs, letting him see that you were still in control of this situation despite the fact that your thighs were still slick and your heart was still racing and your cunt was still aching with the emptiness he had left. "You were in your armor yesterday. Every time I looked at you—on the field, in the tent, standing over me with your gauntlets dripping water—you were in your armor. Every fantasy I had last night, alone in this bed with my fingers between my legs, you were wearing your armor. I imagined the sound you would make when you walked toward me. I imagined the cold of the metal against my bare skin. I imagined you taking me in your armor, still sweating from the tourney, still smelling of leather and victory." She paused, watching his face, watching the way his jaw had tightened and his hands had curled into fists against his thighs. "And then you took it off piece by piece and left me standing in the wreckage of it while you walked away in a plain linen tunic like a common hedge knight."

"Like a hedge knight." His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpening.

"A hedge knight would have stayed and finished what he started. A hedge knight would have put his mouth to better use. A hedge knight would have fucked me until I couldn't walk straight instead of patting me on the head and sending me to bed." You raised an eyebrow at him, letting the challenge hang in the air. "So yes. I want you in your armor. I want to feel the steel against my bare skin. I want to hear it creak and clank while you move inside me. I want to remember exactly who I married—the prince who rides like a god of war and fucks like one too, not the man who is too tired and too smug and too busy playing games to bed his wife properly." You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift pointedly to the obvious bulge in his smallclothes. "Unless, of course, you are still tired. Unless yesterday's exertions were too much for you. In which case, I am sure there is a cot somewhere you can nap on while I find other, more satisfying ways to amuse myself at this trial of seven."

The threat landed exactly as intended.

His jaw tightened until you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hands flexed against his thighs, the knuckles whitening. His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin linen of his tunic. And when he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you, a sound that sent a shiver straight to your core and made your nipples tighten to aching points.

"Get dressed."

You smiled. Sweetly. Innocently. The smile of a woman who had just won the first tilt of the day and was already planning the second.

"As my prince commands," you murmured, and swung your legs over the side of the cot with deliberate, unhurried grace.

He caught your wrist before you could stand. The movement was so fast you barely saw it—one moment he was kneeling on the bed, the next he was pressed against your back, his chest against your spine, his mouth at your ear, his fingers wrapped around your wrist like a manacle of warm, living steel. You could feel every inch of him through the thin linen of his tunic, the hard planes of his chest, the ridged muscles of his abdomen, and pressing insistently against the curve of your lower back, the hot, rigid length of his cock, still trapped in his smallclothes, still achingly hard.

"You are going to regret this," he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, his breath warm and uneven, his voice a promise and a threat and a prayer all tangled together. "When I get you in that tent, surrounded by my armor, with no one to hear you scream and nowhere to run and nothing between us but steel and need—you are going to regret every single moment of bratty defiance you have given me this morning. Every sharp word. Every wicked look. Every time you pulled my hair and stopped my tongue and denied me what is mine."

His free hand slid around your waist, palm flat against your belly, fingers splayed wide, pulling you back against him so you could feel exactly how hard he was, exactly how much he wanted you.

"I am going to bend you over my shield," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout, "and fuck you until you cannot remember your own name. I am going to take you against the armor stand and let the whole camp hear you scream. I am going to put you on your knees in the middle of my war gear and use that clever mouth until tears are running down your cheeks and you are begging me—begging me, the way you made me beg with your eyes yesterday—to let you come. And I am not going to let you. Not until you have apologized. Not until you have taken back every insolent word. Not until you have admitted, out loud, that you are mine and that no one else—no hedge knight, no high lord, no god on earth or in the heavens—could ever satisfy you the way I do."

His teeth grazed your earlobe, a sharp, bright spark of sensation that made you gasp and arch against him involuntarily.

"Do you understand me?"

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. Blue and brown. Burning with a fire that matched your own. The dragon's eyes, you thought, and felt a thrill of something that was half fear and half desperate, aching want.

"Prove it," you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your thighs. "Put on the armor. Show me the prince I married. And then maybe—maybe—I'll let you have what you want."

You pulled your wrist free with a sharp twist, stood, and began to dress with hands that only trembled a little. Behind you, you heard him exhale, a long, slow breath, the breath of a man steadying himself for battle.

—

Valarr walked a half-step behind you the entire way, close enough that the heat radiating from his body seeped through the thin fabric of your gown like a fever you couldn't shake, close enough that when you passed through a narrow gap between two pavilions his hand found the curve of your backside and squeezed hard enough to make you stumble mid stride, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with proprietary confidence before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the confined space. You shot him a glare over your shoulder, heat flooding your cheeks. He smiled back, utterly unrepentant, his eyes glittering with dark promise and the kind of smug satisfaction that made you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.

The camp churned with the news of the trial of seven like a kicked anthill. Everywhere you looked, men and women clustered in tight knots, speaking in low, urgent voices that hummed with equal parts dread and morbid fascination. You caught fragments as you passed, snippets of conversation that floated past your ears barely registered—"Aerion Brightflame," spoken with the particular revulsion reserved for mad dogs, and "the hedge knight, seven feet if he's an inch, and the Reachmen have flocked to his banner," and "who in the Seven Hells will stand for the accuser against a prince of the blood?"—but the words washed over you like water over stone. Your focus had narrowed to a single point, a lodestone pulling you inexorably forward: the black and red pennants of the Targaryen tourney tent, snapping and twisting in the morning breeze ahead, their fabric tongues of dragonfire against the pale blue sky.

His squire was waiting outside, a gangly boy of perhaps fifteen with anxious eyes that darted about like startled sparrows and a perpetually worried expression etched into the soft planes of a face still waiting for its first proper shave. He straightened so abruptly when he saw you both approaching that he nearly tripped over his own feet, relief flickering across his features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

"Your Grace—"

"Leave us," Valarr said, not breaking stride, not sparing the boy so much as a glance. "Stand guard. No one enters this tent. Not the hand himself. Not the High Septon. Not the Stranger incarnate. Do you understand?"

The boy's eyes went very wide, the whites showing all around the dark irises. He swallowed audibly, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes, my prince. No one. Absolutely no one. I will guard the tent with my life. I swear it on my mother's—"

"See that you do."

Valarr held the tent flap open for you, the heavy canvas lifted high on his forearm, and you stepped inside, the cooler shadows of the interior washing over your flushed skin like a balm.

The space within was exactly as you remembered it from yesterday, you walked to the center of the tent, the trampled grass soft beneath your slippers, and turned to face him with deliberate slowness, letting him see the curve of your smile, the arch of your brow.

"Well, my prince," you said, your voice pitched light and teasing, a silk-wrapped needle, "shall we begin?"

He was already reaching for the gambeson draped over the stand, the padded linen garment rustling as he lifted it. "You wanted to put me in my armor. Put me in my armor. Every piece. Every buckle. Every strap."

"I want you to tell me," you said, stepping close enough that the hem of your gown brushed against his boots, taking the padded garment from his hands with deliberate slowness, your fingers dragging across his knuckles, "what you're going to do to me. Every detail. Every moment. While I dress you piece by piece."

His eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the violet and the black alike. "You want a story?"

"I want a promise." You shook out the gambeson, holding it open for him. "I want to hear exactly what's waiting for me. Consider it... motivation to survive the day."

He slid his arms into the padded sleeves, and you stepped behind him to help guide the garment over the broad expanse of his shoulders, your fingers brushing the bare, warm skin of his arms, the corded muscle that flexed beneath your touch like a living thing. The gambeson was still cool from the night air, but beneath it, his skin was furnace-hot, radiating warmth through the padded linen. You moved around to his front and began to lace the garment closed, starting at his sternum and working your way down with excruciating slowness, your knuckles pressing against his chest with every pass of the cord, feeling the steady, accelerating thunder of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

"When I have you," he began, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that vibrated in your bones, "the first thing I am going to do is put you on your knees."

You sank down before him, not in obedience but to reach for the sabatons, kneeling at his feet to fasten the articulated steel shoes around his boots. The position was not lost on him; you watched his hands flex at his sides, the tendons standing out against the skin, watched his jaw tighten as he looked down at you kneeling before him with your hair spilling over your shoulders and your face level with his hips. "On my knees," you repeated, your voice soft and feigned innocent. "And then?"

"And then I am going to watch you take my cock out of my breeches. Slowly. No rushing, no tearing at the laces like you're unwrapping a gift. I want to see your hands on me—both hands, your fingers wrapping around my length, your thumbs tracing the ridge of the head. I want to see your face when you first feel how hard I am for you, how much I've been aching for you since I opened my eyes this morning." His voice dropped to something barely above a growl. "I've been half-hard since I woke up thinking about the sounds you made last night. Since I tasted you on my tongue. Gods, I can still taste you—salt and sweet and something I can't name but can't forget. It's been driving me mad all morning."

You fastened the second sabaton, your fingers steady despite the molten heat building low in your belly, spreading outward like wine spilled on silk. You reached for the first greave, the shaped steel plate cool against your palms. "Go on," you said, and your voice emerged steadier than you felt. "Tell me more."

"Then I'm going to put my hand in your hair—" he reached down and suited the gesture to the word, his fingers threading through the hair at your crown, tightening just enough to tilt your head back, to force your gaze up to meet his, "—and guide your mouth to me. And you are going to take me as deep as you can, until your lips meet the base of my shaft and your nose presses against my belly. I want to feel the back of your throat. I want to feel you swallow around me. I want to see tears in your eyes—not from pain, but from the effort, from wanting to take all of me, from being so full of me you can barely breathe." He paused while you buckled the first greave around his shin, your fingers working the leather straps through the buckles, pulling them snug against the padded linen beneath. "But I'm not going to let you finish me that way. Not today."

"No?" You looked up at him through your lashes, your hands pausing on the second greave.

"No." The word was a growl that seemed to originate somewhere deep in his chest, rumbling through the air between you. "Today, I want to be inside you when I spend. I want to feel you come around my cock, feel you clench and pulse and cry out my name so loudly that the whole Red Keep knows who you belong to. I want to fill you up until it drips down your thighs, the way you said you wanted yesterday, the way you whispered in my ear when you thought you were being scandalous. Every word you said to me yesterday—I remember all of it. Every filthy, beautiful, desperate word. And I intend to make every single one of them come true before the sun sets."

You rose, your body humming with anticipation like a plucked harp string, and reached for the cuirass. The black steel was cool and heavy against your palms as you lifted it from the table, the three-headed dragon crest seeming to watch you with knowing ruby eyes. You pressed the breastplate into place against his chest, and he held it there while you moved around behind him to begin fastening the side buckles. His eyes tracked you in the polished reflection of the armor, never leaving your face as your fingers worked methodically down his sides, pulling each strap through its buckle, testing each fastening with a sharp tug.

"Then I'm going to bend you over the armor stand," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble that vibrated through the steel beneath your hands, through your fingertips, into the marrow of your bones. "And I'm going to push your skirts up around your waist—slowly, so I can watch the fabric slide up the backs of your thighs, so I can see the curve of your arse inch by inch before I bare you completely. And I'm going to take you from behind, standing up, with my armor still on. You'll feel the cold steel of my cuirass against your back, hard and unyielding. You'll feel the chill of my greaves against your calves. You'll smell the metal and the leather mixed with the scent of us. But inside you, I'll be hot. Hot and hard and so deep you'll feel me in your throat, in your chest, in the very core of you."

Your breath caught in your chest like a trapped bird. Your fingers fumbled on the last buckle, the leather slipping through your grasp before you caught it again, and you heard him exhale, not quite a laugh, but something darkly satisfied, something that said he knew exactly what his words were doing to you.

"Then," he continued, relentless, merciless, "when I've had my fill of watching myself disappear inside you from behind, I'm going to carry you to the cot and put you on your back. And I'm going to take off my gauntlets so I can feel your skin with my bare hands. I'm going to hold you down, one hand between your breasts, pinning you to the mattress. And I'm going to fuck you slowly. So slowly you'll feel every inch of me, every ridge, every pulse. So slowly you'll beg me to go faster. And I won't. Not until you apologize for every bratty, insolent, maddening thing you said to me this morning."

You finished the last buckle of the cuirass with hands that trembled ever so slightly—you knew he could see it, could feel it in the minute vibrations transmitted through the steel—and reached for the gorget. The throat armor was shaped to cradle his neck, to protect the vulnerable hollow where his pulse beat visibly beneath the skin. "Apologize?" you managed, your voice emerging breathier than you intended, a half-octave higher than your usual register. "For what, precisely?"

"For pulling my hair when you knew it would drive me to distraction. For denying me what we both wanted because you were enjoying the game too much to end it. For threatening to find satisfaction elsewhere." His eyes burned into yours, twin flames of violet and shadow, and his voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, something that was somehow more commanding than any shout could be. "You are going to say 'I am yours, Valarr, and no one else's. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours.' And then, and only then, will I let you come. Not a moment before. No matter how much you plead."

You swallowed hard. Your throat was dry as parchment left in the sun. "And if I refuse? If I'm stubborn and willful and refuse to give you the satisfaction?"

His smile was slow and wolfish and altogether dangerous, the kind of smile that would have made a lesser woman run for the hills. "Then I'll keep going until you don't. I can do this all day, sweetheart. I can bring you to the edge again and again and again until you forget your own name, until you forget why you were resisting in the first place, until the only word left in your vocabulary is 'please.' And then I'll make you wait a little longer, just because I can."

The gorget was in place, the final buckle secured beneath his left ear. Only the gauntlets remained on the table, and the helm—a sculpted thing of black steel with a dragon crest sweeping back from the crown like frozen fire. You reached for the gauntlets, the articulated steel fingers clicking softly against each other, but he caught your wrists in his bare hands before you could lift them.

"Leave them," he said, his voice rough as stone dragged over gravel. "I want to feel you. I've been waiting all morning to feel you."

And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was a conquest and surrender woven together into a single act. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable column of your throat before his mouth descended. His tongue swept into your mouth with a hunger that bordered on violence, tasting of the wine he'd drunk before you arrived, tasting of want and need and barely leashed desperation. The steel of his cuirass pressed cold and unyielding against your breasts through the thin fabric of your gown, and the contrast of sensations, cold metal against your front, hot mouth against your lips, hard steel against your soft flesh, soft tongue sliding against yours, made your head spin like you'd drunk an entire flagon of the Arbor gold on the table.

You kissed him back with everything you had, with every ounce of frustration and desire and desperate wanting that had been building since yesterday, since this morning, since the moment you'd first laid eyes on him. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his gambeson where it showed above the cuirass, pulling him closer, closer, until the steel was pressed so tight against you that you could feel the steel imprinting on your skin through your dress.

"Gods," you gasped against his mouth, pulling back just far enough to drag air into your burning lungs, "I want you. I want you now. Right now."

"Then have me."

He walked you backward with the steady, unstoppable momentum of a tide, his armored body a wall of heat and steel pushing against your softness, until your spine hit the armor stand. The wooden frame rattled violently, a pauldron clattering to the trampled grass with a dull thud, a vambrace following it a moment later, and then his hands were on your hips, the heat of his bare palms searing through your gown, lifting you onto the edge of the campaign table with effortless strength. Your skirts bunched around your thighs, the fabric rucking up past your knees, past midthigh, until the cool morning air kissed skin that was already flushed and feverish. His armored body pressed between your legs, the steel of his cuirass shockingly cold against the heated, sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a desperation that surprised you, pulling him closer, the ridges of the armor pressing into your soft flesh in ways that would leave marks, and you didn't care, you didn't care at all.

"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice ragged, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants that mingled with your own. "Tell me you want me. I need to hear you say it. I need to know this isn't just—I need to know you want this as much as I do."

"I want you," you breathed, the words spilling out of you like water from a cracked dam, unstoppable and honest and raw. "I want you all the time, every moment of every day, until it drives me to distraction. I am yours, Valarr Targaryen. I am yours and no one else's, now and always, today and tomorrow and every day after. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours."

He kissed you again, harder, more desperately, the careful control he'd maintained all morning finally snapping like an overwound harp string. One hand left your hip and you felt him fumbling between your bodies, working at the laces of his breeches with urgent, unsteady fingers, and then he was free, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your inner thigh, leaving a trail of slick moisture against your skin.

The first press of him against your entrance made you gasp into his mouth. You were still slick from his attentions this morning, your body still aching and empty from the interrupted promise of the night before, still desperate and ready despite—or perhaps because of—everything. And when he pushed inside you—one long, slow, relentless thrust that filled you completely, that stretched you in ways that walked the perfect line between pleasure and exquisite ache—you cried out so loudly you were certain the entire camp must have heard, certain the squire outside the tent must be blushing to the roots of his hair, certain the news would spread through the tourney grounds faster than word of the trial itself.

"Yes," you sobbed, your head falling back, your nails digging into the back of his neck hard enough to leave crescents in his skin, your inner muscles clenching around the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. "Yes, yes, yes—"

He took you with a ferocity that drove the breath from your lungs in sharp, punched-out cries, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your vision blur at the edges. His bare hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto him with every driving thrust, meeting your body with his own in a rhythm that was more storm than song. The armor stand rattled and creaked beneath you with the force of his movements, the remaining pieces of armor clanking against each other like discordant bells, and you had to brace one hand behind you on the table to keep from being driven backward onto the scattered steel.

The sound of it was utterly obscene, and you were past caring. The clank of steel against steel. The creak of leather straps straining. The wet, rhythmic slide of your bodies joining and parting and joining again. The raw, desperate, animal sounds tearing from your throat with every thrust, moans and gasps and half-formed words that might have been his name or might have been prayers. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, your ankles locking behind the small of his back, and the slight shift in angle made him hit a spot deep inside you that sent white lightning arcing up your spine, that made you scream, that made your inner muscles flutter and clench around him in involuntary spasm.

"That's it," he growled against your ear, his voice dark with satisfaction and unspent hunger. "Let them hear you. Let the whole camp hear who you belong to. Let the gods hear. I don't care. I want everyone to know."

"Valarr—Valarr—I'm going to—I'm so close, I'm going to—"

"Come for me." The command was a growl, a plea, a demand all at once. "Now. I want to feel you."

The command shattered what little control you had left. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave in a storm, white-hot and blinding, starting somewhere deep in your core and radiating outward in pulses of pure, incandescent pleasure. You screamed his name so loudly your voice cracked and broke on the second syllable, your head thrown back, your spine arching, your body convulsing around him in rhythmic, milking pulses that drew a guttural groan from somewhere deep in his chest. The world went white at the edges, then gray, then nothing at all for a suspended moment of pure, perfect oblivion.

He followed you over the edge moments later, burying himself to the hilt inside you with a final, deep thrust, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your sweat-damp skin, his body shuddering with the force of his release. You felt him pulse inside you—once, twice, three times, four—felt the hot, flooding spill of his seed filling you, felt it begin to drip down your thighs even before he pulled out, a slow, warm trickle that traced paths down your trembling skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tent was filled with the sound of ragged, desperate breathing, yours, his, indistinguishable from each other, two sets of lungs working in tandem. The armor stand creaked beneath you with a final, settling groan. The fallen pauldron gleamed on the grass, its polished surface now smudged with fingerprints. Somewhere in the distance, a crier was calling something about the trial of seven, his voice high and thin and utterly irrelevant, a fly buzzing at the edge of a world that had shrunk to the space between your bodies.

Valarr lifted his head from your shoulder slowly, as if it weighed more than his helm, and looked at you with those eyes still hazy with the remnants of pleasure, still dark with hunger despite everything you'd just done, still burning with something that looked terrifyingly like devotion and his lips were kiss-swollen, and there was a mark on his neck where your nails had raked across the skin, and he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

"I believe," he said, his voice hoarse and scraped-raw, the words emerging between still-labored breaths, "that I owed you a proper apology. For my behavior. For my presumption. For everything."

You laughed, a breathless, exhausted, utterly satisfied sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest and emerged as something between a giggle and a sigh. The movement made him shift inside you, still half-hard, and you gasped at the oversensitive friction. "Accepted," you managed, your own voice barely more than a whisper. "Though I should warn you—if that's how you apologize, I may need to find reasons to be cross with you more often."

—

Outside the tent, the squire stood at rigid attention, his spine so straight it was on the verge of snapping, his face the color of curdled milk, his eyes fixed on the distant treeline with the desperate intensity of a man who was trying very, very hard to be somewhere else entirely. His name was Edric, he was fifteen years old, he had been in Prince Valarr's service for exactly eight months, and he was fairly certain that nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

He had heard everything. Everything. The first moan had been bad enough, a high, breathy sound that had made his ears turn pink and his gaze drop to his boots. The second moan had been worse, drawn out and trembling, followed by a rhythmic creaking that could only be the armor stand, the armor stand, gods preserve him, the very armor stand he had polished that morning, taking a structural battering it had never been designed to withstand. And then there had been words. Words. The princess had said things—things he was fairly certain he should not repeat even under threat of torture—and the prince had responded in a voice so low and rough and possessive that Edric had actually taken three involuntary steps away from the tent flap.

Now there was screaming. Not the bad kind of screaming but the kind of screaming that made his entire body flush with heat and his throat go dry and his brain very pointedly refuse to form coherent thoughts.

He was going to die. He was going to die of embarrassment right here, outside his prince's tent, and the maesters would have to invent an entirely new category of death to explain what had happened to him.

Maybe I should have become a septon, he thought miserably. Septons don't have to stand outside tents listening to—

A particularly sharp cry rang out from within, followed by the unmistakable sound of something wooden and structural creaking in rhythmic protest. Edric squeezed his eyes shut and began mentally reciting the names of all seven aspects of the Seven. Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, Stranger—

The Stranger, he felt, was particularly appropriate. He was fairly certain he was about to die of embarrassment.

"VALARR—yes—right THERE—"

Edric opened his eyes and fixed them on a cloud that was drifting lazily across the morning sky. That was a nice cloud. Clouds were safe. Clouds did not make sounds that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his natural life.

He was so focused on the cloud—and on mentally reciting every prayer he knew, and on wondering whether it was possible to un-hear something through sheer force of will—that he did not notice the approach of the man until a shadow fell across him and a voice spoke from approximately two feet away.

"Where is my son's armor?"

Edric jumped approximately three feet into the air and spun around with a strangled yelp that he would deny to his dying day.

Prince Baelor Breakspear stood before him.

"Y-y-your Grace." Edric's voice cracked on every syllable, pitching upward like a boy of twelve instead of a squire of fifteen. "Prince Valarr's armor is—ah—it is—it is inside the tent. Yes. Inside. The tent. Where the armor is."

Baelor's eyes, the same deep blue as his son's left eye, narrowed slightly. "Are you quite well, lad? You look rather flushed."

"I am perfectly well, Your Grace. Perfectly. It is only the—the heat. The morning heat. Very hot this morning. Unusually hot. I was just—standing here. Guarding. As one does."

Baelor studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then seemed to decide that squires were simply peculiar creatures and not worth further investigation. "Good. I have need of the armor before—"

His hand was already reaching for the tent flap and Edric's soul departed his body.

"Your Grace, wait—"

Baelor stopped, his fingers an inch from the canvas. He had heard something.

A sound. A distinctly human sound. "Oh, Valarr—" The voice from within was high and breathy and unmistakably feminine, stretched taut with something between ecstasy and desperation. "Right THERE—don't stop—gods, don't you DARE stop—"

Baelor Breakspear's hand froze in midair. His fingers curled inward, retreating from the canvas as though it had suddenly burst into flame.

Edric wanted to die. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to be anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms—the Wall, the deserts of Dorne, the smoking ruins of Valyria itself—anywhere but standing next to his prince's father while said prince was audibly, enthusiastically, thoroughly fucking his wife twenty feet away.

"I—Your Grace, I am under—under very strict orders—" Edric's voice was barely a whisper, his face now achieving a shade of crimson that would have impressed a painter. "No one is to enter the tent. Not anyone. Not for any reason. Those were—those were Prince Valarr's exact words. His very exact words. He was quite specific."

Another sound from within, a rhythmic creaking, the unmistakable clank of steel against something wooden, a low, rough, guttural male groan that was absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically Prince Valarr's voice.

Baelor stood frozen outside his son's tent with his mouth slightly open and his cheeks slowly, inexorably turning the color of a summer rose.

"Valarr! VALARR—I'm—I'm going to—I'm—"

A scream. Female. Ecstatic. Utterly, comprehensively unmistakable. It was the kind of scream that left nothing to the imagination—the kind of scream that painted a very detailed picture of exactly what was happening inside that tent, a picture that Edric desperately, desperately did not want to be seeing in his mind's eye.

And then, as if the scream had not been damning enough:

"VALARR! YES! YES, RIGHT THERE—FILL ME UP—DON'T STOP—"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Baelor Breakspear stared at the tent flap as though it had personally insulted his entire bloodline. His hand, still raised, slowly lowered to his side. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment—opening, closing, opening again—like a fish that had been unexpectedly yanked from the water and was still trying to process its new reality.

"I..." He cleared his throat. "I... see."

"The armor," Edric whispered miserably, staring at the ground as though it might offer him salvation, "is... occupied, Your Grace."

Baelor's voice, when he finally found it, was remarkably steady for a man who had just been forced to confront the fact that his son was, at present, engaged in activities that would make a Dornish courtesan blush. "Occupied."

"Very occupied."

"Yes—like that—exactly like that—oh, gods, I can feel you so deep—"

"Extremely occupied," Edric amended, his voice barely audible. "Thoroughly occupied. Could not be more occupied if they tried."

A long, agonizing pause. From within the tent came the unmistakable sound of bodies shifting, the creak of the cot—the cot, gods, they had moved to the cot—and a low, breathy laugh that was definitely the princess.

"Well," Baelor said, and his voice had acquired a slightly strangled quality, as though someone had their hands wrapped around his throat, "it is... it is good that they are... that the marriage is... that they are clearly very..." He paused, searching for a word that would not make this situation worse. "...compatible.""

"Harder—HARDER—I want to feel you for DAYS—"

Baelor closed his eyes. He drew a long, slow breath through his nose. He opened his eyes again and looked at the sky as though beseeching the Seven themselves for intervention.

"Right," he said, to no one in particular. "Right. Well. I suppose... I suppose I shall find armor elsewhere. Ser Humfrey Hardyng may have something suitable. He is roughly my same proportions. Give or take. Or perhaps Lord Ashford keeps spares in the armory. For... for emergencies." He paused.

"VALARR, I'M GOING TO COME AGAIN—"

Baelor turned on his heel with the rigid, mechanical dignity of a man who had decided that the only way to survive this encounter was to pretend it had never happened. His movements were stiff, precise, the movements of a soldier retreating in good order from a battle that could not be won.

"I shall go now," he announced to the world at large. He took three long strides toward the main thoroughfare of the camp.

"Your Grace!" Edric called after him, his voice cracking with desperation. "Shall I—should I—do you want me to tell Prince Valarr that you came looking for him? When he is—when he is finished with his—with the armor?"

Baelor did not break stride. He did not slow down. He did not look back. If anything, he appeared to walk faster.

"You may tell my son," he said, his voice carrying back over his shoulder with a strained composure that was honestly quite heroic under the circumstances, "that I wish him joy of his morning. That I am pleased—very pleased—that his marriage is so... vigorous. That I am profoundly, deeply, inexpressibly glad that I did not walk into that tent. And that if either of them ever—ever—speaks of this in my presence, I shall deny it happened until my dying breath."

He paused, just for a moment, and added in a tone of immense, bone-deep exhaustion: "The Seven give me strength."

And then Prince Baelor Breakspear, the finest knight of the realm, disappeared around the corner of a supply tent with the speed of a man who had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of the known world.

Edric stood alone, staring at the spot where his prince's father had been, listening to the sounds still emerging from within the tent—a rhythmic thumping now, another rising moan, and something that sounded distressingly like the cot beginning to splinter—and wondered if it was physically possible to die of embarrassment.

It was, he concluded, probably not possible. Which meant he would have to live with this memory for the rest of his natural life.

"Oh—oh—VALARR—"

Your veins all but cry out as you feel his essence trickle into your bloodstream, taking over with each frantic beat of your eager heart. You can hear it drumming in your ears, feel it pounding in your chest, see it blurring every color and shape around you, melding them together until they’re nothing but a swirling abyss of blacks and grays behind him. No more sterile minimalism. No more sharp lines or dull colors. No more unsettling contemporary paintings. Just him and his midnight locks that appear to move all on their own, to shift and curl and grow around his perfect face as it gets closer to your own.

“Shhh, I know, darling, I know.” He teases in a slightly demeaning tone, crouching down as that endlessly black aura follows him around like oil through water. Slick, buoyant and unmistakably stark. “You’re seeing it all now, aren’t you? More than you’ve ever dreamed of before?”

All you can do is nod silently as he holds your face in his hands, reverently stroking your cheeks as if you’re something precious he can’t bear to lose.

But his own face seems to change slightly now, his eyes shifting from gold to black to gold again. Burning like a fierce sunset, his features morph with the weight of experience, shifting with the intensity of immense loss and hardening with the burden of trauma. Almost as if he’s aging backward and forward at the very same time. Different scents begin to emanate off of him with each flip of the proverbial filter. The musk of Arun’s massage oils melts into the earthiness of Amadeo’s church incense before Armand’s cigarette smoke crumbles into the dust of velvet theatre curtains. Every persona he’s ever taken up, every year, every decade and every century he’s lived through suddenly becomes visible to your mind’s eye. Past, present and future all freely given to you.

The heartache of each lover sinks into the very depth of your viscera, the brunt of his maker’s abuse churning in the pit of your stomach as it hardens him to the world over time. You can see that the need for control is much more dire than his hunger for blood, somehow justifying his malignant manipulation of Louis in Paris, a shocking hidden truth he hadn’t told anyone before. A truth that he’s choosing to share with you now.

Oh no. Ohhhhh no.

A new trail of tears streams down your face as your body attempts to release the exponential flood of raw emotion, his ancient temperament combining with yours in a tempest of volatile longing, sorrow and discipline. He merely smiles at you and wipes your tears with his thumbs, almost as if he’s pleased to see your trembling lips and quivering limbs. You understand now that this is a gift in its own morbid sort of way. A warning. A test.

“I see you,” you mumble softly, relishing in his affectionate hold as conflicted sympathy swells in your chest. “All of you.”

“All of me?” He simply smirks and lets go of your face, resting his palms on your knees. “And you’re not afraid?” He takes a beat to kneel down before you, taking his time to really look at you, to quietly analyze the racing thoughts in your head as your mortality lies in the balance. His cool hands travel up your trembling thighs before parting them slowly, twin trails of goosebumps erupting in their wake. “I knew I was right about you.”

Not afraid? Not afraid? What the fuck does he mean, not afraid? Of course you’re afraid! How could you not be?!

But what can you do about it? What other choice do you really have, here? Deny him and try to re-focus the interview? It’s far too late for that. Spit in his face and attempt to fight him off? Then Louis? Then run out into the street without your passport in the middle of a foreign country where you don’t even speak the language? Yeah, good luck with that.

“You… you don’t think I’m afraid?” You stammer as his hands creep higher up the length of your thighs, sending delicious waves of warmth up into your core that you wish you can ignore.

“I know that you should be.” He grins so darkly it nearly blots out all the light in the room, filling your chest with an impending sense of doom as your center burns with a toe-curling need for him. “But your scent betrays you.”

You shake your head, surrendering to the fact that even you can smell how aroused you are as his fingertips push the fabric of your skirt all the way up toward your pelvis, exposing your underwear to him and the two others still watching.

This isn’t fair. None of this is. You were just supposed to be shadowing Daniel for an interview, and now you’re… somehow at his mercy, itching to have him inside you. Gods, what is wrong with you?

“Already wet from words, darling?” He hums to himself before brushing his fingertips over the soaked spot on your panties, exciting the sensitive skin beneath it with a slow circular motion he’s managed to perfect over the centuries. “Oh, you poor, poor thing.”

Fuck, he’s really good at that.

“Louis and Daniel already know how it feels to have me as their maitre. Now it’s your turn,” he smirks, slipping his fingers beneath the damp fabric to finally touch your bare skin. “They may be frozen where they sit, but they can still see the way I touch you, still hear the sound of your heart racing inside that tiny little chest of yours, still smell that intoxicating musk that coats your folds.” He glides his fingers up and down your length, spreading the moisture onto your clit as he glances over at them smugly.

“Daniel?!” Your brow furrows in confusion as he continues to excite those tingling nerves buried just beneath the surface of your skin, rubbing maddening pulses of pure ecstasy as they lick up your spine, one right after another. “You… you slept with Daniel?”

Gods, that feels divine.

He clicks his tongue again, scolding you with a pouty scowl as he deftly pushes his index finger into your entrance. His lips part as he watches it glide inside with a gentle ease, relishing in how your body envelopes every inch before he decides to slip another in alongside it, forcing your eyelids to flutter. “So eager,” he whispers, almost to himself as he ignores your question altogether. “So desperate to feel.”

You want to say that he’s using his powers to keep your legs spread wide open for him, that he’s forcing you to sit still enough for him to rip your panties completely off before you nearly soak yourself over the danger and depravity of it all. But you know as well as he does that that would be a lie; that you’re more than willing to see how far he’ll take this, no matter the cost.

You gasp as he pushes a third finger in, down to the very base of his knuckle. That gasp morphs into a moan as he turns his wrist to make sure every last inch of your circumference feels the widening breadth of his digits before pulling them back out and sliding them back in again.

“Fuck!” Your mouth falls slack and your head falls back, eyes rolling into the back of your head as he pushes in deeper, sheathing his perfect fingers inside you. His thumb instinctively finds your clit and begins rubbing a slow, hypnotic rhythm into it. Up and down, left to right and over again as another breathy moan leaves your parted lips. Your hips begin to roll into the slow, tantalizing thrusts of his hand, allowing him to delve deeper inside until he finds that sweet spot so many men have missed.

“You’re not the first lover Louis and I have shared, but you are the first woman, the first seer. He can sense how perfect you are for us, how useful you’ll be in the future.” He curls his fingers inside of you, massaging that sinful bundle of nerves until your entire body begins to shiver, muscles clenching down and pulsating around his digits as your juices leak out onto the chair.

“Louis?” Louis, why would he mention Louis? And what did he mean by ‘sharing a lover’?

You hear the scraping sound of a chair’s legs against the concrete floor as something stirs off in your periphery, but disregard it as Armand removes his thumb from your swollen bud. Furrowing your brow, you watch as he tucks his thumb against his palm and carefully pushes all five fingers inside you, stretching you out more than anyone has ever done before.

“Oh my god!” You cry out and grab onto his shoulder in an attempt to brace yourself, in an attempt to somehow take control of a situation you have absolutely no control over. Only he doesn’t move, doesn’t relent in the slightest as your velvety walls obey his carnal command by dripping and stretching around him.

“Shhh, darling, you can take it. I know you can.” His praise holds you fast as your flushed chest heaves uncontrollably, forcing your eyes to shut with the excruciating mixture of pain and pleasure. “This is what you were made for.”

Stars suddenly shine blissfully behind your closed eyelids, bursting into life as the somatic shock of his hand brings you to a state of nirvana you’ve only read about in books. Bright whites, yellows and pinks take over in a kaleidoscope of rapture as he glides in at just the right angle, combusting those heavenly bodies into glittering, tingling fireworks that trickle down your spine like burnt up embers in all their immaculate splendor.

You can hear him laugh as you unravel completely, feel his cool breath against your thigh as shockwaves of euphoria follow, sizzling their way through every inch of your sensitive tissue as he pushes his hand in even deeper. Fuck! A low, guttural growl rumbles in your throat as you take him down to his wrist, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as your orgasm squirts out of you, soaking his wrist and the chair beneath you. He pulls his hand out and pushes it back inside, twisting it around just to hear you groan again as you lose yourself to the euphoric rapture.

”There she is.” He goads you with a voice that only you can hear before gratuitously licking your clit, pushing your body to its limit as he swirls his tongue around and around, nearly driving you mad. ”Stay still for me.”

Louis’ hand in your hair forces your eyes to open as Armand suddenly buries his fangs into your sex, biting down on that sensitive spot he’s been licking, almost as if he’s been softening it up. Without flinching, you watch in awe as he dines on your flesh, pupils dilating in utter fascination as he drinks down the primal concoction of fluids that pours out of your body, his hand still tucked tightly in the warmth of your walls as you shudder and convulse around him.

Louis silently watches his partner eat you out, grinning as you writhe in your masochistic fit of passion, hips bucking up against his maitre’s face like the wild animal that you are. He hums to himself and blithely strokes your hair, taking his time to sweep it onto your opposite shoulder before leaning in close enough for his natural aroma to surround you.

You manage to turn your head toward the smoky bourbon scent, trying to continue this salacious chain reaction between the three of you. But instead of kissing you like you expected, he simply grabs your jaw and sinks his fangs deep into your throat.

Sharp. Cold. Brutal.

Louis’ bite tears through you, stinging for just a second before his tongue brushes over your exposed flesh, lapping up the blood that immediately spills out of your vein and into his mouth. Something in his saliva must somehow be easing the pain, dulling it to a tolerable throb on its way down your neck before it shifts into something utterly euphoric. The sensation of both men drinking from you is absolutely divine, dizzying your equilibrium as they both latch on even harder, their grips tightening with each passing second.

“You taste just as good as you smell.” Louis’ voice enters your mind like a faint whisper, his words just as hungry as his tongue as they settle into the base of your skull.

You smile in response, but your vision begins to blur, to darken around the edges as both vampires continue drinking their fill, stifling the spasms that could well have been your second orgasm. You try to speak up to prevent them from taking any more, try to push them off of you as your body grows weaker by the minute, to save yourself in some last ditch effort. But it’s no use. There’s not enough blood to perfuse your already weakened muscles, not enough breath in your lungs to speak or even grumble against them. Shit! They're going to drain you until there’s nothing left. They’re going to drink until you’re dead! But all you can do now is silently plead with your hosts to stop what they’re doing and spare your life, to keep you as you are. Alive. But those silent cries seem to fall on deaf ears, the monsters consuming you far too lost in their own bloodlust until… you’re suddenly tasting a warm, wet rush of iron and salt.

Blood.

“Drink,” Louis whispers into your ear as he shakily presses his wrist against your lips. “Drink now or die.”

You open your mouth and swallow it down without question, without even really tasting it. Like a glass of cool water on a hot summer’s day, you consume mouthful after mouthful out of sheer necessity until flashes of New Orleans at the turn of the century suddenly appear. As if you’re looking straight through Louis’ beautiful emerald eyes, you see distinct images of Spanish moss, church steeples and the red lights. You feel the loss of his brother and the lustful pull toward Lestat, his memory only sharpening the image you’ve cooked up of him in your mind. You see Claudia being turned after the fire, the justified betrayal of Lestat during Mardi Gras, and then… Armand and the coven appear in post-war Paris, ultimately ending the familial tug you can’t help but feel toward the young vampiress.

It’s only moments after you’ve consumed at least a liter of his blood that you consider slowing down as images of San Francisco, New York and Dubai begin to take shape in your head. Their glittering city skylines, bridges and people melt into one another like a fresh painting on canvas left out in the rain, leaving nothing but a messy memory in its wake. Once you’re satisfied that you’ve taken enough to save yourself from an untimely demise, you pull back just a little, the aftertaste of chicory, bourbon and citrus still lingering on your tongue.

He tastes almost as good as Armand.

“That’s enough, cher, that’s enough.” Louis pulls his wrist from your lips and strokes your hair once more before letting your weakened body lazily slump forward, colliding into Armand’s chest.

Armand.

Daniel’s protests echo far off in the distance as Armand’s hold on him finally wears off. But you don’t turn to look at him, don’t care to see his reaction after all that’s just transpired. Instead you nuzzle your face into Armand’s shoulder, memorizing his intoxicating scent again as you listen to the slow and steady beating of his heart. How could he be so calm at a time like this? You feel the vibrations of his voice reverberate off the bones in his chest as he utters a single word to Daniel, stopping him in his tracks. Rest.

“You did so well for us, darling,” Armand whispers into your hair before planting a single chaste kiss onto your crown, a kiss of ownership.

“Yeah?” Is all you can mutter as you feel your heart rate begin to pick up, the combination of their blood rapidly flowing through your body as it reanimates the neurons and muscles in your extremities like the monster in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Is this what they felt like all the time? Lighter? Faster? Extremely alert? You turn your head to see Daniel paused mid-stride on his way toward you, a feeble yet admirable attempt to save you from these ‘monsters’, from your makers.

“Now you’re one of us.” Louis whispers, still behind you with a hand on your lower back. “Now you’ll be able to ‘see’ for all eternity.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Daniel, darling, he’ll be perfectly fine. We just couldn’t have him interfering with your turning, now could we?” Armand scoffs and pulls back enough to lift your chin with the same fingers that were previously inside you, still slick with the culmination of your arousal. He takes another moment to look at you properly, to run his hands through your hair and cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your now porcelain cheeks. “Louis’ eyes,” he whispers to himself with a soft smile, almost as if he can’t believe it. “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

------------------------------------

Your shop is rather small, but you love it.

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

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

You can make anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.

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

“And this?”

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”

He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp out. “Your grace—!”

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

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

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

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

“But—he just—the entire thing.”

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

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

“Can a cure be made?”

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

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

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

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

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

—✿—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow, heart in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “Your grace—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pet name has you reeling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My prince—”

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

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

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

You gasp out. “My prince, I—”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you whimper.

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

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

“One more,” you repeat after him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—✿—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The prince,” he says pointedly.

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

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

You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”

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

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

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

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

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

———

be nice to the woods witch ❌

fuck her against her shop counter ✅

idiot (need him)

tags 🌿

It made no sense.

But what made even less sense... was what he was feeling right now.

His jaw tightened as his gaze drifted across the hall, where you stood far too comfortably in conversation with Daeron.

His own brother. Aerion didn’t like how you were with his drunkard of a brother. The way you inclined your head as you listened, the curve of your lips—soft, polite, endearing in a way... It was so different to the sharp look he was accustomed to.

Gods, how it vexed him.

There was… something deeply infuriating about the ease with which you seemed to forget yourself—forget him—when you talked with Daeron. What could possibly be so amusing that it drew laughter from you so freely?

So he did what (arguably) anyone in his shoes would do: listening in.

Not openly because he would not be caught stooping to that, but close enough— just within earshot, where your voices carried if one paid attention.

“You fare better with my brother than I thought.” Daeron gave a low snort, shaking his head almost in awe. “Only a remarkable woman would be able to.”

There was a brief pause before your reply came, your expression almost wry.

“He could be a menace…”

The words struck like flint to steel.

A menace. Aerion’s jaw clenched harder, a burn searing inside his chest. A menace? That was what you thought of him? What you would say to his brother?

Before any sense could take hold of him, the Bright Prince was already moving. The distance between you closed in long, purposeful strides, his presence cutting cleanly that both you and his brother turned to him.

“A word,” he spat. You barely had time to react before his hand closed around your wrist, and he was already pulling you away.

. . .

The instant your husband hauled you away, a knot of unease twisted in your stomach.

The door to your marital chamber opened with a sharp push, and just as quickly, it shut behind you. You stumbled slightly at the sudden stop, surprise flickering across your face as you turned to him—

But Aerion was already looming close, his violet eyes dark with fury.

“You are—” he started, gritting out every word, “—to conduct yourself in a manner befitting my wife.”

You blinked, wide-eyed and clueless. “What do you mean?”

After the tourney at Storm’s End, you thought you had made meaningful progress with him. True, you still quarreled every now and then, but it was not quite as severe as before. And for one, the wall of pillows that once divided your bed had since been cast aside.

“Start behaving in a way that does not bring disgrace upon my name,” Aerion continued, his voice sharp with disdain.

“When have I ever done—”

“Don’t feign innocence with me, wench. You have been behaving as though you have no husband to answer to.”

What was this nonsense he was prattling about? You had only just conversed with Daeron, and of all men in Summerhall, he was the most harmless soul there was.

“Are you suggesting I’m having an affair?” Your voice rose, tinted with disbelief. “Aerion, he is your brother—”

“Brother or not, I am not blind,” he cut in sharply. “History is not so kind as to spare men from betrayal simply because of blood. Do not pretend such things are beyond you.”

You couldn’t believe this. The accusation lingered, and his very presence suffocating in its intensity. Something lurched in your chest at the way he worded it.

“You would do well to remember your place.” Something dark and ugly flickered in his violet gaze. “If you cannot even manage the duties expected of a wife, then you will soon prove yourself inadequate.”

This madman. Was the things they said about the Targaryen madness true after all? You didn’t know why your eyes were getting watery.

But by all Seven Gods, you refused to show it to him. You held his gaze, fingers tightening against the fabric of your skirts.

“If that is truly what you think of me… then so be it, my lord husband.”

The way you hissed out made Aerion tilt his head to reassess you. Oh, but you were far from done. You had enough too.

“From now on, I request a separate chamber as I cannot share a chamber with a man who thinks I’m an unfaithful wife— I will explain it to your father should he ask.”

And before he could answer—before he could twist your words into something else—you turned on your heel. Your steps were swift, resolute, carrying you toward the door before the sting in your chest could betray you.

Ever since that day, you avoided Aerion as though he were a plague.

You wasted no time in moving your personal belongings into one of the guest chambers—the farthest one from his, you made sure of it. The servants had looked at you strangely, though none dared question it. By nightfall, the room had been made entirely your own, and from then on, the door remained locked whenever you were inside.

Your hours were filled with all womanly pursuits there were—embroidery, painting, books... sometimes you were lost into them until late night.

You had your space now. Your peace. You no longer had to endure his temper or unreasonable accusations, and probably should have done this from the very first day of your marriage. Being rid of him was a blessing—

So why, then, did it irritate you… that he made no effort to seek you out?

He is so infuriating!

With a sharp motion, you stabbed your needle into the embroidery more harshly than intended, as though the act alone might banish every thought of your stupid husband from your mind.

. . .

Aerion had thought that distance would do him good, really.

He had hoped that once you were no longer within reach, whatever strange fixation had taken hold of him would fade, starved by absence.

Oh, but it had not. If anything, you plagued him more.

Your absence was louder than your presence had ever been. He kept thinking of your smile when he told you of his shit day, your puckered lips when he boasted, and how you would held the blanket tighter when you were cold at nights.

You asking for separate chambers had not been part of his expectations. Not once had it crossed his mind that you would be the one to walk away first, and now he was alone in a room that had once been his during his boyhood—

And damn, it felt so... unbearably empty.

He struggled to make sense of it. He should have been relieved. There were no more sharp-tongued retorts to provoke him and no more tempting presence to unsettle him at every turn.

So why did the silence grate?

Why did each night alone leave him more irritable than the last?

Aerion still didn’t know the answer, but he did know he needed a fucking distraction.

The next morning, he found himself riding alongside his father’s hunting party, the chill air biting against his skin as they rode through the woods.

Prince Maekar had cast him a glance, one brow arching high. Aerion was not known for early mornings, least of all voluntary ones. But he let him be all the same, thinking that perhaps his boy had finally gathered some of his long-lost wits.

The hunt would end in afternoon. And yet—

By midday, the Bright Prince had not loosed a single clean shot.

Aerion was usually a decent shot, but somehow this morning, his focus always frayed, his thoughts drifting— your face rose in his mind more times than he preferred.

Not as you had been in the hall, smiling at Daeron, but as you had looked at him then.

“If that is truly what you think of me… then so be it, my lord husband.”

More than spite, you looked hurt. Though you had tried so damnably hard not to show it, and worse, he realized it only now. He lowered his bow, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest.

Seven hells, if I could just—

Aerion exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. By the time the hunt ended, his mood had only soured. He reined his horse in beside his father at last, silent for a moment before asking his father a question out loud.

“Father, do the Andals practice sorcery or the sorts?”

Prince Maekar turned his head slowly, fixing him with a look of pure exasperation.

“Are you drunk, boy?”

The evening meal was quieter than usual.

Prince Maekar sat at the head of the table, his presence imposing as ever, while his sons occupied their usual places—Daeron already halfway into his cups, Aerion brooding over his goblet, and Egg watching them all with bright, curious eyes as he munched on his meat.

Maekar’s gaze flickered towards his second son briefly before he addressed the nearest servant. “Where is my good daughter tonight?”

Your handmaiden, standing a careful distance away, dipped into a respectful bow. “My lady is unwell, Your Grace. She sends her apologies.”

Aerion did not look up, scoffing inwardly as he took a drink of his wine. You were avoiding him, he was convinced of it. This was merely the next step in your petty defiance.

Daeron, on the other hand, perked up at once, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“Unwell, is she?” he mused, glancing at Aerion. “Or am I witnessing some grand marital dispute from a safe distance?”

His younger brother’s violet eyes snapped towards him. “Hold your tongue.”

“Oh, I am merely curious,” Daeron drawled, leaning back in his chair with careless ease. “You drag her away in a fury one day, and the next she vanishes from supper entirely? You must have incurred her ire. Ladies do tend to prefer husbands who do not bite, brother.”

Egg snorted softly into his cup, quickly trying to disguise it as a cough.

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “At least I do not drown myself in wine to make myself tolerable company,” he shot back.

“You believe yourself more tolerable than me?” Daeron raised a brow, amused. “You?”

Egg, unable to resist, piped up, “If she is avoiding you, you must have said something particularly dreadful, brother.”

Aerion shot him a glare. “Stay out of matters you don’t understand, you little—”

“Quiet, all of you!” Prince Maekar hissed, looking over the unruly lot that were his sons. He shot a withering look at Daeron, a grim one at Aerion and ushered Egg with, “Finish your meal and return to your quarters, Aegon.”

Egg only gave a careless shrug—entirely unbothered, if not faintly amused by his brother’s state—before taking his leave soon after. Aerion, for his part, scoffed under his breath, his temper already stretched thin to its breaking point.

“She will attend when she pleases,” he spat curtly, as though that settled it.

And yet, for the rest of the meal, his eyes strayed more than once to the empty seat.

. . .

You were ill... and you were not faking it in the slightest.

This was the third day now, and perhaps it was your own doing when you spent one night too deep in your painting that you didn’t sleep. Your body felt sluggish, heat pooling beneath your skin in a way that left you both feverish and cold. Sleep came often, but never restfully.

You probably should have a maester look at you soon. You shifted beneath the covers, your breath shallow as you tried to coax yourself into sleep. By now, your eyes stung faintly, your composure worn thin.

And worse, you missed him.

You had been so certain of your anger, and yet here you were— aching for the very man who had wounded your pride.

Perhaps the fever had muddled your thoughts and stripped away any reason, but you found yourself wishing that Aerion were here. That he would push open the door without warning, standing at your bedside with that sharp, infuriating presence—

“You stupid little menace...” you grumbled under the blankets, forcing your eyes shut. You would not allow yourself to falter before him though.

And just as you began to doze off— the air shifted. You immediately knew you weren’t alone. Your eyes snapped open, wary.

At first, there was only the dim outline of your chamber, shadows dancing faintly in the low candlelight. Then, a glint of steel caught the light—

A blade.

Instinct seized you before thought could. You twisted sharply as the knife came down where you had been only a heartbeat before.

The mattress tore. You scrambled back, heart pounding, vision swimming as you forced yourself upright. Your hand grasped blindly—finding the nearest object—

The rogue lunged again and you swung whatever it was you had grabbed.

. . .

The wine tasted particularly good this late evening.

Aerion was not exactly a fan of alcohol, but sometimes dulling his senses made thinking certain things easier. He had turned it over enough in his mind, brooded on it, weighed it— and come to a decision.

Tonight, he would put an end to this cold war between you. He would drag you back to your marital chamber if he had to. The nights without you had grown so unbearable that it felt as if they were driving him towards a slow, simmering madness.

Across from him, Daeron had sunk deeper into his usual drunken stupor, though his tongue remained as loose as ever.

“You know,” he slurred, lifting his cup lazily. “You are a fortunate man, brother.”

Aerion turned his head slightly, regarding him with a nonchalant glance.

“What does Lady Lannister lack for? She has it all. Beauty, wit, spirit…” He let out a chuckle. “Nothing at all. You ought to cherish her.”

To Aerion, all he heard was his brother coveting his wife. His lip curled slightly, irritation sparking.

“I don’t want to hear that from—”

A shrill scream suddenly cut through the hall that the two princes stilled. Your handmaiden came rushing in, her eyes wide with terror, pale and breathless, addressing him instantly.

“My prince! An attacker—! In my lady’s chamber!”

The world suddenly came to vivid focus. In one dreadful heartbeat, Aerion was already on his feet, seizing the sword displayed on the cabinet, the fine steel already drawn as Daeron sobered instantly, rising from his seat.

The brothers tore through the corridors, servants scattering in their wake. Aerion cannot think—he only drove forward with harsher strides, a single thought consuming him.

Anyone who dares to injure you would pay their price in blood.

The moment he arrived, your chamber was in chaos. Your other handmaiden lay crumpled on the floor, bathed in her own blood, whereas you—

You stood there, trembling, a candlestick clutched in your hand like a weapon, eyes wide and unfocused as the attacker struggled at your feet.

For a single, suspended moment, Aerion saw nothing but red.

His sword thrusted cleanly through the man’s shoulder, pinning him to the floor with a sickening force. The attacker cried out, writhing in agony—but he paid him no mind.

His focus was you. He reached you in one stride, as you threw yourself on him.

“You—!”

The strong arms of your husband came around you at once, pressing you against him, holding you fast—and in that instant, he felt the searing heat from your skin.

“Aerion…” you breathed, laced with relief at the mere sight of him.

But whatever words he had died in his throat when your knees buckled. Your fingers slackened, the candlestick clattering to the ground.

He caught you before you could collapse, arms tightening instinctively as your weight went limp against him. Your head fell against his shoulder, your breath faint, and your body far too warm.

Something cold and suffocating coiled around his chest.

“My lady!” your handmaidens cried out, their voices frantic, but he scarcely heard them, because for the first time in his life—

Aerion felt a raw, undiluted fear for you.

“Why was I not told my wife was this severely ill?!”

The Bright Prince’s voice rang through the chamber, sharp and furious. Almost everyone—and Prince Maekar—flinched at his harsh tone.

Your handmaiden shrank beneath his vicious anger. “My prince, I did inform you—”

Aerion’s gaze only darkened further, which made her recoil. It was not only your condition that had stoked his wrath, but also the very fact that Summerhall had been breached by some nameless assailant.

“I want the wretch who dared trespassing my wife’s chamber bound in the dungeons with no water. I will question him myself.”

He turned sharply to the guards, snapping, “And if you allow another vermin to slip into this fucking castle again, I swear to the Seven, I will have your hands and feet severed for your failure— you’ve proven them useless enough as it is.”

Nothing and no one could soothe his temper. Prince Maekar might have deemed his son excessive in his threats, yet… he understood, in some measure, and said nothing.

The maester, who was already tending to you, spoke calmly over the tension.

“It is the spring fever, my prince. Unpleasant, but not uncommon these days. If she makes it through the night, there is every chance she will recover.”

His gaze was fixed on you then, who were still and deathly pale. It looked as though even drawing breath had become a struggle for you, and he was on the verge of turning his wrath upon the maester when—

“Aerion…”

Your voice was no more than a whisper, yet it reached him. This was the second time this night you had called his name.

Maekar saw it firsthand— how the fury ebbed from his boy’s gaze, giving way to raw concern as he hovered over you. In all his life, he had only seen Aerion like this twice: once, when the boy had stood by his mother’s sickbed… and the second time, now.

Truthfully, the Prince of Summerhall had nearly abandoned hope for him. His second son had grown into someone so cruel and vain... and in Maekar’s mind, binding him to a proper lady like you had been a last, desperate attempt to salvage whatever remained of the happy boy he had once been.

Aerion’s hand had found yours, fingers closing around your palm as though to anchor you there. The maester glanced between them. “My lady needs rest—”

“She is asking for me,” the Bright Prince replied, leveling him with a dark stare. “I am staying.”

There was no room for argument in his tone.

Maekar studied him for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze. Then, with a subtle look from his eyes, he motioned for the others to withdraw from the chamber.

Having gone through this himself with his late wife, he knew exactly what Aerion must be feeling. Still, he allowed himself a moment longer at the threshold to watch while the others left.

The four dragons on Maekar Targaryen’s personal arms stood for all four of his sons, but deep in his heart, Aerion had always been different. He was the son who resembled him most— that same fire, quick temper, and unquenched thirst ran thick in his veins.

He could see how Aerion was determined to stay, his hand still wrapped firmly around yours. Now he had taken a seat near the edge of the bed, stroking your face in silence.

Something in Maekar’s expression softened, just barely.

Then he, too, turned and left them to their silence.

Consciousness came to you slowly. Your eyes fluttered open, vision still blurred at the edges, only to find your silver-haired husband quite close to your face— violet eyes fixed intently on your face, as though he had not looked away for hours.

Your heart fluttered. If this was a dream, you did not wish to wake from it. For a moment, you simply stared at Aerion, dazed, trying to make sense of him.

“…You look dreadful,” you croaked, noticing his disheveled hair.

“And you have been unconscious for almost twenty hours,” he returned dryly, lacking his usual bite. “You have little ground to speak on appearances.”

“Twenty…?”

“Your fever broke not long ago. You were burning like a forge.”

“And yet here I am,” you retorted, a hint of humor slipping through despite your weakness. “Still very much alive. How unfortunate for you.”

There was a brief silence. You became aware then, of the fact that Aerion was not merely near you, but lying on the bed itself and facing you, closer than he had been in… days.

“Your maid told me you have been ill, and still you chose not to summon a maester,” he started, his irritation slipping through. “And look what demanding a separate room got you. Brilliant.”

You frowned, irked. “I didn’t think it necessary then, but who could have imagined anyone might come and go from Summerhall as they pleased—”

“I will have that wretch’s offending arms severed and leave him as a corpse—”

“Oh? How very assertive of you. I certainly did not ask you to loom over me like some—”

“Like some what?” he cut in, sharper now.

You faltered, then looked away again, something tightening in your chest.

“…Why do you suddenly care?” you asked instead, pointed. “Aren’t you the one who thinks I am not beyond unfaithfulness? You should have just let me succumb to my illness so you could find a new, prettier and younger bride in my place.”

While a part of you wanted to be near to him, his accusation hurt you in equal measure. Meanwhile, Aerion went still. For a moment, he said nothing—only watched you, something dark flickering behind his gaze.

“You think I would stoop to that?” he questioned at last, voice low, edged.

“What else should I think?” you shot back, meeting his eyes now despite the ache in your head. “You made your opinion of me quite clear—”

That was when his patience snapped. He did not let you finish, because before you could fathom anything, his hand suddenly pulled the back of your head and—

—his lips crashed against yours.

It was not gentle—or at least, not at first. It was searing, sudden, born of frustration, anger— also days of tension, of unspoken thoughts and unacknowledged feelings. Myriad of things seemed to spill into that single kiss.

Your hand rose instinctively, pressing lightly against his chest, to steady yourself more than to push him away. And then the kiss softened, if only slightly— less force, less anger, and more something else entirely. Lust?

Something either of you chose not to name in the end.

When he finally pulled back, the violet of his eyes blazed, as if holding on the last strands of his control.

“You infuriate me—” he growled, voice tight, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. “You vex me, you are everything I never want in a wife, yet—”

For once, Aerion was at a loss of words. His hand lingered at your cheek, thumb brushing faintly against your skin as though savoring the feel of your skin, because in fact, this was the first time the two of you were this close on your own will.

Your gaze was unfocused, wide and glassy, lips parted slightly as you looked at him. You were the very image of the girl he had once waited for in the halls of the Red Keep during your visits in his boyhood.

How funny was it that he actually fell for you? Almost begrudgingly, Aerion tugged you closer, spitting these words as he held your gaze with that steadfast urgency:

“I lied— you are everything I want after all.”

And then, he kissed you again. His lips found yours with a quieter intensity, no longer clashing but claiming—slow, deep, as though he meant to make you feel every bit of it. His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your head, drawing you closer and deepening the kiss.

“Mmh, it felt fucking mad... wondering what you were doing—” he bit out against your lips, the words rough. “I can’t stay away from you for a single fucking day and and yet you can go about... as though I do not exist?”

“Ah, mmph...” you breathed, drawing him closer to you as his hands traced along your sides and up the length of your spine. He was so warm, so solid— from the very moment you saw him riding in that tourney at Storm’s End, you had secretly wanted to hold Aerion Brightflame in your arms too.

The two of you were like two lovers discovering each other. Your husband rained hot kisses on your skin, from your mouth, jaw, throat, to your cleavage—

You hadn’t even realized that his deft fingers had been making a quick work of your bodice, and suddenly you were naked before him.

“F-Fuck...” he grounded out, laving his tongue on your bare chest. You inhaled sharply, feeling how he took your left breast in his mouth and sucked hard. You moaned, gripping the back of his head, savoring the heat that was coiling in between your legs.

Your voice was melody to his ears and Aerion started grinding against you, putting everything he had known of pleasuring a woman into practice.

“Aerion—” your breath hitched, your senses heightened, your whole body trembling— his tongue and lips were everywhere in your body he could touch.

It was overwhelming how close he was, how completely he seemed to surround you, as though there was nothing left in the world but him.

“Say my name,” he commanded, only then realizing how deeply he craved the sound of his name falling out of your sweet lips.

And so you did— when he held you as though you were something fiercely his, and when you clung to him as though you had always belonged there. You called his name over and over, crying it out at one point, when he buried himself to the hilt inside you and filling you with everything that was his.

And somewhere between defiance and surrender, between resentment and longing... the lines between enemies and lovers blurred for the dragon and the lion on this night.

. . .

The next time you awoke, you were in Aerion’s arms.

You were nestled against him, your head resting upon his bare chest. His arm draped securely around you, as though even in sleep he would not let you stray far.

Your husband—your enemy since you were children of five—had staked his claim over you. He had kissed you, bedded you, claimed your maidenhead and, Gods help you, you had been lost in the allure of the first night you had long dreaded since before your wedding.

Your fingers moved idly across the pale expanse of his chest, tracing slow, absent patterns—half in thought, half in quiet wonder.

Perhaps your prodding had been a moment too long that Aerion stirred.

His arm shifted slightly, and one violet eye cracked open, casting you a sidelong glance. You startled, hand stilling at once.

“What?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

“Nothing,” you replied quickly.

He did not look convinced. Still, he said nothing further, only watched you for a moment longer before his gaze softened, just slightly. His hand, which had rested idly against your back, began to move in slow, absent strokes along your spine.

Never in your life had you seen Aerion Brightflame this… tame.

“Yes. I am comely enough,” he muttered after a beat, catching your lingering gaze. “You may stop staring now.”

A huff left you. “You are insufferable, even at this hour.”

“And you are unexpectedly tolerable.”

You let out a snort, and he had a half-grin on his face. “Careful, wife. You may grow fond of me.”

“Do not flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

Who would have thought that the two of you—who could scarcely endure one another’s presence—would find yourselves here, like this?

You did not speak the thought aloud. Instead, after a moment, you said, “If this—” you gestured vaguely at the sheets, “is to… continue—”

Aerion’s brow lifted slightly, looking as if he had taken some sort of offense. “If?”

“—then I will have one condition.”

He regarded you with mild curiosity, before letting out an exasperated exhale, tempering his voice into a mocking tone.

“Very well, my lady… and what, pray tell, do you demand of me now?”

You hesitated, just briefly, before meeting his gaze.

“No more visits to the whorehouse. Under any circumstances. You are not to shame me in any form.”

The words lingered, and you could feel the warmth rising to your face even as you held his gaze. You braced yourself—expecting resistance, a sharp retort, perhaps even mockery.

But instead—

“Done.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “That was… remarkably quick.”

Aerion cast you a withering stare, shifting slightly as he settled more comfortably. “You misjudge me, wife. It does not interest me.”

Your frown deepened, suspicion threading through your expression. Surely he did not fully grasp what he had just given up.

“Aerion, do you even—”

Oh, but by now, your husband knew what he had to do. He cut you off in the only way he seemed to favor— with a kiss.

He then moved above you, trailing wet kisses along your throat and shoulder. You should have pushed him away, yet you didn’t.

When he finally drew back, a roguish grin had settled onto his face. That damn, handsome face.

“You think too much. Just rest your pretty little head, my lady.”

“And you think too little,” you returned, though the bite had dulled.

A faint hint of amusement touched his lips, and you knew what he said to be true, much to your chagrin.

“Then we are simply… well-matched.”

Ever since the incident in your chamber, something had shifted. No one spoke of it, or noticed at all… save, perhaps, Prince Maekar, who watched his son with a sharper eye than most.

Aerion, for his part, remained very much himself. Haughty, vain and simply cruel, he still made a sport out of other’s suffering. And you simply listened with the composure of a saint, playing the demure wife to his fire.

While the two of you might fool everyone with the act, you could never with the Anvil— a seasoned man with a colorful experience of his own.

And soon, he saw it with his own very eyes.

Prince Maekar had taken to his usual walks through the gardens. It was meant to be a solitary habit, at least until he turned the corner and found his son bending you over the marbled table—

In the very picture of impropriety.

After a brief pause and a high arch of an eyebrow, he simply turned away, continuing his walk as though he had seen nothing at all.

There were some things a father did not need to witness twice… though, for what it was worth, it was not so terrible a sight after all. And he knew one thing for sure—

There was no such thing as a secret that could truly be kept.

. . .

The romance of the dragon prince and his lion princess would become an anecdote in many years to come… but before then—

Right now, it was Summerhall who had come to know first... that the dragon too had captured the lion’s heart.

"i need absolution. i've betrayed people. i've betrayed myself."

his voice skittered across your skin like a flat stone across still waters. the hairs raised on the back of your neck.

your kind eyes widened as the large man turned around to face you, sporting a knife between his fingers. the flickering candlelight from the altar distorted his features slightly, but you made out a wide, jagged scar across his right cheekbone. his brow made a crease in his forehead as curious, fiery eyes studied you. he was in his late thirties or early forties, years decorating his skin. you tried not to entertain the thought that he was handsome.

"can you absolve me of my sins?"

you cleared your throat, heartbeat thrumming in it. "uh, i'm afraid only priests can do so—"

the stranger grinned something wicked, still spinning the silver weapon expertly in his hands. he held it out into the rays of light to purposely catch your gaze. "i'm not too picky."

your eyes stole to the confessional tucked away along the right wall of the church.

"yes. somewhere quiet."

he lumbered toward it, steps heavy on the marble floor like his skeleton couldn't handle the amount of muscle on his body. you followed dutifully, still on your guard given the presence of the knife.

it was late in the evening, almost morning, so the church was mostly empty save for a few lost souls remaining scattered among the pews. the sun had set hours ago, so only the candlelight from the altar lit the room, reflecting off the stained glass windows pleasantly. this was typically when you'd come to pray, but as you were a novitiate, you could use all of the guidance opportunities you could get.

your hand closed around the knob of the left side door and turned, pulling it open to be hit in the face with the scent of myrrh. you nearly coughed, instead letting out a gasp when the stranger slipped in the left side compartment behind you.

"don't worry, i closed the other door."

the smirk on his face stretched too easily. if you weren't nearly a nun, you were certain you'd have put hands on him.

"excuse me, sir, you must go—"

a raised thick eyebrow silenced you as he turned fully towards you. "ain't going anywhere, sister."

you sighed, realizing defeat, and sat down on the bench cushion a few feet away. "i'm not a nun yet. you needn't call me 'sister.'"

"that's why you're in white?" dex remembered sister maggie's black veil well.

you nodded, gaze falling to your twiddling fingers. your veil was stark white, contrasting to the rest of your benedictine black habit, covering your hair and ears to promote modesty. it also signified that you hadn't yet taken your final vows as a nun.

"what brings you to our congregation seeking penance?"

you met his eyes, peering up through your bare eyelashes, and dex's rusty heart stumbled in his chest. after weeks of watching you from afar, he was stunned close up. the tip of the knife he was playing with sunk into his left index finger and he barely registered the pain, entranced by your natural beauty and sincerity.

dex was acutely aware of the amount of space he took up in the confessional room. quite frankly, it was most of it. he loomed over you, craning his neck to fit into the room properly.

something about the way you were looking up at him from your seat had dex's buzzing mind wandering toward desire — something he rarely indulged himself in.

christ. a nun, dex? really?

the taboo of it all had dex's blood pumping faster in his veins. he cleared his throat. "i wish to be free of this guilt."

"guilt for what, mr…?"

"call me dex," he said, moving a few inches further into the confessional. his scent invaded your nose: a clean, woodsy, musky fragrance.

the red and black gems clinked together on the silver rosary chain as you clenched your left fist tight around it, making the sign of the cross over your chest. you kissed your fist, eyes closed, murmuring a silent prayer to st. teresa of calcutta for guidance to help serve others. she had never led you astray before. you willed yourself to take a steady breath and look dex in the eye.

"how does this go…?" dex trailed, baiting you to give him your christian name. you gave it willingly, voice dancing along the incense-threaded air. he repeated it, chewing on it like sinful bubblegum.

you crossed your legs at the sound, squeezing your thighs together, creating accidental, delicious friction under your skirts. with your hands folder over the top, you were certain it went undetected.

you didn't know benjamin poindexter.

he certainly knew you.

dex's eye twitched with the effort of remaining still. his gaze — now hooded — dragged slowly, intentionally, from your clasped hands up your torso, as if he could see straight through the black scapular and habit that covered your holy skin. you felt exposed; laid bare for his hungry eyes to behold you.

clearing your throat, you felt a stubborn blush creep up your neck as dex's focus reached your face.

"t-typically, in confession, a priest will sit on this side while the patron receives penance from the attached room." you gestured to the screen that separated the rooms on the left wall.

"why would i want to go in there to repent when the pretty girl who's gonna save my soul is in here?" he asked, a wild glint reflecting in his eye.

you let out a nervous laugh, blush creeping higher and higher.

dex fell to his knees like a sack of bricks and you swore you heard them crack against the wood floor beneath the worn persian carpet. he held out the small throwing knife to you with both hands in offering, desperately blinking up at you. your delicate fingers closed over his, softly folding over the blade edge as if he were trustworthy.

your sweet voice was melodic in dex's ears. "you'll begin with: 'forgive me, father, for i have sinned.'"

he swallowed, watching your carotid pulse in your neck a little too attentively. his pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, a smirk growing on them. he couldn't believe his own boldness.

"forgive me, father," he repeated with a deep sigh, near short of breath, mind far from christ, "for i have sinned."

"when was your last confession, dex?"

"i've never had the honor, sweetheart," he chuckled, smirk widening at the thought. "you'll be taking my confessional virginity."

your complexion burned shades darker, averting your bashful eyes at his insinuation. your voice squeaked when you spoke.

"oh, okay, well in that case, you may state that for his lordship's ears."

"gladly." you got a perfect view of his muscular throat as dex's head tilted back, adam's apple bobbing. you'd reprimand yourself later for wondering what it might feel like under your lips. "it's my first time, big 'G'. thanks again for sending me your loveliest angel."

dex threw you a charming wink and your lips twitched into a smile.

"i-i thank you f-for your kind words," you stammered.

dex's hands, brandishing the knife and holding your own with a grip you could've escaped, eased into your lap. his chest brushed your knees from his position kneeling on the floor, only centimeters apart now.

"forget about it."

a beat passed. "and if i don't want to?"

another stretch of silence. this time longer, as dex tried to wrap his mind around the situation he found himself in. his greenish gaze bore into yours, flaying you alive layer by layer. a long-forgotten, now-forbidden feeling stirred in your core.

"then don't."

the air in the compact room seemed to still, as if bating it's breath in anticipation. you could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

"i won't," you whispered, reaching out cautiously to trace his cheek scar. dex froze, soaking in the feeling of your warm, soft, little fingers dancing patterns on his abused skin. he couldn't breathe — not with you touching him, looking at him like he mattered. you could tell he wasn't used to grace.

"tell me your sins, baby," you coaxed softly, comforting him the best way you could think of.

a quiet groan slipped from that back of dex's throat before he could stop it, one of raw pleasure from the pet name.

"hnn…fuck."

"language," you challenged with a dignified, raised brow, despite the disgraceful wetness dripping onto your panties.

"yes, ma'am," dex responded, vast shoulders straightening slightly. his voice rumbled through you deliciously. your knees pressed into his abdomen with how close he leaned now.

benjamin poindexter's eyes flickered back and forth between your kissable lips and the ornate crucifix carving in the wall behind you, and that was the moment he was certain he was going to hell.

you cleared your throat, shifting in your seat again, trying to subtly relieve the tension between your thighs. dex, with his hawk eyes, saw every movement for exactly what it was.

and it was true what they said about him: he did get obsessed fast.

"my sins…" he mused.

"tell me," you prodded eagerly, eyes wide open in youthful anticipation. "tell me the first one that comes to mind."

dex's blonde brows knit together as if he were in pain, leaning into your hand. "wanna kiss you."

your mouth made an "o," plump lips giving dex horrific ideas. you swallowed slowly, feeling sweat begin to bead under the heat of his gaze. shame gnawed at your ankles like a stray animal.

dex pulled you by the wrist within an inch of his face. "now, you can be honest. you can confess. d'you wanna kiss me, sweet girl?"

your teeth sunk into your fat bottom lip in indecision, guilt paralyzing you. what would god think?

"yeah, that's it, i know you do. you can say it, honey. it won't leave this room. you can say you want me, too, 's alright."

a pitiful, borderline-submissive "yes" fell from your divine mouth and dex felt religious all of a sudden. a sick smile settled on his handsome face, eyes fluttering shut in a moment of absolute peace. he was on the righteous path—he was certain.

with no warning, his mouth swept yours up in an exchange of breath and lips and teeth and tongue. you moaned into the kiss — by god, when was the last time you were properly kissed?

the hand you had on dex's cheek slid back into his graying-blonde hair, fingernails gently scratching his scalp. he steeled himself to hold back a moan.

you broke away first, fingers wrapped in rosary ghosting over your swollen lips like a salve. "shit."

dex laughed.

a real, honest-to-christ-himself laugh.

and when the light caught his white, bunny-like smile just like that as he glanced back to you, cupid released his bow, and you were done for.

"tell me," dex's straight nose nudged yours, teasing, "how about you pray for us while i kiss your neck a little?"

"yes." the word tumbled out and you couldn't have stopped it. you were blushing to your hairline by now.

god help you.

dex grinned, highlighting his handsome crows' feet. before you could blink, he switched your positions, so you were now sitting on his lap and he was sitting on the confessional cushion. with no room on the sides to settle properly, your knees bit into his tree-trunk thighs. you heard the thunk of the knife as it fell onto the carpet.

he wasted no time before his lips were back on yours and your head was spinning. your lips clashed together, mouth opening wider so his tongue could dip in and explore. you whined softly into him as an experiment, feeling dex's hold on your waist get tighter, lips get hungrier.

dex's sinful mouth tore across your jaw with abandon. you unconsciously ground your hips against his rhythmically. his cock stirred, already half-hard. shame had you nearly in tears, the stimulation from grinding only adding to your frustration.

he groaned against your delicate skin, tongue licking and swirling, teeth skating and biting over the sweet spot on your neck he found. you arched your chest into his frame.

his whispered plea traveled straight to your cunt, "pray, baby."

you squeezed the rosary beads around your left hand — an anchor of reality — as you looked up and begged st. francis to forgive you on behalf of god. surely he knows better than anyone that you're simply following god's path as it's been laid out for you.

"o-our father, who art in heaven, h-hallowed be thy name."

your voice wavered with pleasure, though somehow not missing a beat even when mischievous fingers teased the hem of your skirt, flirting with your ankle.

"thy kingdom come." a shaky breath loosed through your chest.

"thy will be done, on earth as it is in h—" you bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a moan at the friction against your core, exhaling sharply through your nose. dex smiled against your tender skin. "heaven."

"…'and lead us not into temptation,'" he chorused with you, kissing and suckling just below your ear.

"'but'…what?" dex cooed patronizingly, kitten-licking your earlobe. you were a mess in his arms, purely pliant for him to use and you both knew it.

your traitorous lower lip wobbled as you finished the prayer with him:

"but deliver us from evil. amen."

his cock throbbed below you and dex pulled his leeching mouth off you. a chill raced down your spine at the way his blown pupils drank you in, getting a glimpse of the thing that shifted just beneath his skin and near-black eyes.

you didn't flinch, dex noted.

the calloused fingers playing at your ankle dragged upward, slipping under the fabric and ghosting over your nylon-covered skin, testing the waters. your lashes fluttered shut at the sensation, a gasp stealing into your lungs.

"i confess," dex sighed, "i want more than your lips."

your eyes shot open, brow furrowed in confusion. why? what could he want from you?

before you could raise your concern, dex's hand trailed up your calf, sending electricity through his touch. you were breathless as you maintained eye contact with him, noses inches apart, breathing the same air. your skirt bunched around your waist as dex burrowed further under it, dragging his enormous hand over your knee. your blasphemous core churned and you ground down onto his zipper. the metal bit into your cunt, pulling a moan that sounded like angels singing from you. dex grinned in triumph, climbing higher on your thigh until he reached the lacy edge of your stockings.

his hawk eyes snapped to your thigh, a slow, wolfish smile gracing his features. he looked back up at you without raising his head, words low and broken in your ears.

"tell me you're wearing a fucking garter belt."

he reached the strap connecting the alleged belt to your stockings and hummed down at you, like you were food to play with. a finger slipped between the strap and your smooth, holy skin, and pulled it away just far enough to snap back against your skin audibly.

fth.

it echoed loud — too loud — in the confessional. you bit a sigh as he soothed the reddened skin with brushes of his thumb.

"i may be," you whispered, inhaling sharply as he released the taut strap against your thigh again.

fth.

"fuck," dex sighed, nearly vibrating in restraint. he crashed his mouth to yours before he did something he probably wouldn't regret.

dex's lips were suffocating on you, not realizing his punishing intensity, but dutiful as you were to your congregants, you took what he was willing to give. his rough grip on your plushy thighs would certainly leave bruises in it's wake, but desire had you drunk enough that you couldn't care less.

his soul needed this. you could feel it.

perhaps it truly was god's will that brought the two of you together.

that's what you told yourself over and over again, trying to drown out the whine that stretched through the silence when dex pushed your hips away from his and slipped his hand the remaining distance downward to cup your cunt.

oh.

"shh, stay quiet, pretty girl," dex bit out, feeling blood rush to his cock at the feeling of the soaked lace. "you don't wanna get caught, do you?"

you shook your head 'no' fervently, but felt your cunt betray you, clenching around nothing at the idea.

"mm, maybe you do?" dex teased, cocking his head like a curious dog. you continued to deny it despite your hips' constant bucking, chasing any friction you could get.

his rumbling laugh seemed to echo through you as his fingers ghosted over the bead of your swollen, covered clit. your breath caught in your throat, sparks of pleasure blinding you as dex studied your reactions intensely.

"right there, honey?"

"yes," you exhaled, floating. utter pleasure washed over your face, creasing your brow. dex had the sudden realization that expressions of pain and pleasure are nearly identical. how interesting, the human condition, he thought.

with a smirk, dex set a steady rhythm of circles against the small bundle of nerves.

"feels so good, dex, please don't stop," you whispered.

he groaned sensually, bathing in the praise, thrusting up into nothing. "yeah?"

you nodded your head, a soft sob escaping you. your nails dug into his solid biceps in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to muffle your sweet moans. his methodical fingers kept their pace, the pressure delicious on your clit. your hips stuttered as you felt a tightness build in your abdomen.

"please," you begged.

"tell me what you need, sweetheart, use those words."

"more," you said, nearly in tears, "just need more…please…"

dex wasted no time, sliding his middle and ring finger beneath your ruined panties and deep into your desperate pussy. a gasp stole into your chest, throat turning raw. he curled his thick digits toward him, gently stroking the spongy muscle that had your back arching and eyelids fluttering again.

"yeah?" he goaded, "you like that?"

your answering, breathless "yes" made goosebumps erupt on dex's flesh. each sigh and whine from your lips erased any remaining self-doubt in this unfamiliar territory.

his warm, large palm pressed wonderfully against your aching clit, creating the perfect friction when he thrust and curled his fingers inside you. the stimulation was mouth-watering. you clung to dex's broad shoulders, nearly riding his fingers, babbling praise against his neck.

"so good, dex, p-please don't stop."

another chuckle. "i won't, baby, don't worry."

your core felt taut, as if it were an elastic band with too much tension. the pleasure had you taking down big gulps of air, discipline being the only thing standing between you and the moans that threatened to expose you both.

his fingers worked you right to the edge, then you were one, two, three strokes too close, and a panicked look crossed your features. the pressure was too much.

"it's okay." dex's lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke. "it's okay, honey, you can let go. you're allowed to feel good."

having permission to turn off your guilt was liberating. pleasure mounting fast like a damn ready to break, you turned your head to look him in the eye. your mouth hang open as you rode the waves of your orgasm all over his hand.

"that's it," he encouraged, voice hoarse, "keep cumming, good girl. that's it."

you didn't feel entirely in control of your own body, as if someone else were jerking your hips against the callouses of his palm. a white-hot sensation exploded within you. the high was overwhelming to your senses; the pleasure deafening. sound tuned out of your ears for a few moments as you squeezed your eyes shut, determined to not let shame ruin the moment.

dex slowed the pumping of his fingers to a halt inside you, feeling your slick walls flutter around him. he barely registered his hips thrusting in tandem with each drag of his digits. it was heaven—your warmth—and dex wanted.

how many of his fantasies involved this? his expert fingers between your holy thighs? he may have lost count. a smirk slid onto his handsome face at the thought that it was between him and god.

he was straining painfully against his jeans' zipper, cock stiff and leaky. a shaking hand guided your smaller one to rest on his bulge. you should have known he'd be well-endowed.

"you feel what you do to me?" he whispered hoarsely.

"yes," you breathed.

his lustful gaze met yours, pupils blown so wide his eyes appeared black in the candlelight.

"can you pray for me, sweetheart? while i fuck you?"

a pathetic noise left you then; somewhere between a whine and an "uh-huh", which, in the end, sounded like a high-pitched "huh." your cheeks blazed in embarrassment, but dex was all smiles.

"yeah?" he teased, nodding as he planted kisses to your cheek.

"please," you managed, mirroring his nods. "please."

"fuck," dex cursed. he pushed his hips out, nodding encouragingly as you undid his belt buckle and zipper. he slid his jeans and boxers out from underneath him, halfway down tree-trunk thighs.

mother mary.

"you're stunning," you complimented, and it might have been a trick of the light, but you swore color reached dex's scarred cheeks. "it's true: he made us all in his perfect image, of course, but you are…something."

a coy smile met his pink lips and your heart did a flip in your chest. he wasn't used to flattery, you could see it.

frantic eyes tracked your movements as your soft hand closed around his girthy cock. your cheeks burned feeling his slight twitch at your touch. you watched pre-cum dribble down his thick shaft and swallowed the mounting spit in your mouth.

you met dex's captivating eyes once more and lifted yourself, adjusting to sit just above the tip of his cock. he kissed you with a passion you felt from the inside, hot tongue licking into your mouth. strings of wetness fell to cover him, tip teasing your clit and entrance methodically.

you felt like the whore of babylon as he parted your lips beneath your panties and pushed inside past your reborn virginity. sex in a confessional. what the hell were you thinking? god would never forgive you.

then again, he hadn't seemed to forgive you for much of anything recently. what was one more sin?

you grasped the edge of your white veil and pulled it clean off. letting it fall behind you, you leaned into dex. in turn, he sank you further down on his length, stretching you from the inside.

"dex," you whispered between sweet gasps. your fingers grazed his lips, hovering just centimeters from your own.

sweat slid down his forehead, the heat between you two in the confined space overwhelming. his mouth hanged open, cock throbbing inside you as he struggled to breathe. it struck you in that moment that you may be taking his virginity, too.

"it's okay, sweetheart," you said, pressing soft, gentle kisses to his mouth. he deserved a good first experience, too, as far as you were concerned. your hand stroked his hair on instinct as you began slowly moving your hips against his. "it's okay. it feels good for me, too."

you paused, letting him adjust to your heat. now was as good as any to pray for him, for both of you, at this point. your sweet voice was saintly in his ears:

"hail, mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. holy mary, mother of god, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.  amen."

dex let out a sob as you began moving again and you slapped your unoccupied hand over his big mouth. surprise lit up his face at your aggression, reading the don't get us caught in your gaze. his dark eyes twinkled with something akin to approval. you felt the edges of his lips curl beneath your palm, so you took that as permission to do as you pleased.

and god certainly knew you would. you threw your head back, bottom lip tugged between your pearly whites, as dex bottomed out. his tip kissing your cervix, one arm slithered around your waist to pull you tight against him while his other hand rested on your hip. you lifted yourself slowly until only that aching tip remained inside, feeling the thick veins along his cock pulse. dex let out a low groan, vibrating against your hand, as you pushed back down and he hit deep inside once again. desperation knit his brows together, coloring his doe eyes something beautiful. he looked like a fallen angel; lucifer if he begged for forgiveness.

you built a gradual rhythm as you rode him. dex thought none of the church choirs in the world sounded as good as the little moans slipping out of you, the delightful harmony of wet sounds from where you two met sending shivers down his reinforced spine.

he pulled your hand away from him, only for a moment.

"this what you needed?" his deep voice was wrecked, cracking at the high point in 'need.' you felt yourself clench around his cock at the sound. "this what you meant by 'more'? just needed to get fucked?"

you nodded enthusiastically, only able to manage a quiet "mhm." your mind was as scrambled as your eggs this morning. your grip tightened in his hair as he watched you heatedly, intently, breath coming out in sharp, short pants through his straight nose.

dex craned his head, mouth meeting the spot just below your ear. "i know it feels good, baby…i know…i know."

your arms lost their fight at his words, wrapping around his shoulders in comfort and surrender as he met your thrusts. you muffled your uncontrollable moans against the smooth skin of his neck.

"f-fuck, that's it, honey, don't stop," he whispered. "please, just don't stop."

you could only sob promises into his leather jacket that you wouldn't as you bounced up and down on him. the musky, salty fragrance of him invaded your nose and you drank it in, pressing closer like you couldn't get enough. dex found a wicked grin creeping onto his features at the pleasure you derived from his body—from him.

how many times had he not found sleep until he had a hand around himself, stroking at the thought of you and your righteousness?

his north star.

a shattered moan left him then. the poor thing so drunk on pleasure that he didn't notice how close he already was.

"shit, i'm…" dex wheezed. you were nodding, grinding on the panties that bunched near your swollen clit.

"me too, dex." hearing your broken voice had him on edge.

"oh," he moaned, eyes rolling back until they closed. dex could only whisper now. "so close, so fucking close…need you…need you to cum, baby."

"yeah?" you teased, echoing his tactic from earlier. he whined in response, bucking wildly, muscles flexing. your hips began to shake as that elastic sensation tightened in your core, each stroke hitting your g-spot, rubbing your clit delectably.

your fingertips sank deep into dex's arms, trying to anchor yourself to him. he welcomed the biting pain from your nails, surely leaving crescent indents beneath his shirt.

"just a little longer," you nearly wept, "you can do it."

"i-i can't," dex groaned, "'s too good."

"yes, you can," you encouraged, trailing sweet kisses up and along his strong jaw: now ticking, grinding hard in patience. if there was one thing dex was used to, it was patience. maybe he could edge himself inside you, hovering on absolute bliss, the masochism written all over his pretty face. after all, he had waited this long. dex steeled his remaining self-discipline and nodded, arms lifting your waist, up and down, just so, to hit the spot inside you hard enough to have your toes curling in your mary janes.

the sight was more erotic than dex could have ever imagined: you, hair loose on your shoulders, arms thrown around him, rosary tickling his ear, as you rode him, habit dress still on, with shaking legs, your pace becoming sloppy, and that same, beautiful look on your face as you neared orgasm once again.

"dex, i'm…" you exhaled, hovering on that cliff you so desperately wanted to tumble over with him.

"that's it. go 'head, angel, cum all over me."

the filth of his words and tone of his voice—the raw command in it—had your walls gushing around him instantly. dex crashed his sinful mouth to yours to swallow each others' moans as you came simultaneously. you cried out against him, pussy soaking, milking him. a warmth filled you from within, his cock throbbing while his balls emptied.

a thin layer of sweat covered you both as you fought to catch your breath. euphoria had your head in the clouds, resting your forehead gently against his. dex shuddered in your arms, his whole body twitching with pleasure. you thought he looked the most handsome like this: relaxed, without a sneer or scowl to be seen, his beautiful face free of worry.

he let out the softest of whines when you met him with a chaste kiss. your arms tightened around him, cradling his clear head gently. dex leaned into you, then, as well. his tongue explored your mouth lazily as your shaking pace slowed. the buzzing plaguing him earlier was silent now, chased away by sweet release.

dex felt obsession crawling under his skin like it was sentient. his desires were suffocating him and he could only get one thing straight: he wanted you, this, forever. he was on the divine path, now certain that you were a part of it. even better, a willing part of it.

your lips left his and pressed against his slick forehead in forgiveness.

“god has forgiven your sins. you may go in peace.”

a low chuckle sent a shiver through you. the pleasure coursing through his veins fueled his boldness. "i ain't going anywhere, sweetheart."

the bright smile that touched your lips was undoubtedly an act of god, dex thought. he could get used to it.

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a/n: hey guys i'm going to hell! pls forgive me for the amt of blasphemy. this wasn't requested i'm just a fucking freak. god 2x02 had my head SPINNING i couldn't write this fast enough but i wanted it to be Perfect, so i've been working on this for a minute. was this tew much? *elijah wood voice* maybe!

either way i hope u dexxed it. ;) #we'reback

pls lmk your thoughts! and as always, asks and requests r opennn! :)

xoxo, b

poindextergirl™ 2026. do not feed my work into ai, repost, or translate my work. reblogs are very much appreciated! ♱

Your hands tremble as the tea kettle on the stove screams. How long had that been going off? Your thoughts are racing, skin cold but sweating, heart still pounding. Blood...you can't even think about the blood.

There's a masked man in your apartment.

You can feel his presence from behind you. It's strong, it's dangerous, it's consuming. His breathing is labored, jagged, like he's in pain. A part of you hopes he's in pain. His blood soaks into your couch that you seriously doubt you'll ever be able to get out. His legs spread out like he's getting comfortable, his hand clutching against the seeping wound. You couldn't tell how bad it was, only the amount of blood dripping gave you an indication it was more than a scratch. You wanted to turn and look at him more but you were frozen, staring at the clock of your oven. 3:03 AM. You were scared to turn and look at him, but you wanted to.

What was that saying, curiosity killed the cat?

"Turn it off." his voice startles you out of your thoughts, jolting your body into action. You pull the screaming kettle off the stove, and go straight into auto pilot. You make tea.

Maybe in a few months from now, if you survive this, you'll laugh at the absurdity of this situation. A masked man, a wanted and dangerous vigilante, had crashed into your apartment through the window. AVTF sirens blared down the street. When he'd crashed into your bedroom through the window, you'd let out a scream, tumbled out of your bed, your foot twisted in your own damn comforter, caught like a hare in a trap. He had the audacity to chuckle as you scrambled for your phone, only to throw your own stuffed animal at your hands, knocking your phone away before he hoisted you up from the ground. His blood smearing against your skin, his rough gloves gripped your wrists together, as he pulled your through your apartment like he knew the layout. He'd set you in front of your stove. Told you to make him a cup of tea. A cup of tea. 

So here you were, pouring the piping hot water into a ridiculous looking cat mug. You didn't have any pets of your own, too much work for you, but that didn't mean you didn't enjoy animals and animal themed things. Why were you being self conscious of a mug? This was for a criminal, a murderer, a psychopath. You shouldn't care what he thinks of your interior or animal themed mugs. You should be tossing the scalding hot water in his face and bolting out the door right now --

Your name comes from the masked man, in low warning. He's reading your thoughts, he has to be. 

You grip the handle of the mug, trying to control your shaking hands. It was a hard feat as you carefully tip toe towards him, hands trying to keep steady. He nods to the coffee table where he's got his dirty boots crossed on top. You set it down and take another careful step back. Steam rises in the dark from the kitten mug, the moonlight illuminating from your windows into the living room. It's just enough to see, but not enough to get a good enough look on him. Not that you can. He's masked. But you can tell how big he is. His broad shoulders rising up and down with labored breaths. His left hand clutched against his side, the dark blood you can see just fine. 

With a dry mouth, you start with a creak, "I...I think you should go."

The man barely shakes his head, making no movement towards the tea. Just sitting there. Bleeding and watching. A flash of irritation shoots through you. 

"Yes." you hiss out firmly, "Listen, I don't know what you're doing here, in my apartment of all places, but I can't help you. I won't...I won't tell anyone you were here. I don't know you, I can't even see your identity -"

"You know who I am." He lets out a breathless laugh and adjusts his posture, his feet coming down to the floor. He leans his back away from the cushions, getting a tad bit closer to you. It makes you take a step back, keeping the coffee table in between you two like that'll protect you.

Huffing, you start again, "Still. I don't have anything to fix you." You gesture to his wound.

"You wanna fix me?"

Shame and embarrassment burn your face, his tone shooting something liquid down your spine. What the hell was his problem? Fear was slowly being replaced with anger.

"No. I don't. Not interested, Bullseye." There, you said it. You knew who he was. There were only so many masked vigilantes in blue suits. Suddenly your heart ached for Daredevil, or even Frank. Not that you'd met either, but you would've felt safer if one of them crashed into your window late at night. Bullseye was a maniac, he was unhinged. Barely contained himself and didn't care who got in the way. He had no morale. 

Fear started up again, the bravery and courage quickly shrinking as his name left your mouth, remembering exactly who you were dealing with.

"Dex."

"Huh?" Shock renders you dumb, your brain firing in so many directions at once.

"Call me Dex." he almost sounds amused, watching you try to keep up with him and your own thoughts, "Listen, I need a place to lie low. AVTF is crawling tonight. I'm hit. I'm beat."

Silence folds into the space as you assess each other. Worry swirls in your eyes, something Dex can see in the low light. 

"I won't hurt you."

Your lower lip trembles, "I don't trust you." You glance at your front door for a moment, still trying to figure a way out of this mess.

"Good. You shouldn't. Go back to your room."

Despite your better judgement, you turn your back to him, awareness prickling into your skin, the weight of his gaze following you. It stays even after you close your bedroom door and lock the handle. You doubt a flimsy door lock could do much against a man his size, but it gives you the illusion of a touch of safety. Trembling limbs carry you back into your bed, burying yourself deep in covers like you used to when you were kid, scared of monsters in the dark. The difference from then and now is that you have one sitting in your living room, eyes glued to your bedroom door. And you hadn't even registered he'd said your name.

Balancing your phone in between your shoulder and ear, you sigh, "Well, no, I don't know what happened, but I just need someone to come by and look at it, please? It's been three days since it's been broken. You're the last company I could get ahold of." A hint of desperation seeps into your voice. Your keys jam into your lock and you groan in frustration. Ever since you'd replaced the locks, the keys have a habit of sticking. Finally, it clicks and your door is open. Tossing your keys on your counter, you hold your phone in a better position.

The window company on the other end explains that your apartment building should be providing a window, that you needed to call your maintenance department. Another groan of frustration escapes you.

"I hear you. I've tried, trust me. They can't get a new window in until next week. I can't sleep knowing I have an open area in my apartment where anyone could get in. Or anything for that matter! What if it starts raining?" 

"I'm sorry ma'am, but legally we can't replace windows on any building without a permit or your apartment complex paying our company as a whole. We could fix your window if you were the owner of your apartment, but because you rent-"

"Forget it. Thank you for your time." You hang up and close your eyes, head tilting up to the ceiling. You knew it wasn't their fault. You weren't trying to be rude, but you could cry with how frustrated you were over the situation. You hadn't had a good night's rest in three days. Bullseye screwed that up for you. Opening your eyes, you immediately cringe at the stained couch. Still had to get rid of it. You had tried your best getting the blood out, but you weren't exactly equipped with blood destroying chemicals. Another thing Bullseye had screwed up. Moving into your bedroom, you assess the almost clear plastic you covered the window up with. It wasn't the best, but it kept enough of the outdoor elements out. Another thing Bullseye screwed up.

Anger stirs in your stomach. You can hardly sleep in your own bed because of the broken window, terrified anyone could get in. You can't sleep on the couch with how stained it is. You haven't been able to call a friend over to help you remove the couch, for fear of having to explain this entire thing. What would you even say?

Bullseye, one of the most wanted men in New York City, smashed your window, bled all over your couch, and left early in the morning? You can imagine the questions. Why didn't you call the Task Force? 

Well, you see, you answer your imaginary detective, I was scared he would kill me before I got to the phone.

Why did you make him a cup of tea?

Because he asked for it.

Why did you just go to bed?

Because he told me to.

You smack your hand against your forehead, cringing at the thought of arguing with yourself and over the events of the other night. Seriously, what had you been thinking? You blame the shock and adrenaline. Rolling your shoulders, you snap yourself out of your thoughts. Something you had some issues with lately, obviously. Staring across your room at the plastic-barricaded window, you let out a breath. A shower sounded nice, but that was another thing you'd been too nervous to do. What if someone came in while you were in there? Chewing your bottom lip, you decide you'll be fast and bring a change of clothes in the bathroom with you. Gathering your stuff, phone included, you step into your bathroom and lock the door. 

The water pelts down onto your skin and you wish with a passion that you could just relax. But you can't, not with what happened a few nights ago and certainly not with that window. You're in and out of the shower in under ten minutes. Clean, but not refreshed. You pull on your sleep shorts and tank top before leaving the barely fogged up bathroom. Stepping into the plush carpet of your bedroom, a slash of fear crosses you. The plastic window has a cut straight down the middle. Your heart crawls up your throat as you freeze at the sight, phone clutched in your hand. Dusk is settling in, the last rays of sun leaving you like the last bit of security and safety before the night.

Trying not to hyperventilate, you press 911 in your phone. Two rings before an operator answers, and you quickly rattle off your emergency, that you think there's an intruder in your house. You step back into the bathroom, trying to be silent as you shut the door and lock it. The operator stays on the line with you, but you can hardly process what she's saying. You're trying to listen to the sounds of your apartment, ear pressing against the wooden door.

"Why is your window not fixed yet?" A deep masculine voice says from right outside, like he's standing the same way you are.

You barely catch a shrill in your throat as you scramble away from bathroom door and in your startle, you drop your phone. You race after your phone, picking it up and almost cry when you see it somehow hung up on the operator. 

You hear him sigh lowly, "Are you going to answer me?"

A multitude of emotions race through you, so many you can't settle on a single one or know how to feel. A part of you feels relieved that it's him, and another is scared. You have no idea what his intentions are with you. The operator had said the police were fifteen minutes out. Fifteen minutes of this, whatever this was. It feels like it'll be eternity. 

"Bullseye-" you start, your voice wobbly with fear and adrenaline.

"Dex." He interrupts you, still right outside the door.

"Dex." You start again, this time a little bit more confident, "The police are on their way."

"So?"

Shock again, renders you speechless. So? You bite your lip in worry and frustration. Oh God. What if he kills them all? And then you? What will the cops do against someone like him? Someone who can't miss a target. They don't even know who they're up against. You hadn't known either so you couldn't warn them.

"I hear your brain working a mile minute, sweetheart."

Gritting your teeth and steeling your nerves, you practically seethe at the door, "What are you doing here? If you wanted to kill me you should’ve done the job the other night.” 

“If I wanted you dead you’d already be. I need a place a lie low again.”

Anger sears through your veins, “My apartment isn’t a damn hotel and if it were you’d owe me a lot! Look at the state of my window and couch!” 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” 

“My window?” You grind out, incredulous at this conversation. You get closer to the door.

”Your apartment complex should take care of that.”

Your brows pinch with frustration. No one can help you with the window. It must be the build up of anger, from lack of care from practically everyone you’ve spoken to about your window, the lack of sleep, the lack of safety, whatever it is, it builds up and pours out in this single moment.

Without thinking, your brain turned off from your anger, you rush through the bathroom door, not registering how you unlocked the knob so quickly or how fast you seem to be moving. Your hand knocks in the wounded side of Bullseye, his shocked and pained groan rushing out of him with the hit. You push against him further, using the momentum, making him stumble back until you shove him hard enough that there’s space between the two of you.

His eyes are filled with surprise and mirth, his scarred face unmasked. A flash of surprise and attraction rush through you as you glare at him, his lips turned up in a mischievous and smug smirk. His smugness quickly squashes your temporary emotions, back to anger you go. You don’t falter.

”It’s your fault that it’s broken! Your fault I can’t sleep at night, I don’t feel safe, I can’t take a shower longer than ten minutes, I’m—“

A hard knock on the door causes panic and doom to shoot down your spine and in your stomach. Worry etches across your features and you rush towards Dex, hands pushing him gentler, towards the plastic window.

”You have to go,” you whisper to him, urgency filling your voice. He’s letting you push him towards the window until you get just right in front of it. 

“NYPD open up!”

You look back towards your bedroom opening, “Just a minute!” Turning back to Dex you gesture to the window hurriedly, “Go!”

You won’t have the lives of these men just doing their job in your hands. Or more blood stains in the apartment. The thought makes you nauseous.

Dex makes a noise of amusement, a smile teasing his lips, “I’ll be right outside. Make sure they don’t get too close to the window.” 

You nod frantically and basically push him out as he climbs through the plastic onto your balcony. Running through your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and rush to the front door, opening it up for the three policemen. They look at you in question, and then past you into your apartment. You stiffen. You hadn’t even thought about the bloodstained couch, adjusting your posture to hide the room behind you.

“I’m so sorry, it was a false alarm.” you start, sweat gathering along your brow as you lie to the officers.

”I thought you said someone had cut into your window? That it was broken?” The first officer starts, his hand resting on his gun at his hip.

With a dry throat, you shake your head. Lying is not your best suit and you try to keep a blank face, “No, I’m so sorry, I checked it and it was just torn from the wind.”

The cop gives you a once over, not buying it. “What wind?” 

"Well regardless," the shorter cop in the back starts with a much calmer demeanor, "We'll need to sweep your apartment. To make sure you're safe, we can't just leave without checking."

You swallow and stare at them before stepping aside. If you argued, you're sure it'd look even worse than how you're acting now. Suspicious. You stay at the front door as the walk cautiously inside, shutting the door behind you. You pray Dex has left the window, that he's still not out there. Trepidation fills you as the officers get to your couch, the one who was more suspicious of you, turning to look at you for an explanation.

Sweat rolls down your back, "Uh, that was my paint. I've been working on a project."

"A project?" He turns and looks back at the stained couch with slight disgust. It was gross. You needed to get rid of it.

"I don't have a shampooer." You try.

"Hm." He returns to sweeping the living room, looking out at the dying light outside your windows. His gaze settles on the bedroom door, "Is that where your broken window is?"

"I, um, yes. It is. In my bedroom. But really, I just came out of there, you don't have to go in. There's nowhere really for anybody to hide in this apartment." It's true, it was small. New York was expensive to live in.

"Why'd you shut the door?"

You surprise yourself with a calm shrug, "Habit. Trying to keep the elements and bugs to one room."

The officer gets closer to the door, looking back to his two coworkers. They nod, hands on their guns as the officer opens the door, and this is when panic really settles in you. You follow him in, trying to stop him suddenly as he starts towards the damned broken window.

"Wait! Really, it's okay, you don't have to check!"

Your words are useless as he nears closer to the window, hand reaching out to part the plastic, you heart beating in your ears. He pokes his head out and you brace yourself, waiting in dread.

He turns back around. "All clear." He steps away and notices how relief sags your entire body. "You really need to get that fixed."

"Tell me about it," you grumble, keeping an eye on the window. Where had he gone?

Moments later, the officers have left after giving you a long talk about calling and wasting time, but to be assured that you were in good hands if something really did happen. You know, the whole mansplaining thing men did in positions of power. You couldn't wait to be rid of them now for more reasons than one. And that one reason, was gone.

You'd checked the window and the small balcony you had that you'd imagined he would have been standing at. The night air met you and you shudder, quickly ducking back into bedroom. Turning to your bed, you grab the big kitchen knife you had grabbed earlier and a pillow. You yank off your comforter and go back into the bathroom, making a not-so comfy makeshift bed in the bathtub. You felt safer this way, with door being able to lock. Sleep hardly comes.

A week later your window's been fixed, giving you a sense of security back. Though something else has been nagging your mind.

You haven't seen Dex since that night the cops came. Haven't heard a thing on the news. A large part of you is worried, which concerns you in itself. Why would you care about someone like him? After all this trouble he's given you.

There was something that had happened, though. To know that he was maybe still alive. A furniture company had come knocking on your door right after you got home from work, the day after the cop incident. They were called to remove your old couch and replaced with an even better one. Something way too expensive for your own accounts. You'd asked who called and the men frowned, confused at your question, answering with an obvious, 'your boyfriend.' That had put color in your cheeks. You didn't doubt who it could have been, knowing you'd never told anyone about the couch. Remembering his words, 'I'll buy you a new one.'

You close your front door, exhausted with the work week. You were glad it was Friday. Reaching up in your kitchen cabinet, you grab a bottle of wine saved for special occasions. It wasn't really special, but you felt like you could relax for once. Your new couch was something you enjoyed sitting on, despite it reminding you of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Showered and in your pajamas, you slink down onto the couch, glass of wine and TV on. You make it about thirty minutes with the glass half full before you're out like a light. 

Something tickles you awake. If you can call it that. You're drifting in between that soft spot of sleep, hardly conscious, fading in and out. It trails along your collarbone, causing you giggle and stir away. You sigh as it moves down your bare arm, back up, tickling your skin into goosebumps. It feels good. It feels overstimulating in this sleep state you're in. You want more. You want it to stop. Your head rolls to the side, the tickling moving to your cheekbone, dusting over your skin, down your face to your lips. It makes you part them, your tongue dipping out to chase the movement. A suck of breath above you jolts you awake. Your eyes part to see a dark figure above you, shrieking, you scramble up on the couch, feet kicking under you.

Dex watches your reaction to him with amusement, staying still, frozen in time. His hand still lingering in the air from where he was touching you. Oh God, you licked him. Embarrassment stains your face. 

"Wh-what the hell are you doing?" you hiss at him, hand pressing against your chest where your heart threatens to burst.

"I see you like the new couch."

You're dumbfounded, really. You hardly know what to do or say with him. You look down at the couch under you and you nod, glancing back up at him. "I was going to say thank you, but it was your fault my couch was ruined in the first place." Speaking of, your gaze trails along him. He seems fine, like he's unharmed, in regular clothes of all things.

Since he hasn't hurt you, yet, you find your confidence. There needs to be some serious boundaries set in place with this man. You stand, a little too close to him, expecting him to move back to accommodate you. He doesn't. Like he likes standing that close to you. You clear your throat and take a small step back, giving yourself some distance from him. He watches you with an unwavering gaze, like he's studying every moment you make. It makes you feel like prey. A shudder racks through you, causing you to look down at your attire, similar to the last time you saw him, you're in small tank top and shorts. You practically feel naked. Crossing your arms over your chest, you look back up at him with a little more conviction.

"You cannot stay here."

"I was just going to ask for some tea." He raises a shoulder in passive shrug.

Pressing your lips together in irritation, you ignore how his gaze flicks down to your lips. "I'm not making you tea."

"Why not? You listened so good last time."

You refuse to acknowledge that.

"You stole my mug. Don't think I didn't notice."

"I wasn't trying to be sneaky about it."

"So, you just stole it without caring?"

"I didn't say that. I cared about it too much, which is why I took it." Dex's smirk comes to life. It makes you want to smack him.

"I liked that mug."

"I know."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing out slowly. Changing the subject, you gesture around the apartment, "How did you even get in? Don't tell me you broke my window again, or I'll be severely upset."

A chuckle releases from him as he shakes his head, "No broken windows. The newer version is much easier to unlock."

You're still. Speechless. 

He uses it to his advantage, stepping closer to you, his hand slowly reaching out to pinch a lock of your hair between his fingers.

"Why are you here?" you whisper, watching him watch you.

"Missed you." Another shrug as he twirls the lock of hair in his fingers, inching closer to you. Unease and...something else you refuse to admit burns in your belly. "It's getting harder to stay away. I didn't mean for all this to happen, not like this."

You wet your lips and Dex watches the movement like a hawk. "How would it happen, if you could change it?" Your curiosity burning inside of you. His darkness calling to you like a moth to an open flame. The consuming way he's staring at you. It makes your skin prickle with a whole different reason, heat beginning to crawl under your skin, spreading through your lower belly. 

"I'd make sure we met in public. Somewhere you like. That café down the street," his fingers drop your hair, moving to your collarbones, trailing lazily against your skin. You shudder. "You'd order your regular. Hot vanilla latte. With whipcream on top. Light cinnamon dusting. I'd get the same. I always do." You don't know how to process all of this as he's touching you. Your brain turning off with his touch, his breath hitting you as he whispers softly, closer and closer to you, until he's close enough to kiss. He doesn't stop. Two hands on you now like he can't help himself. Your skin burns with want. It's wrong but so good. You're entranced.

"I'd say something about it. Spark the conversation. You'd tell me things about you, things I already know. Your name. What you do for work." his head dips to your throat, an inhale of your scent makes him shudder, his breathing getting heavier, "I'd make you tell me where there's a good pizza place. I already know your answer. I'd ask if you wanted to join me. You'd say yes because why would you say no to me?"

You shiver as his nose brushes up to your ear, his hands just barely grazing against your sides. Like he's still testing if you're going to pull away from him or not. When you don't, he presses his hands into you, fingers spreading like he's trying to touch enough of you all at once. He groans lowly at the contact. You're trembling now, not sure if your body is reacting to the fear of his admittance, or to the burning want of him. Perhaps both. 

"How...how is it going to happen now?" your voice is small, breathless. 

Dex takes a long inhale, like he's trying to control himself. He raises his head, away from where he was breathing you in, to catch your gaze. His pupils are wide, his hands squeeze you slightly when you look up at him with need. Something he's been fantasizing seeing on your face for a long time now. 

His voice is rough, husky, full of want and desperation, it rakes up your body hearing it. "I'm going to sit you on the couch I bought you. You're going to take your shorts off." as he's painting the scene, he's turning you back towards the couch, keeping you facing him. Two small steps backwards and the back of your legs are hitting the cushions. You sit. He watches you darkly as he slowly hooks his fingers under the band of your shorts, pleased when you lift your hips to help him take them down. You're blushing now, watching him with bated breaths. 

"You're going to spread your legs and I'm going to kneel." His grip is surprisingly gentle, for such dangerous and calloused hands. It makes you shiver, the contrast of it. The contrast of him. His hands part your thighs, his gaze never leaving yours even as you try to dip away from it as he spreads your legs open. Shame and desire eat at you, the fabric of your underwear doing nothing to hide how wet you are. He kneels.

The sight of this broad shouldered man kneeling in front of you makes you a little light headed. This isn't right, but it feels so good. Dex is reading your expressions, the hitch of your breath, the pink dusted on your cheeks, like he's saving it away. Keeping it in a file in his mind for later. You try not think about it, what he said. Try not to let it talk to you in a way that a part of you likes it, likes that he has an obsession with you, that he's so carnal. That he wants to know everything little thing about you, even the ways you react to him. Especially the ways you react to him. You start to feel yourself want to back out and he knows it already. The palm of his hands petting down your thighs, closer to where you're aching and wanting him to touch. It distracts you again. 

He needs you to not think about what's right or wrong. Like he does. He could be a little bit more like you. But you need to be a little bit more like him right now. 

Dex tilts his head in a way that feels like a predator pinpointing a weakness. You feel weak to this attraction, this want, this need. Good. It's how he's been feeling about you lately. You bite down on your lip as his thumb gently brushes over the waistband of your ruined underwear. Your core clenches. 

"You're going to let me take these off," the way he says it, it's not a demand. It's not even a command. He states it like it's a fact, something that's just going to happen. He isn't reveling in it, he isn't being pushy, he's being honest. And you know that you will. You're going to let him do whatever he wants to do you. You're going to listen to him, because when haven't you? 

You nod and he hums, that familiar smirk coming back to his lips. He mocks your nod back to you. "I know, baby. You're going to let me eat you out. You're going to cum on my mouth. And you're going to make a mess." 

He hooks his fingers under your panties and you lift your hips again, aiding him without a word. What do you even say to that? You're worried anything you say will sound like begging. He does it slow, and you're not sure if he's doing it to torture you or to give you one last chance to back out. Your hands grip the cushions underneath you, breath quickening as he reveals the evidence of your desire. He sucks in a sharp breath as he lays eyes on you for the first time. You bite back a whimper at his reaction, like he's enamored and in disbelief. You're soaking, pussy painfully clenching with want. 

"Fuck." And that's the last you hear from him before he's dipping his head down, latching onto your clit so quickly and precisely that you startle with a cry, hands coming down to grip his head, unsure whether you want to pull him in or push him away from the hard contact. 

You try to squirm, but his large hands hook under your hips, holding you to him. He yanks you down close to him. He’s licking you up like he’s starved, he’s firm and unashamed when he groans loudly against you, the vibration of it adding to the stimulation. You let out a loud moan in response, fingers flexing in his hair. His grip tightens on your hips, your reactions causing him to react in fervor. 

His tongue flattens to lick up as much surface of you as he can, his tongue coming up your clit, circling around before he’s adding a sucking pressure to it. Your gasp comes out sharp and in shock, fingers flexing against the strands of his hair. He doesn’t stay on your clit for long, drifting his mouth to lick a slow and vicious lick along your slickness. He dips his tongue back down, slipping inside you, nose bumping up against your clit while you grind down into his mouth. You fight a whimper, which catches pathetically in your throat as you rock your hips. 

Dex’s dark eyes gaze up at you, the moment causing your thoughts to catch up to you. The weight of his eyes were heavy, you can tell how he's cataloging every moment, every movement, every sound you make. How long has he been watching you? God. What were you doing? 

He seems to notice you falter, his tongue dragging back up slowly to your clit, done with teasing and tasting you. He wants to make you cum. Wants to turn your brain off, defy the logic and the fear still inside of you. He latches back onto your clit so accurately that you almost blank out for moment, your hips coming up to squirm away from him. He lets out a groan deep in his chest, as his arms come up to wrap around your thighs, sealing your fate to him.

"Oh, God-" you let out on a broken moan and that seems to encourage him even further. His mouth keeps the pressure around your clit, his tongue adding a flicking motion, up and down, side to side, until he hears which one you like best. Until you're sitting still in his grasp, letting him consume you. That's when he knows he has you. 

And you have him. You're so close, his mouth hurling you towards the throes of your pleasure, body subconsciously clinging to him, trying to get what it wants. Your hands are tangled in his hair, like a part of you thinks he's going to lift his head and stop. You're ensuring he'll stay there and finish what he started. Your back arches, your moans eating away at the silence, louder, longer, breathier. Your head tips back before it falls forward, catching his never ending gaze again and that's when you fall apart. 

You come hard, vision spotting, the last that you saw clearly was Dex's dark eyes leveling yours right between your thighs. The image burns into your mind as you come down, heart beating through your chest as you heave for air. 

He pulls back from your clit, the missing contact makes you want to cry out. His weighted gaze is still on you, never left. Never will. It makes you shy, starting to close your legs on impulse, causing a quiet but sharp, tsk, from him. Reprimanded, you blush, holding your legs open, letting him see the aftermath of your soul crushing orgasm, pussy still pulsing with the aftershocks of it. 

"Good girl," he breathes quietly and the praise goes straight through your stomach to your core. The pleasure spiking in your blood. He notices and smirks, his lips coated in your shine. Maybe that's all you needed, some encouragement.

His fingers swipe down the core of your pussy and you bite back another cry. He pushes them back up against you slowly, just missing your throbbing and sensitive clit, parting the lips of your cunt. You watch his eyes grow darker at the sight and his jaw clench as he takes the sight of you in. You can feel the slick of your pleasure and want drip out of you, onto the couch. His other hand comes down to barely brush against your fluttering opening. You suck in a breath as you watch him. 

"You made a mess." his fingers coating in your cum as he traces your hole.

Shame paints your face and you fight yourself from shutting your legs again. You start to say something to defend yourself, lips parting, and he shakes his head. He looks happy, lips tipping up in a sharp and dangerous smile. 

"I said you would." His fingers push inside of you, making an obscene squelching noise with how wet you were. 

Your remark dies, whatever it was you were going to say, and he loves watching your brain go blank for all the right reasons. You don't need to talk or think. He'll do all the decision making from here. All you had to do was listen and be good. And you were good, you were so good. You were good like this, like he knew you'd be. His fingers hook up in you, his weapons against the world now turning into extensions of what he wanted to do to you. He fucks them up into you while his thumb swipes your sensitive clit. His fingers stretch you out in a way that you know will do nothing to prepare you for the real thing. His stature is large, you can only imagine what he has down there, something you haven't seen with his kneeling posture.

Your head tips to your shoulder, like you hardly have the energy or care to keep it up, eye lids drooping. Though, you're still looking at him. His chest swells with pride. You're moaning without thought, pleasure drunk eyes on him, nipples poking through the flimsy fabric of your tank top. The sight of you makes him feel crazy. How long has he pictured this exact scene in his head? Imagined the noises you'd make? The way you'd look with his fingers deep inside of you, legs spread open for only him. His fingers fucking up into you with deep thrusts, thumb still swiping gently on your clit. He can feel your wet pussy clenching around him, pulling him back in and he fights a moan, thinking about it wrapped around his cock. His thoughts about you turning darker as he watches you take what he gives. Your perfect lips fall open to tumble out another moan, his free hand going up to cup your chin. Sharp shock rings through him as you dip your chin to catch his thumb in your mouth, cheeks hollowing, tongue slicking against him. The shock turns into straight primal need. 

"You're a dirty girl, aren't you?" his voice is just barely above a whisper, keeping the conversation close, like the two of you are sharing a secret. His other hand still fucking a steady rhythm up into you, each thrust he swipes that thumb harder against your clit. Your hips twitch and you nod, moaning with your tongue and mouth still wrapped around his thumb. His nostrils flare. He didn't expect this. But he likes it. He's corrupting you, he's turning off your logical part of your brain and he's making you into something entirely his. 

He keeps fucking his fingers into you with a steady rhythm, each thrust his thumb delivers a swipe against your sensitive clit. He can feel your cunt clench more and more around him, and he is starting to see the telltale signs of when you’re getting close. A flush in your chest and across your cheeks, your moans getting louder and airier, thighs and hips twitching with the stimulation. Your hot mouth lets his thumb go to breathe out his name in a plead. 

He groans hearing it, almost whimpering back to you. It makes him feel insane, he has to make you stop chanting his name like that or he’s going to yank the waistband of his pants down and give it to you. He has to make this night last, has to study you more, touch you more. He leans forward, catching your mouth to consume his name and your moans. 

You immediately embrace him, something that makes him shudder with need. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close to you as your lips part to swipe your tongue against his. He whines into your mouth, the sound going straight to your core, pushing you right to the edge. You cling to him as his fingers keep pushing up into you, hitting a spot that makes a pathetic noise fall from the back of your throat. Dex swallows it, his hand cupping the back of your head to keep your mouth against his as he kisses you senseless while you fall apart. 

Your thighs tremble as you come back to your body and reality, heavily aware of Dex’s mouth on your skin. He gently eases his fingers out of you, causing a loud whine to leave you. 

An airless laugh leaves him in response as his mouth trails down your neck, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll give you more.”

You shiver at that, not sure how much more you can take. You’re weightless, thoughtless, overstimulated. His hands snake under your back and hips, pulling you to him as his mouth latches onto that sensitive spot on your neck. You moan lowly, rolling your head to the side to give him more room, goosebumps ticking on your skin. He’s lifting you up now, arms wrapped around you, keeping you against him as tight as he can as he stands. Your weak legs wrap around his waist, shaking arms around his neck. You feel where you’re moving, back into the bedroom. His lips move back to yours, catching another kiss from you as he gently eases you down to your mattress. 

His fingers grip the hem of your tank top, slowly pulling it up and over your head, exposing you to him fully now. He breathes out, taking you in. Naked and sprawled on the bed just for him, unwound from the orgasms he’d given you. His knees dip onto the bed, and you reach up to touch his shirt.  He shakes his head once and you frown.

”I can’t see you?” you ask in a small voice.

Dex stares down at you, your nipples tight in the exposed air. He wants them in his mouth, wants to make you cry out. His gazes goes back to yours. “Not right now. It’s not about me right now.” You didn’t understand, he didn’t want to be distracted when he still had so much to discover about you. Didn’t want your hands and eyes all over him while he was supposed to be mapping your entire body. He wanted his hands, eyes, and mouth on you instead. 

You’re not used to this intense amount of attention. You’re feeling shy again, almost like a bug under a microscope. His features soften, realizing he’s losing you again to that logic in your brain.

”I need to see you. I need this. Please understand.” His hands move to either side of you, caging you against him and the bed as he hovers over you, his head dipping down close.

You bite your lip, brow dipping in question. You’ve trusted him this far, though the post orgasms and reality of the situation were weighing into you. Especially now, as you lay naked and vulnerable under him, no doubt in your mind where this was going to end. 

You wet your lips, a movement yet again tracked precisely by the man over you. “How’s it going to happen?”

He’s gaze flicks back to your eyes, pleasure and mirth filling his. He knows what you’re doing. Giving him the go ahead while asking for reassurance. He likes this, this game you’re playing, like you were playing earlier. He leans back down to you, mouth just brushing above yours.

"I'm going to kiss you again." His lips capture yours, pulling you in a kiss that leaves you dazed and breathless and wanting him all over again. Your hands come up to grasp his broad shoulders, causing him to shudder. It was strange, he wanted you touching him but it was so distracting. He wanted it too much. So he leans back, breaking the kiss, grabbing your hands gently, easing your hands and arms down over your head. He's got them pinned with one of his. You test his grip, with a pout on your face. He laughs again, want and need making his voice darker, "Later, sweetheart. Later." He likes this too, having you manhandled onto the bed, pinned with nowhere to go, looking up at him with such need. 

"You're going to keep your hands there like a good girl." He watches with slight amusement as your keen with the praise. He hardly has the patience anymore when you buck up your hips to grind against his length. He hisses out at the contact, his own hips twitching in response, rolling forward to grind down into you. You let out a small moan and Dex shudders as he stares down to where you're connected against him. His free hand goes down to cup one of your breasts, earning him a gasp and your back arches, trying to give him more of you. He swipes a thumb over your nipple before he's dipping down to suck into his hot mouth with searing lick. 

Dex's grip on your hands leave you, but you keep them where he left them. For fear of disobeying of him. You hadn't tried it yet, maybe you never would. Listening and obeying him felt so much better. But you did ache to touch him, to pull him into you, to dig your fingers in his hair and keep his mouth against you. You didn't. You were good. 

His hands roam and grope you, mapping your body like he's trying to memorize every inch of your skin. How you feel against him. His mouth switches to your other peaked nipple, giving it the same attention. His fingertips trailing down the sides of your ribs, making you squirm, his clothed and hard length still pressed against your naked and sensitive pussy. The texture of his pants is almost too much, too harsh, but you can't get enough. It's just like his attention on you. He rocks into you, groaning at the stimulation. He's been leaking and throbbing since he first broke into your apartment. Months ago. He remembers the night he finally made contact with you. A miscalculation on his part. He hadn't meant to broke the window. Hadn't meant to scare you. But he liked it. Liked how you trembled in fear and still listened to him. That's when he knew. Knew you were perfect.

He moans against your skin, his mouth trailing down your sternum now, licking, sucking, kissing. His hands roaming still. You feel dizzy with the overstimulation, arms trembling over your head as you grip your own hands together to keep them there. Dex eases up, lips puffy and red, eyes glassy and dark with lust. If he had his camera he'd take a picture of you right now, to remind him of this moment. Skin flushed, hair a mess, sprawled out on your bed just for him. Staying still just for him. He takes a breath to steady himself.

"I'm going to fuck you now."

It's soft, the way he says it, like a part of him can't believe it. Again, like earlier, he delivers it in such a way where it's not demand. Not a threat. Not menacing, or dark. It's a soft fact. Like there's nothing you can do change it, and like he knows there is nothing you'd do to change it. 

But you answer him anyway.

"Please, Dex." you breathe out, the raw unfiltered need for him showing through your tone in such a way that makes his eyes grow dark. 

He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat before he's tugging his shirt off and over his head. You watch with curiosity and awe, his muscles moving with his body, reminding you of just how dangerous he is. Scars litter across his torso as his muscles flex and move with every moment he makes. The wound that got the two of you in this mess, still healing at his left side. A dark yellow bruise surrounding it. He leans back, his fingers hooking at his waistband, his focus zeroed in on your expressions. He wants to see how you react to him. Wants to see the way you look at him for the first time. The evidence of his desire pressed harshly against the seam of his pants, doing nothing to really show you just how big he is until he peeling away his pants. No underwear. The fact makes your mouth dry and heartbeat quicken. You see a light dusting of his happy trail as your eyes travel down lower, lips parting as you take him in. He's rock hard, thick and throbbing. Precum dripping from his pink tip. You subconsciously wet your lips and Dex makes another pleased sound. He'll get your mouth on him later. 

He doesn't let you take the sight of him in for long, before he's parting your legs and crawling on the bed in between them. Your thighs shake with anticipation, hips jolting when his skilled fingers swipe through your slick once more, like he's still making sure you're ready enough for him. He takes a steady breath, as he looks down at your exposed cunt, catching a groan at the sight of you, cock jumping with need. He hitches his hips up, sliding the tip up against you, teasing the both of you while getting himself wet with you. He groans at the contact, his length spreading you open, dragging his cock against you. You moan, hips raising to meet him as you feel just how long and thick he is. You would shudder at the thought if you weren't aching for him. Dex braces his hands on either side of you, head hanging low so he watch where you two meet. He lifts his hips, catching his tip just barely at your entrance as you rolls your hips down. Your breath catches and he starts to ease in slowly, the stretch and the burn beginning. A whimper escapes you as he keeps pressing, the pressure pulling noises out of you that you didn't know you had. 

"Easy, baby. Relax." his voice is shaking, like he's trying to hold himself back, his gaze coming back up to catch your expression. Your brows are furrowed, mouth parted, chest stuttering with the air you're trying to pull in. He keeps shifting forward. He drops down to his elbows so his upper body is pressed more against you, his mouth coming to catch yours. You let out a whimper into his mouth and suddenly he shoves forward, done being nice about it at all. You let out a shrill, hands coming down to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. He lets out a devastated moan against your mouth, breaking the kiss with pleased hiss.

"Fuck. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Fuck." His hips stutter, his forehead coming down to press against your shoulder as the initial shock and pain turn into burning desire. "I couldn't hold it anymore, you feel so fucking good." his hips roll deep into you, pulling a sharp gasp from you as he hits your cervix, fingers digging into him again.

His mouth bites down into your shoulder, as he whines into your skin. This wasn't going according to plan but he couldn't stop. Your pussy clenching around him so tightly, so slick and warm and perfect. He could cry. He drags his hips back before he's snapping them back up into you, your moans quickly turning into something he needs to hear, to feel. To have. His pelvis grinds against your clit before he's snapping his hips back and forth, his own mouth spilling obscene noises and things he can't believe he's saying to you.

"So good. So good, fuck, I'd never thought - never imagined how good," he whines, mouth leaving kisses and licks across your skin, anywhere he can get as he fucks into you, loving the way your nails dig into him, how you touch him. "How good you'd be."

His words make you moan and clutch to him, hands digging into his hair now as his cock drags inside of you, stretching you out and filling you up. He's heavy on top of you, keeping you pinned against him and the bed, his thrusts taking the air out of you with each push. You can hardly catch up with what happening, how he's talking to you in such a whimpering tone, it makes your skin burn with desire. How long had he thought about this? His mouth catches yours to steal your breath and kiss, before he pulling back, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you down to meet his thrusts. Your vision nearly goes black as your eyes rolls back. 

"So pretty, baby. Taking my cock. God. F-fuck." he growls out into your ear before he's looking down at you, watching you take him. He licks a stripe up your throat, nipping your jaw before he soothes it with a kiss. Hands and mouth and cock branding you in a way that you know you'll never escape the feelings from. Even his words.

You can't say much of anything with the way he's delivering his hips into you, the pleasure ballooning in your belly as he drags you closer and closer to the end. "Dex," you whine, his name the only thing your brain can settle on. 

It spurs him into a furious snap of his hips, the slap of your skin and obscene slick coating him filling the room with your moans and cries. His arms wrap around your torso, pressing you close against him, bear hugging you while he keeps fucking you into oblivion. He's unhinged in the way he fucks you, like he can't stop, can't help himself. His own brain finally turned off, debased into a creature of need. Not a creature with everything under control, you under control. Himself under control. This is his most human form and you've brought it out of him. 

His gaze captures yours, his brown eyes glassy with unshed tears, the sight shocking you before you're pulling him into a kiss. He whimpers into it, hips stuttering. He pulls back with a begging voice, "Tell me you need me." his lips just barely leaving.

You moan out, legs wrapping around his hips to keep him against you. You're so close, the pleasure and pressure building deep inside you with every thrust he delivers.

"Tell me." he whispers again, fingers gripping onto you in a way that you know will bruise later.

"I need you, Dex." you have your own form of whine in your voice now, panting as you get closer, "Dex-"

He interrupts you, "Tell me to never leave. That you won't leave me."

His admittance makes your breath stutter, heart flutter. The obsession he has on you is clear enough to you now, and you don't hate it. You're curious by it. Morbidly so. You know you shouldn't want it, but it makes your blood yearn and want with such force that it turns out the logic and the fear of it out your mind. Your pussy clamps down on him and he almost chokes. 

"I won't-" you gasp, fingers digging into his back, "Dex, don't leave, please don't. Don't stop." 

He revels in your begging, his voice dark, "Good girl. Now give it to me."

It's like he already has your body trained, already knows it's tells. Already knew how close you were. Knew what would send you off the edge. Your body seizes up as you let out a cry, hands gripping him tightly against you as you break on a moan. Pure euphoria rips through your body, cunt convulsing around his thick cock, making his hips stutter with a cry of his own, your orgasm pushing him over the edge. His head drops into the crook of your neck, both your bodies trembling as you come down from the white hot explosion inside of you. Your chest heaves, limbs boneless as you feel his cock pump inside of you. You feel full and peaceful. Not worried about the consequences of your actions just yet. 

Dex lets out a pleased sigh, holding you still against him, making no move to remove his softening cock out of you. He nuzzles his nose up your neck, breathing you in as you both settle into this new time and reality. Your fingers find themselves drawing swirls and meaningless things on his back, earning goosebumps on his skin. He shudders against the stimulation, enjoying the feel of your hand on him. 

You're the first to speak after a few minutes of this bliss, "I want my cat mug back."

"You're not getting it back." He smiles against your skin, "Unless you come back to my place."

"How's that?"

although, that wasn't entirely true. aerion simply loathed most people involved in them. the stammering lords, nobles who bowed too low and replied in haste to gain his approval even if nothing but nonsense left their mouths, courtiers who pretended their trembling was respect instead of fear.

but you were different. aerion did not loathe you at all.

across the table, you sat straight-backed in your chair, a crown of silver filigree resting lightly against your hair. it was your turn to speak, your voice coming out calm and measured as you address the matter of trade tariffs between your kingdom and the crown of house targaryen.

aerion leans back slightly, one arm slung across the carved armrest of his chair, with his boots stretched forward beneath the table. he looks bored, but that is only because he is a master at keeping a neutral expression at all times. in truth, he is staring right at you, imagining doing the most vile of acts to you right here in this room.

he finds you absolutely captivating. you speak like someone who had been born for this; sharp, composed, impossible to interrupt. a lord halfway down the table attempts to interject and you cut him off with nothing more than a polite turn of your head and a single raised brow.

you're so beautiful and charming that it is impossible to tell that you are more similar to aerion than anyone else in this room, ruthless, blood thirsty, and hungry for power. it excites him, how you meet his gaze like an equal.

a prince and a princess. both still beneath the crown but above nearly everyone else at the table. which means that most of these negotiations eventually came down to the two of you speaking while the others hovered around the edges like nervous attendants.

you continue your speech, now discussing shipping routes around the table and gesturing to the map spread out in front of you. he hears none of it, eyes trailing down your figure and stopping at your fingers brushing the parchment as you traced the coastline.

he imagines grabbing your soft hand and pulling you across the table, right onto his lap. or, perhaps bending you over in front of everyone and finally having a taste of you.

Gods.

aerion shifts slightly in his chair.

as you continue speaking, unaware (or perhaps pretending to be) of his eyes burning into you, aerion wonders if you had any idea what you did to him. how badly he wanted to ruin that calm composure of yours.

he imagines leaning close enough that the nobles around the table could no longer hear the filth he wished to whisper in your ear. imagines the slight hitch in your breath when his hand slid-

“aerion.”

your voice cuts cleanly through his thoughts, and he lifts his head and blinks up at you languidly. the room has gone quiet, every lord at the table now staring at him.

“…your thoughts?” you prompt with a little tip of your head, watching him fold his hands together and lean forward slightly. inside, he was still picturing you with your back against the council table while those same lords politely try to pretend they noticed nothing.

“your proposal,” he says smoothly, “is… quite impressive.” a few nobles exchanged surprised glances at his words, for aerion never gave compliments. but his gaze doesn't wave from you. you don't look surprised. if anything, your mouth curved faintly, as though you had expected exactly that answer. and that small smile did something very dangerous to him.

but aerion could not have you. because you were betrothed.

the thought hit him every single time he imagined putting his hands on you. you were to see some foreign prince who your family had formed a carefully arranged alliance with. this man had never sat across a table from you and watched you dismantle an argument piece by piece. he doesn’t know of your sharp tongue or wit like aerion does. he doubts the sod could even handle you.

aerion’s jaw clenches and he curls his fingers slightly against the wood of the table. the idea of another man touching you…

he exhales a slow breath through his nose. across from him, you continue speaking with the other nobles, as you’d accepted aerion’s praise and moved forward right after. he scoffs at your nonchalance. the things he would do to you would make half the court faint.

meanwhile, you've just finished speaking and lean back slightly in your chair, allowing the discussion to continue around the table. you look over at aerion, who makes no move to avert his gaze from you. he simply watches you through lowered lashes, thinking about how easily he could close the distance between you.

and how badly he wanted to see what the princess looked like when she finally lost control.

eventually, you close the council meeting, bringing attention to the late hour and suggesting to reconvene tomorrow. the council chamber slowly empties in a shuffle of robes, clinking goblets, and murmured arguments that would no doubt continue long after the doors closed.

you're already halfway down the corridor when you heard aerion's unmistakable steps behind you, heavy and confident. you speak without turning around.

"i was wondering," you say lightly, still walking, but slowing your pace for him slightly. "how long it would take the prince to abandon the rest of his court."

a low voice answers behind you. "i did not abandon them, princess. i am simply more interested in you."

you finally glance over your shoulder as aerion falls into step beside you. his pale hair gleams in the torchlight of the corridor, silver - almost white against the dark stone walls. his expression is the same arrogant calm he had worn at the table, but his eyes, those sharp violet eyes, are still fixed on you in a way that felt almost leering. but the crown prince would never leer, especially not at another royal. "i escaped," he jokes, looking down at you.

you snort softly and continue walking.

"that poor merchant lord from the western ports will be heartbroken," you tut. "he seemed convinced you cared deeply about his grain tariffs."

aerion scoffs, "if i had to hear one more word about grain tariffs, i would have set the entire port on fire and spared myself the discussion."

you laugh at his audacity, feeling quite amused by the fact he seems to trust you enough to share his true feelings with you. part of you wonders why he is so comfortable with you, enough to tell jokes and walk so close to you that your arms keep brushing, but you figure it is best to not make any assumptions. aerion is just confusing.

meanwhile, he's trying to contain himself because your laugh had ignited something disgustingly warm and pleasant inside him. his stomach seemed to flip upside down when you did it. he watches you as you both walk down the long castle hallway. servants bow as you pass, but neither of you slow for them.

you wave one away absentmindedly when they try to ask something about dinner arrangements. aerion notices. there it was again, your unwillingness to pretend to give a damn about something if it does not interest you. you are so blatantly honest that aerion cannot help but trust you. you do not lie or sugarcoat.

"you are terrible to your staff," he says casually.

you glance sideways at him. "i am not. they just do not recognize when i am not in the mood to talk with them. some of them have been with me years and still do not know my daily routines. it is their fault i get short with them. and they are still paid handsomely. i do not feel sorry at all."

there, more honesty. aerion grins. that is exactly the kind of answer he would have given. "no?" he's thoroughly amused, and continues speaking, wanting to hear more of your thoughts. "you dismissed lord harren rather brutally today. i thought he might cry."

"he was wrong," you reply simply.

"and that justified humiliating him in front of the council?"

you look at him incredulously, figuring the answer would be obvious. "yes."

with a grin, aerion pictures the moment from the meeting - how you'd calmly dismantled the man's argument piece by piece while he sputtered and tried to recover. you hadn't even raised your voice, just watched him crumble. aerion had admired it immensely.

you round a corner, leading him deeper into the quiet wing of the castle where guest chambers were kept for visiting nobility. "your proposal about the eastern shipping lanes," aerion says suddenly. "you were holding something back."

"you believe so, prince aerion?" you ask, lips curving slightly. "that i was leaving points out of the discussion?"

aerion felt a thrill rush through his body. he loves this part, the unspoken game between the two of you where you circle each other without ever quite touching. you provoke each other to see who will yield first to temptation.

you stop walking for a moment beside a tall window where moonlight spilled across the stone floor. “the tariffs were bait,” you admit, making no move to back away or avoid being cornered when aerion walks a little closer, enclosing you in the little private alcove under the high window.

“i assumed.”

“the real issue is naval positioning,” you continue. “if your father agrees to the arrangement, your fleets will control the southern trade routes within a year.”

aerion’s eyes flicker with interest. “and you’re giving us that advantage why?”

“because your fleets already control them in practice. i'm simply giving you the direction to dominate.”

the two of you stared at each other for a moment. it wasn’t the first time Aerion had felt it, that strange sense that when he spoke to you, he wasn’t speaking to a rival court. he was speaking to someone who thought the same way he did. calculating. completely unimpressed by the opinions of lesser men and women.

“you are wasted here,” aerion shakes his head. "you should be ruling a kingdom. plundering others." your betrothal surfaced in his mind again briefly, turning his expression sour. that distant crown waiting for you where you will have to sit back and shut up the rest of your life, letting that man do all the talking and plundering for you, when aerion, if he had your hand, would have you rule hand in hand as equals.

"shall we move along to your chambers, prince aerion?"

he shakes his head and backs you in further so you're forced to sit back on the ledge, and he keeps you in with strong arms, putting his face close to yours. you are strong and have resisted many men's attempts at seducing you, but aerion is... different. extremely so. his gaze fixed on yours, his clean, woodsy scent making you woozy. "i do not want to go to bed, princess." he murmurs.

the torchlight from the corridor flickers across the sharp angles of his face. his expression had shifted. though still arrogant and amused, there's a certain predatory look on his face that you hadn't noticed before. "i think you're dismissing me rather quickly."

your eyes flit around his face quickly, your breath held in your lungs as you feel the gap between the two of you get smaller and smaller. he's making you nervous. so nervous that your body is quivering and restless, and your face, neck and ears are burning heat. "i... i showed you the route to your chamber. that was the purpose of the walk."

"was it?" his tone is light and curious as though he already knew the answer. he just wants to see if you will be honest and agree with him or lie and say you're still thinking about that pathetic man you're set to marry. he knows you are not naive, though. you must be aware of the tension humming in the air between you. perhaps you are just too... thoughtful of that man's feelings to indulge in it though.

“one might think,” he speaks slowly, “that after such a riveting council meeting, two like-minded rulers might wish to… continue their discussion.”

“continue our discussion,” you repeat.

“of course.” he says smoothly, leaning a little closer and forcing your body back into the nook, your tits pushed against his chest and your crown now askew in your hair. his breathing has gotten heavier and more erratic, but he still hasn't put his hands on you, not really. but he can tell you're as caught up in this as he is.

“isn't this rather unbecoming of a prince and princess, aerion?” you ask, gaze dropping to his wet pink lips. he licks them unconsciously and leans down further, nearly brushing his mouth against yours. but he's waiting for an explicit sign that you want this as much as he does. that you do not care for your husband to be. that you want aerion to defile you in the halls of your castle where anyone could walk by at any moment.

you pant into his mouth, your lips brushing against his without pressure involved. just getting a taste of what could be.

“my betrothed,” you add breathily, “would not be pleased to hear i've been in such close proximity to you.”

"your betrothed is not here." he says immediately, hand snaking behind your head and grabbing at your hair almost brutishly, tipping your head up so your mouths are angled perfectly against each other, but you're still not actually kissing.

you gasp and fist your hands in the back of his robes to steady yourself, eyes fluttering shut. aerion's scent fills up every inch of space in your senses again, and you try to deepen the almost-kiss, just for him to back away slightly and tut at you mockingly. "oh princess." he croons. "weren't you taught to say please?"

for a moment, you can't seem to steady yourself as he runs his hands along your body, mouth moving lethargically against yours. the confidence you wield so easily in court feels… distant here. irrelevant. "i-" you start, your voice catching in your throat embarrassingly. aerion exhales, letting out an airy groan past your lips. "go on..." he prompts. he has all the time in the world to pull this from you. "tell me what you want."

you let out a shaky inhale as your resolve, so unshakable before, slips away. your voice is hardly audible when you admit it; “…you.”

aerion stills momentarily, only long enough for the answer to settle, before he grins slowly. “there it is,” he murmurs.

his hand tightens slightly at the back of your head to hold you there as he finally closes the distance, sealing his mouth fully against yours and pushing you back with his weight as he dominates the kiss. he swallows your sounds with his tongue, using the first opportunity he can to slip it into your mouth and lave it over yours.

you paw at him in return, fingers fisting in the fabric of his robes, pulling him closer until there's no space left between the two of you at all. he groans at your insistence and lowers his hands to your front, undoing the laces lining the top of your gown rapidly.

without removing his mouth from yours, he pushes his hands against your newly bare skin, hands finding the soft mounds of your breasts and moaning at how round and pert they feel in his cool palms. how quickly your nipples bud and swell under his touch, sensitive to the pads of his thumbs and his pinching fingers. you buck into his touch, not unhappy with his emboldened behavior.

it's overwhelming in the best way. his tongue swirling around yours, his lips pushed and molded perfectly against the seam of your mouth, and his big, cool hands on your warm chest has your thoughts slipping, your composure unraveling piece by piece as the tension that’s been building finally has somewhere to go.

aerion seems so impatient in the way he handles you. letting his lips slip off yours with saliva strings webbing between both your swollen mouths, he slowly moves his kisses down to your jaw. his teeth bite into your skin, cutting into the soft flesh before he allows you the soothing press of his tongue. hes merciful enough to soothe the marks hes been leaving on you.

your hands fist in his clothes as he mouths and fondles your body. at the moment, you feel no shame about being soiled before marriage. you're not even promised to aerion. and yet the betrayal your betrothed would feel if he found you and the crown prince touching and mouthing at each other like rabid animals does not make you hesitate.

aerion pushes his body between your legs, letting you feel the hard length of his cock through his clothes. one hand descends to lift your hips so he can press his cock against you right through your wet underwear. you gasp and moan at all the sensations at once. his cock, tongue, and hands on you. "more," you say pleadingly, pushing him up against you and reaching down to palm at his long, thick cock. it's bigger than you anticipated. heavy in your palm as he pushes his hips instinctively into your hand.

"you learn quick, princess." he praises, groaning at your fist wrapping around his clothed cock. “you want it? show me how much.”

obediently, you lean back and hike your dress up, pulling your underwear to the side to reveal your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. you even go so far as to spread yourself with two fingers, letting him see the pearlescent strings of arousal clinging to your pussy lips.

his pupils dilate the moment he sees how wet and ready for him you are, slick oozing out of you in thick rivulets. the control he'd initially had in the council room snaps completely, and he removes his breeches and bottoms and fists his hard, pale cock, lining it up with your hole.

you gasp as he rubs his red, swollen tip along your folds, the friction coaxing pitiful whines past your lips as your juices and his thick pre-cum smear together, making a mess of you.

the head of his cock parts your folds agonizingly slow as he starts to slip inside you, his hand letting go of the base of his cock to let your pussy do the work in gripping him and sucking him in deeper. "so tight," he grunts, leaning forward to push more of himself inside you. "i'd expect nothing less from you, princess. look at how well you take me."

his cock stretches you out further and further, the sensation of being full taking over the closer he gets to bottoming out. you can't take your eyes off his as his cock sinks in, and finally, with one slick pop, his balls hit the curve of your ass while he rests snugly inside you.

taking a minute to let your soft walls adjust to his size, he rests inside you, focused on the way his balls twitch against your ass and how his cock has fully disappeared into your hole, milking him with a vise grip. he groans, hands sliding down your soft, supple body worshippingly.

then, unable to withold his need to fuck you proper, he draws back and slams back into you, his cock dragging forwards into your puffy walls and mixing in all your slick. your lips draw together in a pout as you whimper out his name, peering down at where his cock is stuffing your pussy and thrusting in and out. you look down and spread your pussy lips, your eyes drawn to the motion of your walls clinging to his cock and sucking him back in with every rut of his thick cock.

you're dizzy with pleasure, and all aerion does is chuckle at the fucked out expression on your sweaty, flushed face. "hungry little pussy," he comments mockingly, smirking at the squelching noises your hole makes. "can barely hear your noises over hers."

though he really would like to play calm and collected with you, it's difficult for him to maintain subtlety with how soft and warm you are around his pulsing shaft. you suck him back in and milk his cock when he tries to draw back, and it makes it so hard for him to keep pounding your cunt silly when all you want to do is keep him stuffing you full.

that, the way you spread your hole for him to fuck proper, and the borderline vulgar expression on your face, how you keep looking up to gauge how he feels as if seeking his approval, it all has him going stupid inside of you. he grabs you by the hips and drags you up on his cock so you're no longer seated, but pressed flat up against the wall with your legs on his shoulders so he can fuck you deeper.

he bounces you on his cock like a toy, groping the fat of your thighs and ass while hissing at how you tighten down around him and dig your nails into his shoulders. with the new position, it doesn't take long for aerion to reach that one weak spot you've never known about until now. the swollen head of his cock prods against it again and again while his balls squish against your ass.

"aerion!" you cry out, your moans increasing in pitch and volume until he rapidly shushes you.

"fuck, keep the noise down." he curses, holding you against him and deepening his thrusts into you. you feel him reach impossibly deeper with every drive of your hips, and it's hard for you to listen and obey when he keeps fucking your cunt like this. you can feel your orgasm fast approaching with the incessant stimulation to your weak spot and the fabric of his robes rubbing against your puffy clit. "else we'll get caught and everyone'll know what the sweet princess gets up to at night."

your mouth opens in a dramatic, gasped moan at his threat, and he quickly silences you with yet another deep kiss.

he wonders if you kiss your bethrothed like this.

the thought makes him plunge his tongue into your mouth greedily, staking his claim on you while all you can do is run your tongue against his while his cock busies itself with filling your softening walls that hold onto him tight. he feels his load churning in his balls and his stomach twisting up with each lewd run of your tongue on his and his cock pumping your pussy, and he shudders, squeezing you tighter against him when your hands fist in his hair, silently coaxing him to cum.

hungrily, aerion licks your lips upon envisioning himself pumping you full of his cum and sending you back to your chambers full of him, watching his hot load trickle down your little legs as you walk into your bedroom. the last encouragement he needs before he cums is your soft voice against his lips, crooning; "i need it, aerion, f-fill me please."

“I will cut off your head for this fucking insolence.” Aerion spits, sharp teeth bared as his adams apple bobs under the pressure of your blade, a wicked little thing you pulled from his vast collection. “H-holding a knife to the throat of a son of the blood like some common criminal.” he grits out as your heat flutters around him, hips rolling roughly to meet yours despite all his empty threats.

“Oh, my prince,” you coo, emphasising the my with a harsh press into the delicate skin of Aerion’s neck, “you’d sooner fill my cunt than have my head.” 

Much to your chagrin, Aerion hisses like some feral animal, baring his neck for you like a challenge. You flatten the knife against angry, bitten flesh and watch a bead of blood collect around the edge. His signet ring digs into the flesh of your hips as he chases his own release. “I can do both, can I not?”

The feeling of his tip bullying its further into your cervix forces a surprised yelp leave your lips and you plant a hand on Aerion’s shoulder to steady yourself. His palm comes up to meet yours, fingers intertwining in a sickly sweet gesture despite the knife digging into his threat.

A thousand jests about his affection flood your mind and then halt at the sight of your prince before you.

Bright amethyst and violets knock back into his head, chest shuddering and head lolling as his pleasure pools in his rigid abdomen. Swollen, kiss-bitten lips hang open and if you listen very carefully over the sound of skin against skin and your own moans, you can almost hear Aerion pleading with you. Begging for you to hurt him further. You don’t even realise you’ve pressed the knife even harder against his flesh until you can feel the vibration of Aerion’s groan under your hand as your hips twitch.

Your lips narrowly miss the knife's edge as you lean forward to press your lips against Aerion’s wound. A messy smear of blood and spit covers your mouth and your cunt throbs at the sound of Aerion calling your name beneath you. You lick his wound and drag your hot mouth up past the column of his neck, the hard lines of his jaw and the side of his scowl until your lips meet his. It’s less of a kiss and more like he’s trying to swallow you whole. Aerion licks over the blood on your chin, saliva and copper mixing until all you can taste and all you can smell is him.

“Gevie.” he rasps into your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip and gasping when you bite back, “Ñuhon.”

Beautiful. Mine.

Your thighs ache with your effort and the brewing of your orgasm. Aerion brands crescent-shaped marks into the back of your hand, his voice teetering between a gasp and a moan. “Shit,” he hisses, “I should fuck you like this with a knife in your heart.”

Press harder. Hurt me harder, he means. Show me how fearless you are, show me how you could gut me in my own chambers and how you won’t because you fucking love me.

“Don’t give me ideas.” you moan, hands shuddering around the hilt of the blade as Aerion tilts his hips upwards. You play at carving your initials into his collarbone, hips still rocking as you chase your own release. Aerion shudders when you nick a spot near his clavicle. “Fuck - I’m already close.”

Warmth spreads throughout your stomach and the sight of Aerion flushed and beautiful flickers in and out of your vision as your eyes roll back. Your voice turns pitchy, keening and less like a sound used for empty threats. 

Aerion calls your name as his hand bites into your sides, his breath almost whining as his own pleasure builds. “Cum for me,” Aerion groans, dragging you closer to his chest until you're almost nose to nose, commanding you in a silky soft tone of voice like you couldn’t split his throat open right then and there. 

Your hips snap down to meet his, still steadying yourself with your hand in his. The blade shifts dangerously close to his carotid and Aerion’s hand leaves your waist to hold your wrist, holding his knife to his own throat in a shaky grip.

Aerion plants his heels into the bed, fucking into you at a gruelling place. Hot and cold explodes all over your body at once and you cum with a shout. Not a pretty, honeyed moan but a real sound as visceral as a knife to a neck. He holds you close to him, jaw going slack as you grind him through his orgasm, your ear pressed to his lips so you can drink in all his sweet sounds. “I love you,” he murmurs, easy to miss over the sound of your heavy breathing.

As quick as his confession came, Aerion cradles you to his chest and pushes forward, your shaky legs still wrapped around his waist as your head meets the sheets. Your ankles lock around each other, holding him close to you.

You can’t recall when the blade left your hand, but Aerion holds it up in the flickering candlelight, your fucked-out reflection looking back down at you. He makes a show of blowing cool air on the warm steel, eyes never leaving yours before dragging the cold tip down the valley of your breasts. Aerion hums a sound of delight when your pulse quickens. 

The sharp edge circles your left nipple as Aerion nudges closer and closer to your beating heart. “Will you keep to your word, my love?” you hiss, arching your back to press harder into his blade.

A quick cut to your flesh has you crying out, a mix of pleasure and pain as Aerion licks your blood from his own dagger. He leans down to kiss you soft and sweet, feeding you your own taste of copper and metal and him. You smile against his lips.

Aerion pecks the side of your mouth and then your un-touched neck. “Īlon kessa ūndegon” he says into your flesh.

We shall see.

His goblet tilted slightly in your direction. “House Yronwood bled for the wrong dragon, if memory serves.”

A quiet murmur passed between a few of the men. Someone gave a short laugh.

“Careful,” another lord said, though there was amusement in his voice. “The girl herself might hear you.”

“Oh, I am certain she has heard worse,” the man replied, lifting his cup. “After all, traitor’s blood does not grow thinner simply because the war is over.”

The name hung in the air like a blade. Traitor’s blood.

Across the hall, musicians continued to play their lutes as if nothing had happened.

The feast had been arranged for the nameday of Dyanna Dayne, the wife of Maekar Targaryen—a celebration grand enough to fill the hall with banners, torchlight, and half the court.

Golden candles flickered in tall iron stands along the stone walls.

The air was thick with scents—roasted lamb rubbed in garlic and rosemary, honeyed figs, spiced Dornish wine, melted beeswax from dozens of candles.

Silk sleeves brushed across the table. Goblets clinked. Laughter rose and fell. The celebration continued.

But at your end of the table, something had gone very quiet. You kept your gaze lowered.

Your fingers remained wrapped around the stem of your goblet, though you had long stopped drinking.

You had heard worse before. You had heard it whispered in corridors. You had heard it behind your back.

Traitor’s blood.

The granddaughter of a rebel.

Yet hearing it spoken so easily—so casually—while you sat among them still left a dull ache in your chest.

You stared at the deep red wine in your cup. It rippled slightly as someone set another goblet down nearby.

“You are not your grandfather,” your father had said that the night before you left for court. “Remember that.”

But courts remembered everything.

You realized belatedly that someone at the table had asked you something, but you hadn’t heard the words. Your mind had gone strangely distant.

The noise of the hall blurred together—music, laughter, clattering dishes—like sound echoing from the far end of a tunnel.

Your heart felt slow. Heavy.

You blinked once. Then twice.

Then you quietly set the goblet down.

Your chair scraped softly against the stone floor when you rose from the table yet no one stopped you. Most of them were too busy speaking over one another.

And then, you stepped away before anyone could notice the tightness in your throat—past servants carrying platters of roasted birds, past laughing ladies in bright silks, past two king’s guards in polished breastplates standing beside the great hall doors.

The corridor beyond was cooler. Quieter.

The sound of the feast dimmed behind thick stone walls as you walked.

You did not stop until you reached one of the outer balconies overlooking the city. When you neared it, the night air struck your face immediately.

Cool. Salted by the distant waters of Blackwater Bay.

You stepped out onto the stone balcony and rested both hands on the carved balustrade. Below you, King’s Landing stretched in a maze of crooked streets and flickering lantern light.

The city smelled faintly of smoke and sea salt even from this height. Somewhere far below, a dog barked—the sound so faint you might have missed it if you were lost in the same hollow quiet you had felt in the great hall.

The wind tugged lightly at the sleeves of your gown. The air was cooler here, calmer than the heavy warmth of the hall.

You closed your eyes for a moment, focusing on your breathing. Your chest rose slowly, then fell.

You told yourself it did not matter—they were drunk. Men with too much wine and too little sense.

But the words lingered all the same.

Traitor’s blood.

Your grandfather had chosen his banners long before you were born and had ridden beneath the black dragon of Daemon Blackfyre. He had bled for that choice. But you had inherited the consequences.

You pressed your fingers against the cool stone rail.

You had done nothing wrong. Nothing. Yet here you were—sent from House Yronwood to the Red Keep like a promise your father had to make.

You were not a prisoner. No, that would be too obvious. Not exactly a hostage. But you weren’t free either.

You exhaled slowly into the night air.

From somewhere inside the castle the faint sound of music drifted outward again. The celebration continued. As if nothing had happened at all. For them, it was true. Making snide remarks about the Yronwood girl was a daily task for them. And they completed it.

Inside the great hall, the feast carried on. Someone called for another round of wine in honor of Dyanna Dayne’s nameday while her husband, Maekar Targaryen, sat beside her, looking completely in awe of her.

At the high table, Baelor Breakspear remained seated. His eyes had followed you the moment you stood. He had watched the slight stiffness in your shoulders, the careful way you set down your goblet, the way you left the hall without looking at anyone.

He had noticed all of it.

Baelor’s fingers rested loosely around his cup, though he had not taken a sip in several minutes.

Across the table, the same lord who had made the remark was still speaking—laughing now, recounting some exaggerated tale from his days of boyhood.

Baelor barely heard him. But the words the old man had said a few minutes prior still rang in his ear.

Traitor’s blood.

The phrase settled in his chest like a stone. He forced himself to remain still because a prince did not rise from the table in the middle of a feast because of careless drunken words. A prince did not chase after a girl because a lord had spoken too freely.

A prince—especially the Hand of the King—was expected to show restraint. Baelor had practiced restraint his entire life. Yet he felt the urge to stand so strongly that his body seemed almost to vibrate with it.

His gaze drifted toward the tall doors you had disappeared through. You had looked so small leaving the hall. Quiet. You were always quiet.

Ever since you had arrived at the Red Keep from House Yronwood, you had carried yourself with that same careful stillness. But it was understandable—the court had not welcomed you. Not truly.

No one had been openly cruel, not in the way men might behave on a battlefield or in the streets of King’s Landing. But distance could wound just as well. People simply… avoided you—conversations died when you approached, ladies smiled politely before turning away, people chose seats away from yours.

No one wished to be seen speaking too warmly with the granddaughter of a man who had once ridden beneath the banners of Daemon Blackfyre during the First Blackfyre Rebellion.

Baelor’s jaw tightened slightly.

You had not chosen that banner. You had not fought that war. And yet you carried its shadow all the same. He disliked hearing it spoken of so lightly.

The lord’s laughter grated against his patience.

Baelor inhaled slowly through his nose, steadying himself. The smell of wine and roasted meat filled his lungs.

Across the table someone spoke to him—something he wasn’t sure he heard properly. Baelor answered automatically. His voice, as always, was calm and even. Measured. He did not need to raise it for others to listen because authority rested naturally within it.

But his thoughts were elsewhere. They drifted back to the first time he had ever heard your voice.

The Red Keep library had been nearly empty that evening. The room had smelled of dust and old parchment, candles burning low between tall shelves of leather-bound volumes.

Baelor spent many evenings there. Some by choice. Others out of necessity.

As Hand of the King and heir to the throne, knowledge was not a luxury. It was duty. He studied histories, laws, treaties, war strategies—anything that might one day shape the fate of the realm. The weight of it rested constantly on his shoulders. The future king could not afford ignorance.

Yet that night the library had not been empty after all.

You had been seated near one of the long wooden tables, surrounded by open books. Baelor remembered the way you had looked up when he entered. Startled, as though you expected to be told to leave.

Instead he had asked what you were reading.

You had hesitated before answering, “A book on plants, Your Grace.” Your voice had been soft. Careful. As if every word needed to be weighed before it was spoken.

You had explained how certain plants could survive in the harsh desert sands. How some healed wounds. How others were poisonous if mishandled.

Baelor had found himself listening longer than he intended. You spoke with quiet certainty when discussing the subject.

Your eyes had brightened slightly when describing rare flowers that bloomed only after rain.

He remembered realizing then that you were… interesting. Far more interesting than the court gave you credit for, if any.

After that evening, he began noticing you more often—in corridors, in the gardens, sept, godswood, and then in the library again.

Eventually the two of you spoke more. Sometimes about books, and often about plants, because you loved reading about them. Other times, about Dorne, as it was a common topic. His mother, Myriah Martell, was Dornish. House Yronwood hailed from Dorne as well.

The conversations had been simple. Almost like friendship. And Baelor had always been careful. And kind, most importantly, never pressing you into topics that might wound. He had watched you grow a little less guarded each time.

The memory faded as the noise of the feast returned around him. Someone laughed loudly and then a goblet spilled across the table.

Baelor glanced again toward the hall doors. You had been gone long enough now, long enough to reach the outer corridors. Perhaps the balconies overlooking the city.

He imagined you standing there alone in the cold night air and the thought unsettled him. You did not deserve to face the court’s cruelty without comfort.

Not tonight. Not after that remark.

Baelor set his goblet down at last. The decision settled quietly within him. It was simple, but necessary.

As he rose from his seat, a few nearby lords paused in their conversations as he stood. The crown prince inclined his head politely.

“I will return shortly,” he said. His voice remained steady, slow, composed. Yet beneath that calm, his purpose was already clear.

He intended to find you.

The corridor was quiet save for Baelor’s footsteps, his boots muffled against the flagstones. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that danced between the carved arches. The scent of candle wax and lingering roast from the feast hung faintly in the air, mingling with the cooler night that crept through the open balcony doors.

He found you immediately. Leaning on the stone balustrade, shoulders slightly hunched against the chill, your hair catching the torchlight, a few loose strands falling against your cheek. Your eyes were distant, fixed on the streets of King’s Landing far below.

He paused a step away, hands loosely at his sides. His voice carried, calm and even, but threaded with concern. “You shouldn’t have left the hall alone.”

You didn’t turn immediately. A shiver ran through you at the sound of him—steady, familiar, carrying that quiet authority he always had. You glanced at him, cheeks faintly pink in the torchlight. Your hand rested on the cold stone.

“I… I just needed air,” you admitted. “It… got too loud in there. And it’s easier to breathe out here.”

He studied your profile. The curve of your jaw, the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers gripped the stone. Every small movement told him something—how uncomfortable you were, how used to being overlooked.

“I can imagine.” He stepped closer, though still letting you have space, his hands clasped loosely behind him. “I don’t like how they speak of you. Not a word of it is true. You are not what they think.”

You let out a quiet sigh, shoulders relaxing slightly, leaning against the balustrade. His gaze lingered on your face, noticing every flicker of emotion, the way your eyes moved as if tracing the city below. Then you finally turned to him, eyes meeting his. Your lips parted slightly, hesitant.

“You always speak so carefully,” you murmured. “Even now, when… when I probably deserve scolding.”

“No scolding,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Only the truth. You carry enough blame for things you never chose.” His voice carried quiet warmth, deliberate and calm, the kind that made it impossible to feel small.

You let a faint smile slip, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You make it sound as if you’ve known me forever,” you teased lightly, the first real edge of levity since the hall.

He tilted his head, studying you like he always did — the way you tucked one hand against the balustrade, how your lips pressed together just slightly when you considered your words.

“I know you more than anyone else in the court,” he said slowly. “And I have noticed more than anyone else. Every time I see you in the library, the hallways, the gardens… I cannot help but see you. Every small gesture, every glance. It’s impossible not to.”

Your pulse quickened. You weren’t used to anyone noticing you in that way. And yet here he was—calm, measured, but fully aware of the smallest details of you.

“Impossible not to?” you repeated, half laughing, half incredulous.

“Yes,” he said, quiet but firm. “I notice everything about you. The way you hold yourself. How your hands fidget when you’re uncertain. The slight twitch of your brow when you’re troubled.”

He took a careful step closer, letting the warmth of his presence brush the edges of your sleeve. Not enough to crowd, but enough that the air between you seemed charged.

“And yet,” he added, voice lowering, teasing now but still restrained, “you try so hard to make yourself invisible. I don’t understand why.”

You flushed faintly, shifting slightly away, but your gaze remained locked with his.

“Perhaps it’s safer,” you murmured.

“Safer,” he repeated slowly, studying the lines of your face in the torchlight. “But not better. Not for you. And certainly not for me.”

You blinked at him, caught between nerves and something warmer, heavier. He wasn’t teasing like a courtly rogue. Not playful for amusement. It was… serious. Focused. Careful, yet undeniable.

“And what would you do if I stayed like this forever?” you whispered.

“Then I would stay too,” he said softly, slow, calm, letting the words hang in the night air, “because I cannot leave you alone when you look like this. Not when the world seems so eager to judge you unfairly.”

The wind tugged at your hair again, and he noticed how your lashes rested against your cheeks when you blinked, how your lips parted just slightly, the faint catch in your breath. He stepped just a fraction closer, careful, letting the tension swell naturally between concern and something more.

You let out a quiet, almost reluctant smile, leaning slightly against the balustrade. He noticed the way your eyes lingered on him, careful but curious, the faint tension in your shoulders.

“You notice too much,” you murmured teasingly, a small lift at the corner of your lips.

“Only what matters,” he said softly, letting his gaze trace your face with the slow precision that always unnerved you just a little. “And right now… it’s you.”

Baelor’s eyes stayed on you, steady, unwavering. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He let you feel the weight of his gaze first, long and deliberate, letting every subtle shift in your expression register.

You shifted on your feet, hands gripping the stone railing, the chill of the balcony brushing through your sleeves. He noticed the way you pressed your fingertips lightly against the cold stone, curling them almost imperceptibly, and how your lashes fluttered when the wind teased them.

“Do you always stand so still?” he asked softly, voice low, calm, but threaded with amusement. “Or am I seeing something different tonight?”

You blinked, unsure if he meant the wind, your tension, or something else entirely. Your lips parted slightly, and you felt your heartbeat spike.

“I…” you started, then stopped, feeling the words catch somewhere between nerves and awareness.

He took a step closer, slow, measured, careful—not crowding you, just bridging the space between you by inches, letting the warmth of him brush the edges of your sleeve. He let the movement linger, testing, observing. Every subtle reaction of yours was a note to him: the hitch in your breath, the faint heat creeping to your cheeks, the way your shoulders shifted slightly toward him.

“You’re very… careful,” he murmured, tone soft but deliberate, letting the word hang between you. “Every movement, every glance… I notice it all.”

Your chest tightened. You swallowed, unsure whether to step back or lean just slightly forward. Your pulse thumped so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“I… I can’t hide anything from you, can I?” you whispered, voice trembling a little.

“Not for long,” he said, slow and careful, letting his gaze sweep over you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “And I don’t want you to. Every part of you… even the smallest reactions… they tell me so much.”

You felt it then. The heat of his presence. The way the air seemed to thrum between you. A shiver ran down your spine, not from the wind, and you pressed your hands lightly against the railing to steady yourself.

He tilted his head slightly, noticing the flush in your cheeks, the way your lips parted, the faint tremor in your fingers. “You look… exquisite like this,” he said softly, carefully, letting the words brush against your ears, not loud enough to be overheard, but carrying the weight of intention.

“Exquisite?” you murmured, a nervous laugh escaping, breathless.

“Yes,” he said, slow, deliberate. “And I mean it. Every curve, every line, every little hesitation… it draws me in.”

You swallowed, heat rising hotter now, body aware of him in a way that made your knees threaten to wobble.

“Your Grace…” you whispered, almost pleading, almost questioning, your voice catching.

He noticed the way your shoulder twitched, the faint tilt of your head toward him. He let the moment stretch. Every second, every pause, was calculated—to let you feel the tension, the pull, the electric charge between you.

“Do you feel it too?” he murmured, voice dropping lower, letting the word linger between you like smoke. “The pull… the way it hums between us?”

You could only nod, cheeks flushing deeper than you thought possible. Your lips parted as if to speak, but the words got caught somewhere between desire and fear. He leaned closer, slow, careful, so that you felt the heat of his chest just behind the sweep of his cloak.

His hand hovered near yours again, letting the anticipation stretch unbearably long. Then, almost impossibly gently, he let his fingers find yours, brushing the pads of your fingers with the tip of his thumb. The contact was enough to make your knees weak, a soft gasp escaping you before you could stop it.

“I’ve wanted this for longer than I care to admit,” he said, voice low, husky but measured, calculated. “I want you. I want this—” He gestured slightly between you, the space you shared, “—the closeness, the warmth, the way you make me feel alive just by being near.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, and your hands instinctively curled over the stone railing, gripping it like an anchor to keep yourself steady. You felt dizzy, caught in the intensity of him, the deliberate way he watched every subtle reaction. He noticed it all—the blush rising across your cheeks, the quick inhale of your breath, the small tremble in your fingers, even the way your lashes flicked down as if shielding him from your own awareness of yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes softened but darkened in a way that made your stomach twist. Slowly, impossibly slowly, he leaned forward until the space between your lips and his was a whisper of distance. The wind stirred your hair across your face, and he brushed it back gently with a finger, letting his touch linger near your temple.

“Do you trust me?” he murmured, voice a calm, grounding anchor in the storm of your nerves.

You nodded, barely, shivering under the intensity of his gaze, your pulse loud in your ears, drowning out everything else.

Baelor’s hand moved from your fingers to rest lightly against the small of your back, drawing you a fraction closer, not forcing, just closing the distance with the gentle weight of his authority. You could feel his breath against your cheek, slow, controlled, a deliberate rhythm that matched the quickening of your own heartbeat.

“Then let me show you what this is,” he whispered. “Let me show you how much I want you.”

And then he closed the final fraction of the gap. His lips met yours softly at first, gentle and teasing, a brush of warmth and intent. The kiss was slow, exploratory, letting you feel the steadiness of him, the delicious pressure, the undeniable heat of desire beneath it.

You gasped softly, shivering against him, fingers tightening lightly on his cloak as the realization of what this was… what he was, overwhelmed you.

He pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, letting you catch your breath, his hand lingering at the small of your back. His voice, low and measured, brushed against your ear:

“I am done being patient, I cannot hide this anymore. I want you—entirely, completely, and I do not care to wait. Every inch of me desires you. Every glance, every touch, every quiet moment you give me—” He paused, letting the words sink, letting the weight of them press against your chest. “…it makes me ache for you. And I would be a fool to pretend otherwise.”

Your knees trembled, cheeks hot, lips parted in a soft, overwhelmed gasp. You had never felt desire so raw, so deliberate, yet tempered with care, so impossibly concentrated in one person. You pressed slightly closer, drawn by the gravity of him, the heat, the intensity of his body and his gaze.

He kissed you again, pressing closer, lips moving against yours with insistent hunger. The kiss deepened slowly, teasing and claiming in turns, his hands resting firmly at your waist, drawing you flush against him. Your fingers tangled lightly in his doublet, holding on as if it anchored you against the overwhelming force of desire radiating from him.

Every brush of his mouth against yours sent shivers through your spine. His tongue traced the edge of your lips, coaxing, daring, testing. You gasped softly, startled by how raw and consuming it felt, the warmth of his body pressing into yours, the steady strength behind every movement.

“You feel that?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and urgent. “All of this… all of me wanting you?”

You nodded, heat blooming across your chest and face, trembling at the intensity of his closeness. Your breaths were shallow, fast, the world reduced to the slick press of lips, the friction of the fabric of his coat against yours, the pull of his body impossible to ignore.

He moved with purpose, hips brushing lightly against yours as if to test your reaction, slow and intentional, making you acutely aware of every inch of contact. The way he kissed you was demanding yet careful, expert without being cruel—each motion meant to make you feel exactly how much he desired you.

You clutched at him, instinctively curling your fingers into his shoulders, heart hammering wildly as warmth pooled low in your belly. Each gasp and shiver of yours only seemed to fuel him further. He whispered against your lips, letting the weight of his voice press into your ear:

“Do you even know what you do to me? Every glance, every little reaction… it drives me mad.”

You trembled at the confession, breathless, flushed, utterly consumed by the magnetism of him. Every nerve in your body felt alive, every sense heightened—the wind tangling your hair, the faint scent of the sea, the warmth of his chest pressed against you, and the insistent pull of his lips against yours.

The kiss stretched, long and dizzying, until your knees threatened to buckle, and you realized with startling clarity that this was no gentle brush of passion—it was controlling and utterly consuming. And yet, there was care, there was restraint, just enough to make every second feel unbearable and electric.

The wind tugged at your hair and the edges of your sleeves, but the heat between you and Baelor burned hotter than any cold.

Pulling back from the kiss, he exhaled slowly, a soft sound that made your chest flutter. “I’m done with the hall,” he murmured, voice low, commanding but gentle. “Done with the noise, the laughter, the endless pretense.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding, aware of the way the torchlight caught the angles of his face, the faint shadow of his jaw, the way his cloak brushed against his thighs. “Then… what will you do?”

His eyes flicked down to your lips for just a fraction of a second. “I’m going to take you with me. To my bedchamber.”

Your pulse skipped. You swallowed. “Now?”

“Now,” he said, slow, measured. “If you’re ready. If you want more…” His hand hovered near yours, hovering, watching every reaction. “But know this: if we do this, I will not go back to how things were. Things will change between us. Permanently.”

You felt a thrill, a shiver you couldn’t quite hide. And yet… there was no hesitation, not from him, not from you. You barely realized your hand had lifted, brushing lightly against his chest. Over the steady drum of his heartbeat, your fingers felt every thrum, every pulse, every contained energy.

“Prince Baelor Breakspear,” you whispered, almost afraid of how loud your voice might sound in the quiet night.

He tilted his head, lips twitching faintly, the barest hint of a smile. “You look like a man at war.”

“I am,” he said without hesitation.

“With whom?”

His eyes dropped, just briefly, to your mouth. His gaze traced the line of your lips, the soft curve of your jaw.

“With myself,” he admitted, voice low and dark. The pause stretched. Your breath caught. He let it linger. Then: “Because if you stay this close another moment—”

His thumb lifted under your chin, tilting your face toward him just slightly. You felt the unhurried weight of his control, the calm certainty in his touch.

“I am going to forget every sensible thought I have ever had,” he whispered, the huskiness in his voice threading desire into every word.

You trembled slightly, heat blossoming across your cheeks. You tilted your lips up to meet his, voice barely a whisper:

“Then forget them.”

His eyes locked with yours for the briefest heartbeat, and then he closed the distance between you two again, his lips pressing to yours. The world beyond the balcony, beyond the Red Keep, melted away. There was only the warmth, the breath, the steady pull of him against you, and the electricity of pent-up desire finally unleashed.

Before you could even process it, he scooped you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you with the same controlled strength that had always unnerved you. The corridors were empty; the feast still raged far below in the hall. No one would see, no one could stop this.

Every step he took, your body pressed closer, every heartbeat seeming to sync with his. Your fingers instinctively curled against his shoulders, brushing over the fine fabric of his cloak, your lips tingling from the brief, repeated touches of his mouth against yours during the carry.

“Are you ready?” he murmured against your hair, the intensity in his gaze matching the heat in his chest. “For more?”

You only nodded, shivering, heart pounding, warmth pooling low, as the final barrier between restraint and desire crumbled. And still, his lips lingered near yours, brushing softly—every movement a promise, every sigh a confession of the longing that had been held back far too long.

Once inside his bedchamber, he closed the door with a quiet click. Usually, he moved with measured grace, every gesture controlled. But now… all restraint was gone. Desire thrummed through him, making each motion sharp and impossible to ignore.

He set you down on the bed with ease, then stepped back, letting his eyes drink in the sight of you there.

Finally.

He had imagined this moment countless times, and yet nothing in his fantasies could compare to the reality of you—the way you trembled slightly under his gaze, the quick catch of your breath.

Exhaling slowly, he moved to his doublet, fingers deftly working the buttons one by one, his eyes never leaving yours. He found your reaction impossible to resist—wide eyes, soft flush, the way you leaned forward just slightly, eager and mesmerized.

First the doublet, then the tunic. Each layer revealed him gradually, a deliberate tease, until only his smallclothes remained. He lowered himself onto the bed, hovering above you, hands planted firmly on either side of your head.

He was lean, yes, but sculpted—muscles honed by years of practice, relics of both war and discipline. The strength in his frame was undeniable, but tempered by the calm, controlled way he looked at you, letting every inch of proximity speak the desire he had held back for far too long.

Then his mouth was on yours again, as if he could not go a moment without kissing you. One of his hands settled firmly at your waist, drawing you closer against him, while the other wandered higher, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your gown.

You gasped softly into the kiss, the sound only seeming to spur him on. He broke away for a moment, but only to trail his lips downward — brushing your jaw, then the delicate curve of your throat, then the warm hollow at the base of your neck.

Your breath caught as he tugged gently at the neckline of your gown, easing it down just enough for his attention to follow. His mouth found your breasts this time, reverent at first, then hungry. Nibbling, sucking, and twirling his tongue over the hardened peak, lingering until a soft moan escaped you.

“My prince,” you moaned softly.

“Baelor,” he corrected, blowing hot air over your nipple that was now slick with his spit, thanks to his ministrations, then lifting his head just long enough to meet your eyes.

“Baelor,” you echoed back, your voice a soft whimper. “Please...”

He stilled for a moment, watching you carefully, as though weighing every reaction.

“Please what, sweet thing?” His hand slid slowly from your waist, tracing downward along your side, over your hip and along your thigh. The movement was unhurried and knowing, his fingers exploring as though memorizing every inch of you.

When he dragged the hem of your gown above as his hand went, a shiver ran through you, and your hands rose instinctively to his shoulders, gripping lightly.

And then finally, his fingers found your most intimate place. His touch lingered for a moment, gathering the wetness he found there, teasing, testing your reactions—and when he looked back up at you, there was unmistakable satisfaction in the faint curve of his smile.

“Soaked already?” he murmured softly. “Eager little thing.”

His thumb was on your clit now, circling and rubbing with enthusiasm while his gaze fixed on you, reading every reaction. He wanted to make this good for you. He wanted to make you feel good.

He circled your entrance with one, long finger, then slid it inside you. To which you gasped, and Baelor, not missing the opportunity, leaned down to capture your lips in a swift kiss. His finger moved inside you slowly at first, then quickened.

“Does it feel good like this, sweet girl? Tell me,” he asked, pulling back from the kiss.

You nodded eagerly, and the way your hips kept rocking into the motion made it obvious you were enjoying it.

He continued his ministrations, his fingers delving deeper while his thumb teased your clit with relentless rhythm. You cried out his name, your body coiling tighter and tighter, the pleasure almost unbearable. He increased the pressure, his touch becoming more insistent, driving you towards the precipice.

Just as you felt yourself about to shatter, he stilled his hand. Your eyes snapped open, a plea in their depths. He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “Not yet, darling. We have only just begun. And I have something else in mind.” His fingers slipped out of you, making you whine in protest.

“Baelor...”

“Shh.” He moved down on your body, hands on your thighs, gripping them and spreading them apart. He settled on the bed, face between your thighs, looking up at you with his infuriatingly smug smile.

Before you had the chance to say anything, his mouth was on you. Lips sealed on your clit, his tongue working like a skilled artist, tasting, teasing, and pleasuring you with an intensity that made you cry out. He brought you to the precipice, then pulled back, only to plunge you over the edge with renewed fervor. You climaxed in a shuddering wave, your body trembling uncontrollably.

As your breathing began to steady, Baelor rose again. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a tender possessiveness. “Now,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. He reached for the hem of your evening gown that was already bunched up around your waist, pulling it up and over your head, discarding it with a flourish. You were finally, completely bare before him, skin flushed and body still humming with residual pleasure.

He paused, his eyes devouring the sight of you, a soft groan escaping his lips. “So beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with something you couldn’t name.

A few seconds later, his smallclothes came off as well. Then, with a strength that belied his gentle demeanor, he flipped both of you over. You found yourself straddling him, legs parting to embrace his thighs.

The rough texture of the sheets beneath you was a grounding sensation, but the sight of Baelor looking up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of desire and tenderness, was intoxicating.

He guided you, his hands on your hips, his eyes locked with yours. He was experienced, his movements sure and steady, but his gaze was filled with a tenderness that made you feel cherished, his guidance was not one of dominance, but of shared exploration.

“Ride me, darling,” he urged, his voice a low, resonant command. He lowered you down on his cock, slowly, deliberately, until he was completely sheathed inside your warmth.

You both moaned at the same time, the sensation was overwhelming, a perfect fit, a deep, profound connection. The delicious stretch of his cock inside you brought tears to your eyes.

“Fuck, yes,” he let out a small grunt, helping you find the rhythm, his hands on your waist, helping you move atop him, his body responding to yours. You took him in, the sensation of him filling you both overwhelming and profoundly satisfying.

You began to move, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, hips swaying in a rhythm. Baelor’s hands tightened on your hips, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He guided you, his words a constant stream of affection and encouragement, his touch ensuring that every movement was met with pleasure.

“Gods—you feel so good,” he murmured, his voice strained. “So fucking good.”

One of his hands found your breast, squeezing the flesh and pinching the nipple, making you gasp. Your hips faltered in their rhythm, to which he reacted by thrusting up into you. His thrusts where slow and steady at first, then not.

“I’ll—ngh—I’ll fill you so well… so good…” he groaned softly, his head falling back against the pillows.

“Faster,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Please...”

He obliged with a grunt, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming more forceful. You met his intensity with your own, your moans mingling with his guttural groans. The world narrowed to the two of you, the feel of him against you, the soft sounds of his skin against yours echoed in the bedchamber. His movements perfectly attuned to yours, pushing you higher and higher.

You felt the now-familiar tightening in your core, the building pressure. He sensed it too, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more powerful. He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin, as he drove you over the edge.

Your body convulsed, waves of pleasure washing over you, your cries echoing in the chamber. He followed moments later, his own release a deep, shuddering groan as he poured himself into you, his body tensing against yours.

Baelor kissed you deeply as you both recovered from your release, bodies still thrumming. The world outside the Red Keep, the political machinations, the cunning lords, all faded into insignificance.

There was only the heat, the passion, the shared intimacy, and the quiet, talkative tenderness of a prince who was, for this moment, simply a man lost in the intoxicating embrace of the woman he desired.

© 𝐛𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬. all rights reserved. do not plagiarise my work or feed it into ai.

The Young Prince was stunned by your threat, but he knew better than to be your foe. He was the one who decided to wed you after all, despite your harshness toward him.

Days have passed, and the marriage has not been consummated. Though none may know the truth, save you and your husband. He had refused the bedding ceremony back in King's Landing, where the two of you were wed, and rather insisted on bringing you to Dragonstone, away from the capital.

You know it is your duty to give him heirs. Valarr is the eldest son of King Baelor II Targaryen after all. And you will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms when the time comes. Your firstborn son will be heir to the Iron Throne after your husband. You are well aware of that.

But the thought of giving yourself to Valarr Targaryen disgusts you. A dragon of all people. It fills you with hatred and pure rage, somehow.

As you eat your grapes, you recall the first night you spent with Valarr here in this very chamber of yours...

"You have nothing to fear from me, my lady," your husband muttered as he walked closer to you that night in your bedchamber, "I promise I will not... force myself on you if that is what you fear. You have my word."

You chuckled at that. "You do not fear me," you said as you looked up at him, "I don't care about your word. I don't care about you."

Valarr sighed softly. "You do realize we have to consummate the marriage sooner rather than late, do you?" he stared deep into your eyes, "You agreed to this marriage."

"I did not agree," you muttered, "You did."

"Yet here you are."

You shook your head and turned to gaze down at the unfamiliar view of Dragonstone. "Yet here I am," you mumbled.

"It does not have to be this way," your husband murmured, "You do not have to be so... hateful."

You turned to look at him and scoffed. "I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock, the daughter of the Grey Lion," you said, meeting his gaze, "but here I am. Traded like a sheep. Toothless against the dragons. Hateful is too slight a word for it, dear husband."

His eyes softened, then he tried to touch your hand, yet you tore it from his grasp.

"I suppose the maester will send a raven to King's Landing about— well... our proper wedding night. To inform the king that my heir has already been planted in your— I mean... in you," he said before retreating from you to sit on the edge of the bed.

You grabbed a cup from the table and took a sip. When you eventually turned to look at Valarr, his face was already reddened down to his neck. Your irritation slid away slowly when you realized he was getting a little embarrassed from only saying that.

In that moment, you were sure there was something about Valarr that made him different from other highborn men you knew. The prince seemed so soft that you thought you might eat a man such as he with ease, yet there was something about his presence that warned you not to take him lightly.

You sighed and met his gaze. "Then what? You want us to fuck?" you muttered, and he startled a bit when he heard such a lady say that word so carelessly. "Forgive me, my prince," you said as you walked closer to him, "It's not going to happen soon."

Then you seized his dagger and cut your palm, letting the fresh blood stain the bedding.

"Have you lost your mind?!" Valarr shouted in surprise as he took the dagger from you.

"There," you muttered, pointing at the bloodstain on the bedding, "That is your wedding night."

The prince watched you in disbelief as he shook his head. There was a slight regret there in his eyes. Perhaps he regretted that he ever wed you, or chose you as his wife, or even laid his eyes on you.

"Not to worry, husband, I will make sure the maester sends my regards to King's Landing as well."

You smile as you recall how shocked he looked that night and continue chewing the grape, feeling the sweet juice on your tongue. It has been weeks since that night, and not once has he asked about consummating the marriage since then. No one suspects anything. Not the maester, not the servants, not your handmaids. You were clever enough to leave proof that night.

And no one dares to question you.

Your husband might be the blood of the dragon, but you are a lioness. You will not make it easy for him. You will not let him mistake you for a sheep.

One day, your husband summons you to the library in the castle where he usually spends his time studying, surrounded by books and ancient Valyrian scrolls.

"Yes, my prince?" you ask as you stand there in front of him, feeling bothered already.

Valarr looks up from his book. "That gown looks lovely on you. It fits your Lannister gold necklace perfectly," he murmurs, staring at your neck, then your face, meeting your eyes, "You look... very pretty."

"I know that already," you mutter, already annoyed at his compliment, "You sent for me? Why?"

"Have you eaten?" he asks, closing his book.

"Why am I here?"

"You did not answer my question."

"Yes, I have eaten this morning," you answer as you roll your eyes at him. "Why did you send for me? To question me about food? This is such nonsense."

"I heard you left the castle at first light."

"I was only wandering along the stone steps and the shores. I needed fresh air."

"So it seems," your husband murmurs, "Was it pleasant?"

"It was," you mutter, "Until you sent for me and fucking ruined my day."

"Why are you always mad at me?" the prince asks, "I was only being nice to you. Must you be so hateful all the time?"

"I don't wish you to be nice to me. I don't need you to be nice."

"I am your husband," Valarr mutters before standing from his seat and walking toward you. "I have been your husband for a while now, but you have pushed me away every chance you got. Why?"

"Because I hate you."

The Young Prince walks closer and closer until you have to look up to meet his gaze. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare into his eyes. This is the first time you notice how mesmerizing the colour of his mismatched eyes is.

"You hate me," he chuckles, "Yet you do not even know me that well for you to claim that you hate me, my lady. If you believe it is so, then tell me, have I done you any wrong?"

You are silent at that, still glaring at him.

Valarr smirks at your silence. "So I thought," he murmurs. "We are man and wife. I only wish us to behave like one."

"We behave just fine," you say as you look away.

"I do not ask you to love me, if that is what you are concerned about. I only ask you to give me a chance to get to know you," Valarr murmurs, "Spend one night with me in my bedchamber every three days."

You turn to look at him. "So you can finally fuck me?" you ask with a sneer.

"No, I do not care about that. Not yet, I believe," he says, "I only wish to be closer to my lady wife. I want to get to know you."

His eyes are honest. You can see it and feel it as you stare into his eyes. There was no mischief in them.

"What do I get in return?" you ask.

Your husband laughs a bit. "In return?" he chuckles, "Not everything has to be political, you know."

"Everything is political," you mutter, "Every aspect in our lives is political. Including our marriage."

"You are not wrong in that," he smiles. "Very well. What do you wish for?"

You pull away from him. "I have nothing to wish for. Not yet, I believe," you say with a smile, "But when the time comes when I need your favor, I'll let you know."

A night with the Young Prince every three days turned out to be acceptable for you. The first time you shared a bed with Valarr felt rather odd. Still, you did not let him touch you at all that night.

The second time you spent the night in his chamber, somehow the conversation took a turn with the two of you arguing about something foolish after you dined together until voices were raised in that chamber.

The dragon and the lioness had both lost their tempers.

And the night ended poorly, with you being sure you wanted to see his head on a spike.

"You know what, Valarr? You Targaryens fucking deserve all the tragedies that have happened to your house. I wish you would die screaming, as your dragons did."

You remember saying that to his face before leaving his bedchamber around the hour of the bat. You do realize you could have lost your head for saying that to the prince of Dragonstone, the heir to the Iron Throne, the future King of the Seven Kingdoms. What you said to him was considered treason to the crown. But you did say all that, out of anger.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You have threatened him many times before without any fear, but that was the very first time he looked truly mad. You could see the rage in his gaze. Eyes burning with dragon's wrath as he stared at you in anger before you left him.

What if he is going to execute you? Will he?

Then there is a knock on your door.

Fuck.

"My lady?" your handmaid asks, behind the door. "Shall I have a bath prepared for you, my lady?"

Oh. It is daytime already. You have been dwelling on thoughts of your husband all night.

You let out a sigh of relief and let her in.

"Have you seen my husband this morning?" you ask as she prepares the bath.

"I'm afraid I have not, my lady," she says, before helping you take off your garments, "All I know is that Prince Valarr was not in the library this morning as he usually does."

That is odd of him. Your husband always spends his mornings in the library. Either reading books or letters, or even practicing his High Valyrian.

Valarr must be very mad at you.

You get in the tub, and your handmaid pours scented oils into the steaming water.

"How do the Targaryens execute people here in Dragonstone?" you ask, staring at the water.

"Pardon me, my lady?" she asks, looking confused by your question.

You sigh and turn to look at her. "You have served me for many years, we both know that. My father assigned you to be my handmaid since you were but a young girl," you mutter, and she smiles at you. "But are you truly loyal to me?" you ask her.

"I am, my lady. I am loyal to you and the crown."

"No," you shake your head, "Not the crown. Only to me."

"As you say, my lady. Only to you," she pledges, "I have been loyal to House Lannister since your lord father rescued me from those men at that tavern and made me your handmaid. I am yours, my lady."

"I need you to do something for me," you mutter, staring at her. "Gather my father's men. Discreetly. I need at least two of them guarding my door at all times. And the rest that are here to prepare a ship for me, should it be required when the time comes. Do this without my husband or any of the Kingsguard and others knowing about it. I only trust you. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, my lady. I can."

"If any of you get caught, then lie and abandon the plan," you command, "Speak not of me. I can't save your head from a spike if you drag my name into it. I will pay all of you either way, you know I always do."

"I will not disappoint you, my lady," she says, sincere in her voice.

"I know," you nod. "Soon, we will leave Dragonstone for good," you mutter, then you take both her hands in yours. "And... I need you to promise me... Should anything befall the prince, you are to know nothing of it. Nothing at all. Even when some trouble shall happen to me, I would not have your blood on my hands. Burn the fucking ship if you have to. Swear it."

She looks surprised by that. "My lady..." she whispers, frightened at your words, "Don't do it, my lady, please... Prince Valarr is your husband. The bond between man and wife is sacred. Such cruelty seldom ends well."

"Sacred or not, there is no bond between Valarr and me. We have no love for each other in this marriage."

There is a sorrow in her eyes when she hears the truth. "This plan is treacherous, my lady. We commit treason by conspiring to do this," she whispers as she meets your gaze, "His Grace is heir to the throne."

It is treason indeed. To even scheme about this. To intend on killing the king's firstborn son. But you will not let him have you beheaded. If there is a chance that he might take your life, you would rather take his first. Better him than you.

And you will figure out how to get away with it later on. As long as you can keep your head attached to your body longer.

"It's not treason if you keep your mouth shut," you say to your handmaid, holding her hands even tighter. "If you do this for me, I will make sure you will be a rich girl after I safely arrive in Casterly Rock. My father will pay you with more gold than you could ever imagine. And you know the saying... a Lannister always pays his debts."

It is not even dawn yet when you wake up with a chill settling in your bones.

Something is wrong. Something feels bizarre with your body. You remember having dreams in your sleep, but they were too dark for you to remember clearly.

It does not feel like a passing cold, but one that settles deep in your bones, as though your very own marrow has begun to rot within you.

"A fever, my lady," the maester says after he examines you while your husband stands there beside him. Then the maester turns to look at your husband, "My prince, I fear the fever runs high. The lady is very ill."

"Will it be gone soon?" Valarr asks him.

"I'm afraid it will take time, my prince," the maester explains, "The body is yet unaccustomed to this place, most like. With rest, the fever will leave her body in time... we shall hope so."

"Am I dying?" you ask, looking up at the maester and your husband.

"No, you are not," Valarr mutters as he sits on the edge of your bed to see you better, then he touches your cheek with his palm. "You will recover in time," he says, his face cold and still.

The day before, you would have slapped him in the face if he dared to touch you this way, but somehow, there is no rage within you as you feel his skin on yours. Perhaps you are too weak to feel any rage in this condition.

"For your own safety, my prince, you should keep some distance. The lady is most unwell," the maester says, "If it please you, I can have the handmaids to watch over her instead... until she gets better."

"No need for that," the prince says, "I will stay with my wife. Day and night if I have to."

You hate being vulnerable. There is nothing you despise more. And now you are as vulnerable as a sheep in front of a dragon.

After the maester leaves the chamber, you turn to look at your husband. "He said true. You must keep some distance from me," you mutter.

"I will not leave you alone while you must suffer from this... fever," Valarr murmurs as he stares deep into your eyes. "I took a vow to bring you under my protection," he says, taking your hand in his. "Worry not. You will get better."

You watch your hand in his bigger one before your sight starts to blur from taking the remedy the maester gave you, and then all you see is darkness.

The fever brings you dreadful dreams in your sleep. It has been a day since the fever first struck you, yet the dreadful dreams have not lessened.

You get woken up around the hour of the owl, and you notice that Valarr has fallen asleep in the chair beside your bed, a quilt draped over him.

His bright streak of hair gleams in the candlelight. You notice the way the silver glistens among his dark hair, making him look more unusual than other Targaryens. Every feature of his face catches your attention as he sleeps. Valarr looks very handsome somehow. It pains you to admit that to yourself, even in your weakened state.

And then you cough. And he wakes.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You wish you did not have to cough. He catches your gaze instantly. You can feel even more heat on your cheeks, feeling slightly ashamed for getting caught watching him sleep.

"Do you find any relief?" he asks, staring at you.

"What?" you ask in surprise.

"Do you feel any better? Has the fever lessened?"

"Oh," you say, then you shake your head. "I don't know. But it's not getting worse, to say the least."

Valarr gets closer to you and touches your forehead. "The fever is still there. You need to rest more," he murmurs before sitting back in the chair.

"You should go back to your chamber."

"No."

You sigh in desperation. "Much as I would see you dead, I would not have it be by a fever I have," you say before you cough even more.

You do feel guilty somehow, knowing you did plot to murder him with Tears of Lys you stole from the maester's quarters that you were going to put in his drink right before you caught the fever.

"I am not leaving you."

"Valarr."

"I am not leaving you," he insists, "I took a vow to bring you under my protection. I am staying here. With you."

The prince sounds too sincere for his own good. This only makes it harder to keep hating him. Though if he catches the fever and dies naturally, it would save your head from beheading.

But why would he insist on staying with you and risking his own life if he wants to take your head?

"I must know the truth," you say, looking into his eyes, "Do you mean to have me executed?"

"What? Why would I do that?"

You blink in disbelief. "So you're not."

"No," your husband assures. "Has the fever made you lose your sanity?" he asks, frowning at you as he touches your forehead again, then your neck.

"No, I thought—" you pause, noticing concern in his eyes, then continue, "I thought you were going to behead me after I... well… after we fought that night. You seemed very mad at me. And what I said to you was... considered treason to the crown, I believe."

Valarr pulls his hand from you as he chuckles at that. "I was... mad at you, yes. But I was not going to behead you over some argument. Married people argue all the time, my dear," he mutters before settling back in the chair.

You want to thank him for not beheading you, but your pride does not want to.

"I was so mad at you, I could not find any sleep that night. Nor the day after," your husband admits. "But when the Kingsguard told me that you sent for the maester due to some illness, I could feel my heart stop beating at the time. I rushed to your bedchamber so fast I could not see anything else, thinking that you were hurting and alone."

He what?

You are left wordless after hearing all that. You know he tells no lie. And the way he said it...

I could not see anything else, thinking that you were hurting and alone.

It reminds you of that first night. The night when you cut your palm with his dagger. That night, you refused to see the maester, saying it was only a cut. And Valarr insisted on treating the wound himself. You mocked him that night, not believing that a prince knew how to treat a wound. But he did it anyway. He told you that his squire taught him how. And he told you that he hates seeing you hurting.

It did not mean anything to you back then.

But now...

You cannot believe you almost poisoned this man. Perhaps you deserve to be beheaded after all.

"Get some rest," he says as he draws the quilt back over himself.

"You need your rest as well," you murmur, "You should go back to your bedchamber."

"I can rest here just fine."

"You are a prince of the realm. You cannot sleep in a chair all night."

"I like this chair. It is quite comfortable."

You shake your head at his stubbornness and try to sit up to grab a cup from the small table near your bed.

"Here, let me help you," he says as he brings the cup of water to your hand. Your husband watches you drink and takes the cup from you, and puts it back on the small table. Then he gently wipes the water from your lips with his thumb. "Go back to sleep. You need your rest. I will watch over you from here," he murmurs as he sits back in the chair, as though the moment bears no trace of tenderness between the two of you.

Then a silence fills the chamber. Even the wind sounds too loud from how silent the chamber is.

Then you look up and try to meet his gaze in the darkened chamber.

"I have done nothing but wrong you, Valarr," you say, breaking the silence, "Even in my place as your wife. I have forsaken my duty and proven myself a wicked woman. Then why do you still show me such kindness?"

The prince sighs as he reaches to hold your hand in his. "I did not take my vows lightly. As you are," he says with a smile, making you smile back at him for a moment. "Rest now, love," he pats your hand and lets go slowly.

"I owe you an apology," you mutter, "I didn't mean what I said the other night. About your house and all that. I'm sorry."

"I know. I should not have raised my voice at you as well," he admits, "I must beg your forgiveness for that."

You smile at him and nod, then he covers your body with a warm quilt.

"Perhaps I deserve this. This fever must be a punishment for me. I did curse you and your house while I was living here in your ancestral home," you say, then Valarr shakes his head and smiles at you. "And I also... had ill intentions toward you. The most unfit for a wife to have," you admit, feeling regretful, "For that... I am truly sorry, Valarr."

"I forgive you."

That is all he said. Without question.

You stare at him with tears in your eyes. Somehow, you feel like you do not deserve this man. You do not deserve his kindness.

"Why?" you ask, as tears fall down your cheeks, "You don't even ask what my intentions were. How can you forgive me?"

Valarr reaches to embrace you. "I do not need to know," he whispers as he rubs your back with his hand, "All I need to know is that you are sorry. And I know it pains your pride to even say that to me. I know you are truly sorry."

You hug him back. "I do not wish to die," you mumble, "but I feel like I'm dying."

Your husband pulls back to see your face. "You are not going to die," he says, shaking his head. Then he wipes your tears with his thumbs, "You will heal. And you will live."

"We should not get too close," you mutter, pulling away from him, "I don't wish you to catch the fever as well."

"Do you remember our vows?" he asks out of nowhere. You nod, then he says, "Remind me of it."

"One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

"There," your husband says, "If I shall have the fever, then so be it. We are one flesh."

He kisses your forehead. His lips feel cold on your burning skin.

"You should not have done that," you mutter when he pulls back to look at your face.

"Why? You will murder me in my sleep?" Valarr smirks, caressing your cheek, "I do not think you are in a position as such, love."

Then he gets up from the bed to sit back on the chair.

"Valarr."

The prince turns his head to look at you. "Yes?"

"If it is so... will you share my bed this night?"

Valarr smiles and nods as he walks toward the other side of the bed. The moment he lies beside you on the bed, you draw close to him, finding comfort at his side.

"Sleep," he mutters as you nestle against him.

"Is it true that Aegon the Conqueror was born here on Dragonstone?"

Your husband chuckles at your question. He knows you only ask that because you do not wish to sleep soon. "Yes, he did, and died here as well," he mutters, then he notices your slightly frightened face, "I did not mean to frighten you."

Fuck.

What if it is his ancestors' ghosts that haunt your sleep, angered by the intent in your heart?

The Targaryens are indeed known for their blood magic.

"I'm not frightened," you lie.

"Of course you are not," your husband says with a smirk, "You have to sleep now. I mean it."

Then you close your eyes and sail away to sleep.

It took seven days for the fever to leave your body.

Nothing happened between you and him so far. Not in that way.

The two of you mostly talked during those nights you spent together, before the remedy the maester brought you made you fall asleep right in your husband's arms.

This night, you leave your chamber and walk toward his. When you open his door, you see him standing by the table in his room. Valarr is reading a book with his back to you. Silver streak of hair glows in the pale moonlight. His upper body bare, and one hand bracing upon the table near the book.

Fuck.

You feel your cheeks warm at the sight of him. His bare, wide shoulders. Fuck...

"Valarr," you call his name.

Your husband turns to see you in surprise. "My love," he murmurs, "What brings you here? I did not expect you. Surely we do not plan to share this chamber tonight?"

It feels even more embarrassing to you now. It is true what he said. You had only been here the night before to spend that one night in three days. The arrangement you agreed to. But having to spend the time together with him during those times when you were ill makes you want to be near him more, somehow. You have a feeling that he is slowly becoming your friend.

You nod. "Yes, you are right. It seems I have come at the wrong time. Forgive me, husband. I shall leave you to it," you say as you walk toward the door.

"No, no. Please. Come back here," he begs as he walks closer to you and takes your hand in his to lead you further into his chamber, to his bed.

You try to hide your smile as you walk with him, knowing how easy this game is to you.

"Comfortable?" he asks, watching you sit on his bed with a pillow behind you. Then he watches your face and realizes he is bare to the waist. He clears his throat and pulls on his clothes, covering that strong frame of his.

"Yes. Very comfortable," you mutter. "What were you reading this late?" you ask, trying to hide your blush.

"History."

"Why do you like to read so much?"

"I will rule someday. A good king must learn from the past to... avoid repeating its mistakes. My father told me that," Valarr says with a smile. "I wish to be a great king as he is someday."

"Perhaps you will," you mutter, smiling back at him. "You are his heir, but why didn't he choose you as his Hand?" you ask, "Your father was Hand of the King during your grandsire's reign, was he not?"

"It is not that simple," the prince shakes his head. "My father needs someone with experience. And also someone who can advise him without being so... self-interested. He needs a loyal Hand. Someone like my uncle Maekar."

"The Hammer and the Anvil."

"Yes," Valarr grins at you and nods, "The Hammer and the Anvil."

Your husband closes his book and walks to you on the bed.

"I like you this way," he says before reaching for your hand and holding it in his, "This... not so hateful woman you turn out to be."

You laugh at that, and he pulls you closer to him.

You have softened to him compared to what you were when you first arrived in Dragonstone. Valarr has a way to carve his way into your wicked heart. The way he was fully devoted to you during those darker times. The way he refused to leave you alone, even when he was risking his own life. Somehow, he managed to show how much he cares for you, even more than your own family ever showed. More than your own kin. More than blood.

"Can I kiss you?" your husband asks.

Then you pull him closer to you and kiss him first. You kiss his lips so hard until you are on top of him on the bed, with his hand on your waist and the other on the side of your neck.

Everything feels right for a moment until something in your stomach churns, and you pull away from him. You pull back and sit on the bed, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Is... is something wrong?" he asks, worry in his voice, "Did I hurt you?"

"I'm sorry," you say, still avoiding his gaze.

Valarr sits up and tries to touch you, but then he pauses and pulls his hand back.

"I guess I owe you an explanation…" you murmur.

"For what?" he asks, staring at you.

"The reason why I was so hateful to you and House Targaryen in our early days of marriage," you mutter, then he sits next to you on the bed without saying a word. "It was not merely because this marriage was against my will. There was a reason," you admit, "Well... I was quite fond of this… man for some time back in Casterly Rock. And the moment you wished to choose me as your wife, my father had this innocent man locked up in a dungeon cell."

You pause, looking down at your lap, then continue, "He was found dead a few days later."

"How did he die?"

You shake your head. "I never knew. I was not allowed to see him. But I knew there was a raven before my father put that man in a cell," you say, then you turn to look up at him to meet his gaze, "Did you order his death?"

"Why would I do such a thing? Am I so damned in your eyes?"

You shrug, looking down again. "My father was never one to torment a man, save by the order of the crown. He would do anything to make me your future queen. And he had always been desperate to see his blood ascend the throne someday."

"I did not order his death, if that is what you are accusing me," the prince says, facing you, "Nor did the king."

"You don't know that," you argue, "It is possible that King Baelor gave the command, behind your back."

"No... I know that. I know my father," Valarr mutters, reaching to touch your cheek with his hand. "He is not the kind of man who would give an order to kill an innocent. My father never gave that order. I swear this," he says, caressing your cheek with his thumb. "Do you believe me?"

You wish you did not believe him, but you do. His eyes tell you that everything he said is true.

Then you nod.

And he sighs and pulls you closer to him. You soften into him as he hugs you tight in his arms.

A moment passes as he holds you tight, and then Valarr asks, "Did you ever see the body with your own eyes?"

"It doesn't matter. You never saw how horrible those dungeon cells in Casterly Rock were," you sigh, "Even the servants told me they saw him dead and bloody."

"The servants your father paid," the prince mutters, making you look up at him. "There is a chance this man is still alive," he pauses, then brushes your hair back with his fingers, "But you are right. It does not matter. You are my wife now."

The way he says that so softly yet stern causes your stomach to stir. In a good way, somehow. You do believe that your husband has nothing to do with any of this. Valarr has done nothing but good to you the whole time, unlike your own father, who probably lied to you for the benefit of your house. He has always been a cunning man after all. And it is all starting to make sense now.

The chamber is silent for a while.

Valarr lies back on the bed with you on his chest while caressing your hair with his fingers, and occasionally kisses the top of your head softly.

"We met years ago, you know," he murmurs, breaking the silence, "The first time I saw you was in Casterly Rock, not King's Landing."

You blink in confusion. "What? No, we didn't."

"Yes, we did," the prince chuckles, "It was your brother's nameday. Many years ago. My father was still Hand of the King back then, and he brought me along with him for the tourney."

You are still staring at him as you try to remember which tourney this was.

"You were very mean to me even back then, and I remember thinking, why would a girl so pretty as you have to be the meanest creature in the realm?"

You chuckle at that. "Meanest creature?" you ask in disbelief as the two of you laugh, "You wound me, husband."

"I said so pretty as well, in case you did not hear."

"Sure."

Valarr smiles before he speaks again, "But on the same day, when your brother was showing me around the garden, I saw you giving water to a stray cat, cupping it in your hand. It was a long summer, and you insisted on feeding that skinny cat some meat scraps and water even as your hair got ruined from the heat."

He grins as he watches your face while listening to him.

Then he continues, "And I saw your mother scold you for ruining your hair that day, but you did not tell her the reason and kept on being rude to everyone else at the feast, yet you had but moments ago saved a cat's life."

"I remember that day now," you admit with a smile on your face. "It was the day I found Ser Claw," you mutter, "He's a fat cat now. And he's a knight. My brother knighted him."

"A knight?" Valarr asks in disbelief before he laughs, "But he is a cat."

His gaze meets yours as you stare at him. "Wait... you are certain?"

"Yes," you answer.

"You made your brother knight your cat?"

"That's why his name is Ser Claw."

Valarr tries to hold back a laugh, trying not to make fun of you. "Very well then," he mutters, still trying not to laugh and embarrass you, "That is a very... clever name."

You give him a look, and he cannot hold his laughter anymore.

"I must apologize, my love," he says after catching his breath from laughing too much, "I did not mean to offend you. I was only imagining the cat being knighted in my head. Sorry."

You roll your eyes at him. "It's fine. I know it's foolish to you. Not that I care what you think."

"I do not think it is foolish," Valarr mutters as he cups your face in his hand. "I think it is sweet. Well, I think you are sweet."

You frown at him. "I am anything but."

"My mistake," the prince says, "You are right. You are not sweet." Then he shifts slowly, guiding you onto your back until he is above you, his eyes search your face. "You are a hateful woman. My hateful little wife," he murmurs before kissing your lips.

You melt to the kiss. Your hands sneak inside his clothes, touching his bare body as you kiss him. Valarr breaks the kiss and smiles for a moment before taking his clothes off, making you look up to stare at his bare upper body. Then he kisses your lips again.

The heat rises as his kiss travels down your neck, causing you to moan when you feel his warmth there as his hands slowly rid you of your nightgown. The prince suckles on one of your tits as his hand travels south toward your cunt. You hold onto the back of his head and whine when you feel his fingers rubbing you down there, one finger teasing on your entrance.

And then he stops, making you glare at him.

"Do I have your permission?" Valarr asks with a smirk on his face as he gazes at you with those beautiful eyes, "Or will you murder me in my sleep after this?"

Seven hells. How dare he use your own words against you now, of all times?

"Shut up," you mutter, rolling your eyes in annoyance. Then he chuckles and pulls away from you. "Wait... where the fuck are you going?" you ask.

"I am not going anywhere," the prince mumbles as he lies back down on the other side of the bed. "Come here," he murmurs, meeting your gaze, "Come sit on my face."

"What?"

"You heard me, love."

You stare at him in disbelief as heat creeps all over your body.

"Come here," Valarr murmurs, pulling you closer against him, "A rightful seat for the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, my face is."

You brace yourself above him, your knees placed on either side of his head. The prince grazes his fingertips on your thighs as he looks up at you with those eyes of his before he begins to devour your cunt.

"Valarr," you whine, "Oh... fuck."

You grab and pull his hair as you grind onto his face even more. Both his hands are grabbing your rear, clawing at your skin. The slight pain only rouses your arousal.

"Yes," you moan, feeling so close to the edge as he sucks your cunt, "I— uh—" you try to pull away from him, "It's too much."

"No," your husband mutters as he holds onto you tighter, forcing you to sit on his face against your will. "Come for me," he says, "On. My. Face."

You feel too much pressure and pleasure at the same time. Valarr eventually lets go of you after you wet his handsome face. He smiles at you when you lie on your back, catching your breath.

"So beautiful..." your husband murmurs, staring at you, "My wife... You are the most beautiful."

His face is wet from your arousal, while his hair is a mess from your grasp.

"You're a mess," you mutter as you stare back at him. "I made a mess of the heir to the Iron Throne," you tease, "I must beg your forgiveness then, Your Grace."

Valarr chuckles. "Shall I have you whipped for that?"

"Do not tempt me with such an offer," you say, making him laugh.

The prince reaches to hold you. "How are you feeling? Are you all right?"

"I feel great," you smile, "You were... good."

"I believe I am good at some other matters as well," he murmurs as he positions himself on top of you, completely bare.

"Do you?" you look up at him, staring into his eyes, teasing him as he starts rubbing his hard cock against your soaked cunt, "Mmmm, shall I be the judge of that, Your Grace?"

Valarr chuckles softly, shaking his head in disbelief at your teasing before entering you. Your jaw drops when you feel how big his cock is inside you, even just the tip.

"Fuuck..." you moan, one hand pressing onto his stomach, holding him from pushing his cock deeper, "Wait, wait, wait..."

"What?" the prince asks with a smirk on his face. Not that he listens to you as he pushes deeper.

"Too much..." you admit, "Too much cock."

"I think you can take it just fine," Valarr murmurs as he pushes deeper, scratching your womb with his veiny cock. "You have the wettest cunt in the realm, my love," he smirks. "Fuck..." he moans when he feels his dick entirely inside you.

That is the first time you hear your husband saying such crude words. Only then do you realize you have never heard him curse before. His manner is that of a prince, but when he fucks you, all that princely grace in him vanishes. Perhaps you have awakened the dragon in him.

You want to scream when he starts to move again. Whether it is from the pain or pleasure, you cannot say.

"Are you all right?" the prince asks, slowing his movement while looking deep into your eyes.

"Just kiss me."

Valarr kisses you as if it were your last night in this world. His lips devour yours while his cock keeps slamming into your cunt.

Heavy breathing and sighs fill the chamber as he thrusts in and out of you. His soft moans give you more pleasure beyond your imagination.

When your eyes meet his in that moment, your body yields and collides beneath him. You can feel the gush between your thighs, soaking you both a little.

"Oh— fuck. I'm sorry..." you mutter in shock as you look down, "I didn't know I could do that."

"Do not be sorry," your husband murmurs before thrusting into you again, "I love that you could do that. I love seeing you pleased."

"Yeah?" you ask with a smile, still in a daze, "You love pleasing me?"

"Mmhm."

"I don't hate you anymore, dear husband," you say, caressing his cheek, "In case you did not already know."

Valarr smiles at you as he takes your hand and kisses your palm. "I know that," he murmurs as he keeps thrusting. "Do I have your permission to come inside your tight cunt?" he asks, mischief in his eyes as he stares into yours.

Oh. Your husband teases you with your own words for the second time this night. This man wants to play with you.

"Perhaps I should think about that for a while..." you tease, caressing his lips with your thumb as his thrusts get slower. "Would you beg for it, my prince?"

The prince reddens even more. He looks as if he is right there at the edge. Even his jaw hardens as he holds it a while longer, not wanting to lose this game he started. He eventually closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath, muttering a curse.

Valarr looks like he regrets playing this game with you.

"Why would I want to do that?" he murmurs between his slow thrusts, trying not to let go.

"You asked for my permission, dear husband," you murmur, brushing his hair back with your fingers, "and you're the one who needs to put an heir in me, so... I think you should beg for it. Should you not?"

If looks could kill, he would kill you this instant.

But he needs this. He cannot think of his pride at the moment. He cannot think at all when his cock is buried deep inside your tight cunt.

"I— ah— fuck..." Valarr pauses, closing his eyes again for a second before meeting your gaze. "Please... Can I come inside you?" he begs with those eyes of his.

"All right. You can come."

Your husband does a few hard thrusts before filling your womb with his seed.

"Good boy, my prince," you tease as you pat his cheek, making him glare at you with that look again.

"Shut up."

You smile when he lies beside you. Even when he scowls at you for making him beg earlier, he still pulls you close into his arms. Then you chuckle and twirl his silver streak of hair with your fingers as he catches his breath.

"You truly did well at these other matters. As the judge, I am pleased," you murmur, "We shall do this more often."

Valarr kisses the top of your head and closes his eyes. "We have plenty of time. Let us sleep now, my love."

You wake up to the sound of someone walking around the chamber.

"I beg your pardon, my lady. Did I wake you?"

You sit up on the bed and stare at your handmaid. "It's fine. Why are you here at such an early hour?" you ask, your voice still thick with sleep.

"It is well past noon, my lady," she says.

Your eyes open wide at that. "It is what?" you ask in surprise.

Your handmaid nods, "I was waiting in front of your bedchamber earlier, my lady, but Prince Valarr sent for me to prepare your bath for the day in his bedchamber instead."

After helping you with your bath and putting on your dress for the day, your handmaid is about to change the bedding before noticing that the bedding is stained from your night with the prince.

She turns to you, her face bright with surprise as she looks at you.

You cannot hold your laugh after seeing her face, and you both fill the chamber with laughter.

"Must be a pleasant night," she teases. "I am glad beyond words that your marriage with the prince has grown so... well, my lady," she grins at you.

"I am glad as well," you say, reaching to hug her, "Thank you. For being loyal to me. For not betraying me, even when I was in the wrong. And for reminding me that the bond between man and wife is sacred. You were right."

Your handmaid nods as she smiles at you.

"Come with me to my chamber," you say to her, "I'll assign others to tend in here."

She follows you to your bedchamber. You walk toward the table and open a small carved chest as she stands behind you.

"Here. Take this," you give her one of your heavy gold necklaces, "It's yours."

"My lady... I can't. I can't accept this."

"Yes, you can. I promised that you would be a rich girl if you helped me, and you did. This necklace is of great value," you say to her, "And I already told you. I always pay my debts."

Many moons have turned since then.

Your days and nights are rather different now. This morning, you are sitting on your husband's lap with his hand holding you while his other hand flips pages of a book, muttering some High Valyrian.

You pull his attention from the book, drawing his face closer to meet your eyes.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"Do you wish to go again?"

"What?" you chuckle, "No!"

The prince stares at you, waiting for you to speak.

You smile and put your hand on his cheek. "I am grateful for you, dear husband."

"Is this some kind of jest?" your husband asks, watching you with suspicion.

You laugh, "No!"

"You are scaring me, my love. What is it with you?"

"I only want to say I'm grateful for you."

Your husband stares at you in disbelief. "That is odd coming from you."

"It's just that... you make me realize something."

"Realize what?"

"From the time we have spent together... you make me realize that I was blind before I saw the world through your eyes," you murmur, and his gaze eventually softens, "I was a very hateful person. Filled with hatred. Blinded with rage. But you were never like that. You are filled with love. You are full of love, Valarr. And you have shown me that in the end... love wins."

Valarr kisses the top of your head. "You were not filled with hatred. Well... perhaps a little hateful, most of the time. But you have loved as well."

"I never claim to love you."

"I did not mean me. I mean your Ser Claw."

You laugh at that and nestle closer to his neck as you sit upon his lap, his arms holding you close. The two of you stay there in peaceful silence for a moment.

"Valarr," you murmur as you look up at him, breaking the silence.

"Mhm?"

“When you are king… can we bring Ser Claw to King's Landing?”

"Why not bring the cat here sooner?"

"Ser Claw would get sick on the sea crossing to Dragonstone," you chuckle, "King's Landing suits him far better. The road from Casterly Rock to King's Landing is the easier way."

Your husband nods. "The mother of my child shall get all she wishes," he murmurs, putting his hand on top of your swelling belly.

You smile and put your hand on top of his. "Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?" you ask, meeting his eyes.

"Perhaps a girl."

You chuckle. "A girl?" you ask in disbelief, "Why not a boy? Men usually wish to get an heir as soon as they can."

Valarr shrugs. "I could not say," he says, "Perhaps I want my firstborn to be as pretty as you. Though I hope she does not have your... temper."

You glare at him.

Your husband laughs and kisses your cheek. "A girl or a boy matters not to me," he murmurs, "The babe will be ours. Yours and mine."

It is almost your due. The king commands you and your husband to return to King's Landing, for he will hold a tourney to celebrate the birth of his first grandchild. 

"Father," your husband greets the king.

King Baelor hugs Valarr the moment he sees his son upon your arrival in the Red Keep. "It has been so long..." the king mutters, delight on his face as he stares at the prince, "You should have come home sooner, son."

Valarr smiles at his father, then the king turns to look at you.

"Your Grace," you greet him.

"My lady," King Baelor smiles, "I hope your pregnancy has been kind to you. How fares your condition?"

"It fares well, Your Grace," you say, "There have been... difficult mornings, but my dear husband has been there to comfort me, as he always has."

"I am glad to hear that. I pray your labor will be an easy one," the king mutters to you before turning to look at Valarr, "I am most proud of what you have become, my boy."

"Without doubt," Prince Maekar mutters with a smirk as he walks closer toward his brother and glances at his nephew, "His grace never shuts up about you, boy."

King Baelor turns to stare at his brother, and the Young Prince chuckles at his uncle's comment. "Uncle," he greets him.

"You shall be a father soon. Congratulations, boy," Prince Maekar mutters to him, then turns to greet you, "My lady."

You greet the Hand of the king as well, and then your husband asks him, "Well then... Uncle, do you have any counsel for a new father?"

Prince Maekar chuckles, sharing a glance with his brother before turning to Valarr, "Fatherhood is no easy task, but I am sure you will do it well, as your father has."

At evenfall, when you return to the chamber assigned to you after spending time with your husband and his family, there is a scratching sound from the other side of the chamber. You follow the sound while holding your swollen belly with your hand.

Your heart almost leaps out of joy as you see him.

"Ser Claw!"

The cat gives a sharp hiss at first when you catch him in the chamber, but when you call his name, he recognizes you and comes to you, rubbing his head against you. 

You are hugging the cat in your arms when Valarr walks in with a smile on his face.

"I see you two have been reunited," he mutters, walking closer to you.

You turn to look at him. "Oh, thank you..." you say, beaming while holding your cat, "Thank you... for arranging this for me, Valarr."

Your husband kisses your forehead. "I told you, I love seeing you pleased."

"Here," you give the cat to his arms, "Hold him."

Valarr grins as he pets the cat with his fingers. Then you hold your husband's face in your hands before kissing him on the lips.

"I thought I would get more than a kiss."

You smile at that. "Oh, you will get more," you mutter, taking Ser Claw from him. "What would happen to him when we eventually get back to Dragonstone?" you ask.

"My cousin Egg would love to take care of him," Valarr murmurs, "Worry not, my love. The cat will be in good hands with my cousin."

PLS DON'T LET AERION PUT HIS HAND ON THAT CAT!!! LMAOOO. I had a great time writing this one and some mood swings, so… yeah. Didn't think I would ever write something about Valarr Targaryen tho. It came to me on a random night. Also, I didn't plan this to be this long. Thank you for reading it all if you did. Wrote this from the bottom of my heart and my chaotic head. I wanted to have an ending where everyone gets to be happy. Maekar gets to spend his life with Baelor beside him, Valarr gets to see his father become king and grow old, and Egg gets to have a cat!

This is a one-shot. Not really proofread, sorry.

I'd love it if you leave a note on what you think about this. Reblog would be appreciated. Love y'all 🤍

Masterlist

So you linger.

In corridors where sunlight cuts through narrow windows, catching dust in golden threads, in gardens where the scent of roses grows heavy in the afternoon heat, in shadowed alcoves where laughter feels safer, quieter and private.

There’s shared looks, half-finished sentences the other knows how to complete and secrets. Not the kind that would ruin kingdoms but the kind that might ruin a man like Aerion. You wouldn’t even dream of going for Valarr; because he is your confidant, not someone you see yourself with. More than that, you wouldn’t even think of cheating on your husband.

Aerion says nothing and that is the most dangerous part of it all.

He does not confront you in the moment, does not drag you away from Valarr in a fit of temper, does not make a scene before the court. No—he watches with focused purple eyes. He watches as you walk beside his cousin in the training yard, your skirts brushing against the dust as Valarr says something that draws laughter from you again.

He watches as you sit too close during supper, your knee nearly touching Valarr’s beneath the table. He watches as Valarr leans in (too close, far too close) and murmurs something at your ear that makes your breath hitch, soft and quiet and almost intimate.

And all the while, Aerion smiles: a thin thing all polite and controlled like he knows how to do, from time to time. The kind of smile that promises ruin, vengeance and humiliation like he also knows.

It breaks the night you do not expect; a feast stretches long into the evening, the hall thick with heat and noise and the clatter of goblets against wood. You are seated between them, between fire and calm, and you do not think about the consequences of that choice. Not until it is too late. Valarr leans close again. Of course he does. Sometimes you wonder if he does it on purpose to annoy his cousin, if it’s a battle he is searching for in the way he leans close to your face and shares secrets with you.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it should not carry. “Your dragon is staring holes into me.” You huff a quiet laugh, glancing toward Aerion without turning your head fully. “He stares at everything like that, you know him.” You try to brush it off, knowing your husband.

“Not like this,” Valarr replies, something knowing flickering in his tone. “I’d say he looks ready to burn the hall down.”

“Then perhaps you should behave,” you tease, nudging him lightly beneath the table, puffing under your breath. It is a mistake on your part, a small one but Aerion sees. Of course he does, it always feels like his eyes are everywhere when it comes to you.

The moment the feast ends, he does not wait. You barely have time to slip out into the corridor before a hand closes around your wrist—firm, unyielding, unmistakable. “Aerion—” You gasp at the silver white haired prince, but he doesn’t bulge one inch.

“Come.” There is no room for argument in the single word nor in the tone of his voice.

He does not drag you, not quite, but the grip he keeps on you is iron; guiding, steering, leaving no question of whether you have a choice. The halls blur past in a wash of torchlight and shadow, your pulse quickening not entirely from the pace, blood pumping in your veins. “You’re hurting me,” you manage, though it is only half true.

His fingers loosen slightly but not enough for you to take your wrist away from his grip, just so he’s not hurting you anymore. The corridors blur into open air, the night cooler against your flushed skin as he leads you away from torchlight and laughter, toward something quieter and more dangerous, more open to eyes watching.

The scent reaches you first; it’s hay, leather, the warm, living musk of horses and then the low, restless shifting of hooves against straw. The stables. Your steps falter as you realize where he had taken you. “Aerion!” Too late.

He pushes open the wooden door with a sharp motion, the hinges groaning softly in protest as he ushers you inside. Lantern light flickers along the rows of stalls, shadows stretching long between beams of wood and rope. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorts, stamping once as if disturbed by your sudden presence. This place is not empty, not truly. Anyone could pass by, a stablehand, a guard. Even Valarr could come by, needing to see his horse.

Your pulse jumps. “Aerion, someone could—” You try to voice at him but he shakes his head at the words leaving your mouth. “Let them.” The words are quiet and certain. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, not locked, not barred just closed enough to muffle the outside world while still leaving it dangerously close.

Only then does he turn to you fully and you understand. Because the look in his eyes is not anger alone, it is something deeper like jealousy and possessiveness that you can’t ignore anymore. “You’ve grown bold,” Aerion says softly. You fold your arms, trying to gather what little composure remains. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No?” His head tilts, slow and deliberate. “Laughing with him, whispering with him, touching him.” He lists to you all the things he has seen you do with Valarr. “I wasn’t—” You try to defend yourself but there’s no need at this point and Aerion scoffs. “Do not lie to me.”

The words snap, sudden and sharp, and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Silence stretches heavy for a beat or two. Then, quieter, more dangerous—“Do you think me blind?”

“No,” you say, more carefully now. “But you are… imagining things.” His laugh is soft and utterly humorless, a laugh you have heard before, given to Lords and servants, but not to you. “Am I?”

He steps closer, and you hold your ground but barely. “Then tell me,” he continues, voice dropping, “what was so amusing that you could not share it with me?” His breath almost hits your face and you stop yourself from gasping at the feeling. “It was nothing,” you insist, heart skipping a bit.

“That is not what it looked like.”

“It was nothing,” you repeat, frustration flaring now. “You’re making it into something it isn’t.”

“And what is it, then?” he presses.

“Friendship.”

The word hangs between you, all wrong. Terribly, dangerously wrong and Aerion goes very still. Then, slowly, he smiles. “Friendship,” he echoes. And you realize, far too late, that you have just made it worse.

He does not shout but you do think that would be easier. Instead, he reaches for you, one hand coming up to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch is not gentle, but it is not cruel either, it is… claiming. As if he needs to remind himself that you are there, that you are his.

“You forget yourself,” he murmurs.

“I forget nothing,” you retort, though your voice falters under the weight of his stare. “Still, allow me to remind you.” Your breath catches at the words leaving his mouth, warmth bubbling in your lower belly at the implication and the tone he used. “Aerion…”

“Do you know what I saw tonight?” he continues, ignoring the warning in your tone. “I saw my cousin look at you as though you belonged to him, as though he had any right.”

“He didn’t—” His thumb moves up, fair skin brushing against your lower lip. “And I saw you let him.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make a point. “You speak to me of fairness?” You swallow, your heart beating faster inside your chest and your lips part. “This is not about fairness,” he goes on, softer now, but no less intense. “This is about what is mine.” The words send a shiver down your spine, the warmth in your lower belly intensifying.

“I am not a possession,” you say, though it lacks conviction. A flicker of something, amusement, perhaps, crosses his face. “No,” he agrees, nodding his head at you. “You are not.” His thumb brushes lightly along your jaw then, the gesture almost gentle.

“But you are mine all the same.”

You should argue at those words; you should push him away, remind him of boundaries, of reason, of everything that makes his words dangerous but you do not. Because there is something in the way he looks at you now, something raw and unguarded beneath the sharp edges that roots you in place. Jealousy, yes but also fear.

The kind he would never name and certainly not in front of you. “You’re being unreasonable,” you manage, though your voice is softer now.

“Am I?” he murmurs again. Then, before you can answer, he steps closer, so close you can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath. It makes you take a step back, your body finds one of the wooden walls of the stable, your breath catching in your throat. “Then why,” he asks quietly, “does the thought of him touching you make me want to tear him apart?”

Your heart stutters, your eyes searching for his purple ones, trying to focus on his face and the expression he has. You can feel the heat in your cheeks, blood pumping in your body at the whispered words coming from his mouth. “Aerion…”

“And why,” he continues, voice dipping lower, “does the thought of you wanting him as your confidant make me want to remind you exactly who you belong to?” The air between you shifts then, turning more heavy and charged.

“You don’t have to—” you start, but the words falter as his hand slides from your chin to your throat; not squeezing, not hurting, just there, a steady, grounding weight.

“I think I do,” he says.

His free hand moves to the front corset of your dress, fingers expertly undoing the satin ribbon there, loosening the upper part of your clothes. Every movement is deliberate, every touch chosen, purposeful as though he is writing something into your skin that cannot be erased. Soon enough, your breasts are shown to his eyes; nipples perking from the cold of the night and asking for attention from your husband.

He draws you closer, until there is no space left between you, until the world beyond the space might as well not exist. Your hands find his shoulders without thinking, your breath unsteady as his lips brush the curve of your jaw, not quite a kiss, not yet. “You let him stand too close,” he murmurs against your skin.

“I didn’t—” You whine out at him, head tilting to give him more space between the slot of your neck and shoulder. “You did.” His lips press more firmly this time, just below your ear, and your protest dissolves into a soft intake of breath. “And you laughed,” he continues, almost thoughtfully. “As though he had earned it.”

“It wasn’t like that,” you whisper, though the words feel thin now. Your eyes close for a second or so, trying to feel his touch deep into your soul. “No?” Another press of lips, lower this time, along the line of your throat. “Then why did it look like something I should fear?” His words are muffled against your skin, a warm breath brings goosebumps to your body as he speaks.

“You don’t fear anything,” you say, trying to steady yourself. A pause. Then, quietly, almost too quiet to hear: “Don’t I?” It stills you, just for a moment.

Long enough for him to tilt your head back more, long enough for his mouth to find the sensitive curve where your neck meets your shoulder once more—and this time, he does not hold back. The mark he leaves is deliberate and visible: a claim written in heat and pressure and something far more dangerous.

“Aerion—” His name escapes you, soft and unguarded. “Louder,” he says quietly. Your eyes snap open. “What?”

“Say it louder.”

There is something in his tone, something that makes your pulse quicken and all your thoughts scatter. “Aerion,” you repeat, stronger this time, almost biting at your bottom lip at the feelings coursing through your body and mind at that moment.

“Again.” He draws another mark from you, another soft, involuntary sound, and this time when you say his name, it is much louder, the word echoing in the space you both occupy as though it might carry beyond the walls. Anyone could hear it if passing near the stables but you find yourself not caring much anymore.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Maybe I should remind you who you married, and who is your husband because it is clear that it isn’t Valarr.” His voice is a groan as he lowers his wet lips to the valley of your breasts, sucking on the skin to mark you once more. A whine escapes you at the feeling, but your mind is pulled away from the thoughts as Aerion suddenly moves his hands to the many layers skirts of your dress. You gasp as he tugs it up, the skin of your thighs all bare before his eyes.

He’s rough when he grabs one of your thighs just to lif

He’s rough when he grabs one of your thighs just to lift it up, letting the back of your knee rest on top of his shoulder. You have to grab at the fabric of his luxurious tunic to stay upward and not fall over. “Oh, Gods! Aerion, please—” You whine at your husband but he doesn’t seem to care as his pale hand caresses the skin of your bare thigh, his hand lowering closer to your cunt. His violet eyes take in the view before he scoffs. “Wet? Really?” You can only try to hide at his words.

His tongue clicks on top of his palate before he shakes his head, not arguing with your sudden shyness. All Aerion does is move his hands again, this time, to push his black drawers down, just enough to free his cock from inside the fabric.

It wasn’t your first time seeing his member and probably wouldn’t be the last, so there wasn’t much surprise when seeing the angry pinkish mushroom head leaking with pre-cum, the veins throbbing all along the length or the silver white hair at the base. The length itself wasn’t much impressive but what he lacked was compensated by the girth and by how he used it (and he knew how). 

As soon as his cock was out, one of his hands ended up back on your thigh that was resting on his shoulder to keep you there, the other wrapping itself around his shaft. He started to jerk himself off dry, his deep violet eyes looking at you as he did so.

“You love my cock, don’t you?” He asked suddenly, making your eyes go wide as you lifted them to see his face. “It’s the only fucking thing in this world that can make you feel good, yeah? I’m sure you wouldn’t feel as good if you took Valarr’s.” The words made you squirm and shake your head at him and a sigh escaped your mouth before you could reply, feeling the sticky tip of his cock rubbing against your bare cunt. His hips jerked toward yours, his length pushing itself between your slick folds.

“I don’t—I don’t want Valarr, I just want you…” You ended up replying to your husband, grip tightening on his tunic, pulling him closer. He hummed at your words, pushing the tip of his cock to your hole. He teased the muscle there; acting like he was about to push inside before pulling away, making you whine at him.

“You want it, don’t you? Want me to fuck you here, where anyone could see us?” You only thrusted your hips toward his own as an answer and he understood. He could honestly just tease you all the way, make you beg; but the thought of you screaming his name here was enough.

Aerion moved his feet to spread his thighs for a better position, his hand on your thigh tightened and his eyes lowered to what he was doing before you felt the push of his tip against your hole. Wetness was already coating his tip before he splat done on it for assurance, a glob of saliva that was soon enough smeared from his tip to your entrance. “Aerion, please, I need you.” You spoke to which he grunted, pushing his shaft inside you. The intrusion made you gasp, immediately pulling him closer to hide your face in his neck. 

“I’m going to fuck you so good that you’ll only remember my name, how about that?” His voice echoed in your ear and goosebumps appeared on your skin from the words. You were unable to reply as his shaft pushed deeper inside you, stretching your gummy walls and making you gasp until you felt the curly hair of his bush against your slick clit. A slight friction of his public hair against your bud of nerves made you moan out, hips rubbing against him to feel more of it. 

His cock ended up slotting itself so good inside you, stretching your walls and making them pulsate around his shaft. The wetness of your cunt glistened onto his body hair, slicking them.

Aerion groaned when you mindlessly clenched around him, his violet eyes lowering to see where his body met your own. “So fuckin’ good, aren’t you? Best pussy in all the seven kingdoms.” He spoke in your ears, the words bringing a warmth in your lower belly. You moved your arms to wrap them around his neck as he started to move.

Your husband’s hips immediately slapped against yours; Aerion’s pace was fast and unapologetic as he fucked you in the empty stables. Your back hit the wooden wall and a dull thud was created by the force of it, but it didn’t matter much with how fogged with pleasure your brain was already. The white silver-haired man used the position of your thigh on his shoulder to get deeper into your slick pussy, rubbing himself against your clit with each thrust. Your head rolled backward, almost hitting the wall as well. 

“Say my name, say how much you like being fucked.” He spoke and your eyes traveled to his face, lips parted as you whined. A particular hard thrust made you gasp and you nodded, “I love it! I love—I love when you fuck me, Aerion.” He groaned at your answer and your walls clenched around his fat cock at the noise escaping him.

Juice from your pussy coated at the bush above his cock, making it glisten and smear when it rubbed against your clit. The sensation made you arch toward him even more. 

Aerion’s pace slowed suddenly and he watched as his cock pulled out of your pussy, a creamy white ring around the base. His tip nestled inside your warm and wet hole before he pushed his hips back toward yours slowly. He did that a few times just to tease you, his hand gripping your thigh, fingers buried in the fat there as he held you. Then, without any warning, he picked up the pace to fuck you harder. 

Your lips parted wide at that, his name escaping your mouth as tears made themselves known at the corners of your eyes. “Aerion, yes! Ah, yes!” You cried out his name and heard his chuckle echoing in the space. His free hand moved to grab at your hip, pulling along to meet his thrusts and his cock deep inside your cunt. “That’s it, good girl, your cunt’s swallowing my cock so good.” He hissed, his eyebrows furrowing as his violet eyes looked up at your face.

There was a sheen layer of sweat on your forehead, tears begging to roll down your cheeks, lips parted wide to let the most melodic moans ever. Aerion moved his own face closer to yours, lips crashing against yours violently.

There was nothing romantic about this kiss; it felt possessive, hungry and wet. His tongue pushed against your lips and your jaw went slack to let him in. His hips seemed to go even faster after that, rutting against yours, pubic hair brushing and rubbing against your slick clit to bring more stimulation to you. Your entire body felt on fire, arms tight around Aerion’s shoulders.

He pulled away, a thread of your mixed saliva connecting your lips to his own. His tongue poked out, licked his own lips and the wetness there before he spoke. “This pussy is mine, understand? Say it. Say it’s mine.” You could only gasp at him in answer, his mushroom head hitting at your sweet spot when he angled his hips forward inside your cunt. Your walls pulsated around his fat cock, clenching tight to keep him there as he thrusted deeper, the muscle of your thigh now burning as your leg stayed on his shoulder.

“It’s—It’s yours! It’s yours, Aerion… Gods, please! Mhpfhhph!” You moaned, biting at your bottom lip before he spoke again. “Don’t fucking do that, let everyone hear you. Let them hear how good I fuck my wife. I want people to pass by and know what’s happening here.” Aerion groaned, his fingers buried in the fat of your body, hips rutting against yours own. A warmth coursed through your lower belly, making your head feel lighter. 

Your teeth let go of your lip immediately after his words, a dull thud resonating as the back of your head hit the wooden wall and your eyebrows furrowed. You knew you were getting closer, and Aerion realized that too, which made him chuckle. 

“Close already? Fuck, see, I knew you loved my cock. Only my cock can do that, yeah?” He spoke but you couldn’t reply, too busy moaning his name out loud like he had asked you. Your voice echoed around, probably even outside the stables and you found yourself not even caring at that moment. “Bet Valarr’s cock could never do that to you, mh. My wife loves my cock too much.” He kept going, and your fingers brushed at the hair at his nape before tugging on it, making him hiss. 

His tip incessantly hit your sweet spot, his fat cock going deeper until it was slotted all the way and his pace fastened once more.

“I’m going to cum all the way inside you, fill you up until you’re full. Want that?” The words made you clench, and you nodded, tears leaking down the corner of your eyes. The hand Aerion had on your hip moved between your thigh and the slightest touch of his fingers on your clit made you gasp. “Aerion, gonna to come! Gods—” You screamed at him.

He circled his thumb on your slick bud of nerves for less than a few seconds before your pussy clenched and you cried out his name.” Yes, oh yes! Mhpfhphh, Aerion!” Your muscles contracted, walls fluttering around his shaft as you came. You held onto your husband tightly, voice loud as you whimpered for him to hear. Aerion kept moving and thrusting, though his pace was a tone slower now. “Fuck, yes, come around my cock. Show me how much you love it. That’s my good girl.” He voiced at you. 

His fingers tightened on the fat of your thigh as he held your leg up, grunts and groans leaving his mouth. You squirmed, cried out at the overstimulation of your pussy as Aerion chased his own orgasm. It was only a few thrusts later than his upper body folded toward yours, a curse leaving his mouth as he came strongly; cock fitted inside your warm and slick cunt. Thick white creamy come filled your hole to the brinks, leaking with how much there was inside. A glob of it slowly dripped from your inner-thigh and down. 

Your pussy pulsated around his softened cock before he pulled backwards, making you feel all empty. Aerion sighed, tucking himself back in his pants before lowering your leg from his shoulder; your muscle ached then, and your breathing was labored. 

His violet face lifted to your face before he chuckled when seeing the state of your face and body. You pushed your skirts down, fingers moving to redo the bodice of your dress before your husband spoke. “Got your lesson? Next time I see you so close to Valarr, sharing secrets and shit, I’ll fuck you right in front of his eyes.”

He groaned but didn’t let you reply before crashing his lips back against yours, teeth clashing, tongue taking all the control. You moaned then but he pulled away before you could reply to it.

“And before you say anything... I'm just midly-jealous.”

You watched him now, stabbing at his roast goose as tightly clutching what you believed to be his fifth glass of wine. Aerion was in a much more joyous mood than you were, having declared several times throughout the day that it was only right that two dragons be wed to one another. But his mood was rather unstable, even more so than it had been when the two of you were children. One day he was asking for your favor at a joust, the next making snide remarks about your hair or your brothers. It was rather exasperating, never knowing how he would act, and even more frustrating to know that you would have to deal with this for the rest of your life. “I have grown bored of these festivities,” Aerion declares suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts. He swivels in his seat to face you, his violet eyes meeting yours for the first time since you stood together in the Sept. When he stands, he expects you to follow, although he does not bother to offer you his arm.

“I wish to remain for a while longer,” you tell him sharply. 

“Why? No use in delaying the inevitable.” His tone is cruel and taunting, making you desire to shrink deeper into your seat. Not wanting to be seen as cowardly, you force yourself to stand.

After kissing your father on the cheek and saying goodnight to your brothers, you approached Aerion. He reached for your arm quickly, taking it in his and securing his hold on you. As he led you out of the Great Hall, cheering erupted from the crowd that had gathered. Aerion’s posture stiffened at the sound of this, likely also annoyed but for reasons different than you.

Thankfully, there would be no bedding ceremony. Your father had forbidden it, despite Aerion’s father trying to insist that it was necessary. The idea of having your dress torn apart by men of the court, prying eyes looking into your bedchambers, and family members watching the consummation made you grimace, and you were thankful that you would only have to face one foe tonight. You knew that Aerion was no stranger to the Street of Silk; he and Daeron had been traipsing through brothels since they were teenagers. You on the other hand had no experience with such things, only a few stolen kisses and caresses with members of the opposite sex.

Aerion’s bedchambers smelled of smoke and sulfur. The scent was heavy in the air, clinging to your skin making your head spin. Dragon insignia was everywhere, from the crests on his breastplates to the letter-opener on his desk. His broadsword was tilted across the wardrobe, its ruby-studded hilt pressed up against the dark wood. You stand motionless, watching as Aerion pours himself a glass of wine. He does not offer you one, staring as he drinks deeply.

“Quite a dull ceremony. All that nonsense with the Septon,” He scoffs as he shrugs off his cloak, tossing it to the floor with little care. “Nothing could compare to the way we used to do things.” His eyes lower to your lips, and you know that he is imagining what it would be like to split them open with a Valyrian Steel blade. For better or for worse, the customs of Old Valyria are no longer practiced by your family, but of course Aerion would be one to desire bringing these traditions back.

“The dragons are gone, yet we remain.” You tell him after a pause. Aerion’s chest tightens and his fingers clench tightly around his goblet of wine. 

“The Targaryen dynasty has indeed fallen on sad days,” He approaches you now, his fingers brushing against your arm. He strokes your skin softly for a beat, before grabbing your arm and pulling you closer to him. “We must be the ones to restore our family to its former glory.”

Never much a student of history, you are unsure exactly what era of glory that your new husband is referring to. As far as you know the realm is quite stable, and so is your position as a daughter of the King’s Heir. All too aware of Aerion’s short temper, you decide against questioning him.

“Yes, husband. I will always remain loyal to you, and to our House,” you assure him. Aerion laughs coldly, his grip on your arm tightening.

“Grown docile already, have you? What has happened to the little girl who would bite my fingers after I pulled her hair?” He invokes a memory from your shared childhood, although fails to mention how your older brother had kicked him into the dirt after witnessing the incident. You look up at Aerion with wide eyes, waiting for his next move. “Well, I suppose that silent and obedient will please me, if you do not wish to put up a fight. Take off your gown.” He commands. 

You let out a shaky breath as you reach behind your back to undue the laces of your delicate wedding gown. Aerion watches you carefully, unbothered by the fact that you are struggling with the dress. You manage to unhook the ribbons from the clasps but are unable to pull them through the loops they have been knotted around. 

“This is taking far too long,” Aerion grumbles, reaching for your waist and suddenly pulling you to him. You yelp in surprise, but stay silent as he makes quick work of the laces, tearing them apart rather than carefully unlacing. Once the dress is pooling at your feet, Aerion rips away your small clothes, leaving you bare and exposed to him. He pulls at your arms and turns your body so that you are facing him. 

You should be afraid; he looks at you as if you are a stag to be hunted through the Kingswood. Aerion will not frighten you, no matter how cruel and uncaring he may be. You are the blood of the dragon as much as him, a Targaryen Princess whose name will be remembered long after your death. If it is Aerion whose bedside you must now share, then so be it.

“You remain a maid?” His hand is pressed against your sternum now, pushing you back onto the bed as he fumbles with the buttons of his shirt.

“Yes.”

“There have been no foolish knights or pitiful young lords that have dared to claim you?” Your knees buckle against the edge of the bed as Aerion kicks aside his breeches. Your eyes instinctively flicker to look at his manhood, thick and veiny and swollen at the tip. 

“No.” You tell him honestly, but his eyes scrutinize you nonetheless. 

“A blessing for me and a curse for you. It is not in my nature to be gentle,” he warns as he climbs onto the bed, hovering over you. One of his hands gropes your breast and the other claws at your hip. His skin is warm against yours, but his touch makes you shiver. “Do you know what it means to be claimed by a dragon?” 

Your septa had explained to you the duty that you would be obliged to endure and some of your already-married ladies had informed you of some rather specific details of the marital act. Although you had read about the dragons of your house and could probably name a couple of their specific lineages, you had no idea how they actually mated with one another. You decide that you cannot discern which of these scenarios Aerion is referencing, so you shake your head. 

“I will make you mine, wife. Your belly will swell with my seed and you will bear me countless strong sons, a new generation of dragons,” he tells you, fire ablaze behind his eyes. He lowers his mouth to your neck, biting down and sucking harshly at the skin. You try your very best to keep still and silent, focusing on your breathing. But then his tongue begins to lap at you, soothing the mark he has just made. A whimper crosses your lips, and Aerion smirks at the sound. His hand reaches down in between your thighs, dragging his fingers through your folds and causing your body to stiffen.

“Do not tense up. It will only hurt worse if you do so,” he warns you before pushing two of his thick fingers inside of you. The intrusion is sudden, but he distracts you by bringing his lips to join yours in a ravenous kiss. His tongue is hot and his teeth are sharp as he bites down on your bottom lip, his fingers stroking your walls and causing you to squirm.

Although the feeling is unlike what you have known before, your own fingers not nearly as long or as skilled, it is not necessarily a bad one. The pace of his movements are steady and you begin to feel a pleasurable pulsing inside of you. When a breathy moan slips from your mouth, Aerion withdraws his fingers. 

He positions himself on top of you, his cock pressing against your entrance. His eyes meet yours as he pauses, and you are sure that he can see your fear, or perhaps even smell it. But rather than letting your nerves hold you hostage, you make the bold decision to initiate a kiss. 

Aerion accepts this, pushing his tongue into your mouth as he pushes his cock into you. He sheathes himself fully inside you in one quick movement and you feel a sharp pain, the breath leaving your lungs as he pushes forward. Biting back tears, you reach your hands up to his shoulders and roughly dig your fingernails into them, without thinking. Aerion hisses and you expect him to chastise, yell at, or even strike you for this action. But to your great surprise he does none of the above and instead lowers his mouth to your neck. He does not kiss, but sucks and bites at you in a way that distracts from the pain just as well.

He begins to thrust in and out of you, slow at first. His breath is long and drawn out as if he is attempting to hold himself back. You are very appreciative of this, even though you are aware that he is doing so in order to prolong his own pleasure rather than bring you yours. The pain has morphed into a dull one that heightens only when he stretches you further.

“Fuck, you are so tight for me,” Aerion groans as he rolls his hips against yours. “You were made to take my cock.” You are grateful for his praise even though it is crude; you have succeeded in not provoking his anger. You trace your fingers down his shoulder, gripping onto his bicep as he begins to quicken his pace. His muscles are thick and toned, a testament to all his time spent in the training yard. 

After a few moments, the pain has mostly faded away and you find yourself melting into his thrusts rather than shifting your hips away from them. One of Aerion’s hands has shifted from your waist to your thigh, pulling at it and opening you further to him. His next thrust is hard and deep, and your own hands fly back to his shoulders.

“Aerion,” you moan his name softly. He is pleased by this and rewards you with a quick kiss pressed to your jaw. He lifts your leg higher and pulls your knee to his chest. Your nails begin to rake down his back, overwhelmed by the sensation and the pressure of him inside of you. You realize that you are scratching him deeper than you intend to, because when he turns his head slightly you see thin pink lines tracing down his neck and shoulder. Immediately, you withdraw your hands and fist them at your sides.

“No,” Aerion grumbles as he grabs your hand and guides it back to its previous position. Confusion flickers across your face but you obey him and lift your other hand. “You ought to mark me, as I have you,” he reasons as he begins to push into you at a quicker speed. When you claw at his skin, he lets out a deep groan and you notice a vein in his neck seems to protrude and pulse. 

Realizing what he means but will not admit, you thread your fingers through his silver hair and tug on it harshly, lifting your head from the bed as you do so. When you bite down on his collarbone, Aerion moans loudly. His own nails puncture the skin of your thigh, which he has anchored himself to as he ruts into rapidly. 

“Fuck!,” he swears loudly. A thin layer of sweat has formed over his skin, which is already much warmer than yours. You pull his hair even harder and let your teeth sink into him, drawing blood that smears against your lips. Delighted by the sight of this, Aerion yanks your chin forward and kisses you wildly. 

“Gonna fuck you every night, ravish you and mark you and breed you until you are filled with my heirs,” he proclaims as he pulls back, a string of saliva and blood dripping from his mouth. His hips have begun to buck as your walls clench around him, and he grips you tightly as he thrusts into you at a maddening pace. You cry out his name as he spills inside of you, groaning as he does so. His seed is hot and sticky and fills you quickly. 

When he pulls his cock from you, his spend leaks from your cunt, mixing with the blood of your maidenhead. Aerion’s wild purple eyes burn into yours and he pushes two fingers back inside of you.

“Don’t let it go to waste. The seed of a dragon is precious,” he tells you, his breath slowing as he wipes the sweat from his brow. 

“Have I proven myself worthy, husband?” A chill runs across your skin, missing the feeling of his heat against you. Aerion runs his other fingers across your lip, collecting the blood that has been smeared there. His lips curl slightly upwards, and he nods. 

“You will make a fine wife. You are the blood of Old Valyria, and with you by my side our flame will not extinguish.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your fingers curl around the dainty rings at your hands, turning the cool metal against your warm skin, focusing on the familiar weight of them before you let your quiet thoughts circle back to the reason you are here— which is marriage. Since young, it has been imprinted into you that it is a woman’s duty to marry and bring honor to her house. You are no fool, you have known this since you were old enough to watch brides ride away from Starfall trembling in the wind. 

Aerion Targaryen is a prince, and to wed a prince of Westeros is more than simply duty, it is the highest honour you could lay at your family’s feet. The blood of the dragon runs through his veins, and your kins would be fools not to seize that. Binding fire and blood to your bloodline, silver hair and sharp imperious features, along with violet eyes would never allow tongues to cease whispering. People fear him, and you do not need to question why, the fact that they once were dragon masters was enough for you to understand. 

You know you ought to feel a swell of joy and pride, yet you cannot help but want to weep, fear sitting heavier in your chest than any sense of honour. The ‘Brightflame’ is a stigma dressed in chains, a dragon with his wings torn off but its claws left sharp, and the thought of standing at his side makes your stomach fold and tuck in horror. And you are so very far from home, all that is left with you are the rings that sit on your fingers and the knowledge that you are being given to something made of fire. 

You hear your fathers soft voice call your name from behind, and you cannot bring it upon yourself to turn and face him. 

“It is time,” he says.

It feels as though all the time in the world has slipped away, like sand through open fingers, yet you are only eight and ten. Time was the one thing you had thought endless when you ran through the sunlit halls of home, but now it has narrowed to this single corridor as you follow behind your father. Feet falling into perfect rhythm with his, each tread is swallowed by the echoing of stone, you feel insubstantial, nothing more than a pawn on a board built by men.

“I love you, my daughter,” your father says, pride swelling in his chest, you swear you can almost see it. “You are doing the realm a great service.” He glances down at you and offers you a gentle smile you have always been used to, the one that meant safety, stories and long arms opening to catch you. Now it means nothing such.

To you, the words feel like mockery. You want, with an aching desperation, to be a child again in his arms, to bury your face in his chest and ask him not to make you stray so far from home, not to give you to a dragon and to keep you in Starfall until you become grey and old. Instead, you swallow back the heavy weight in your chest, blink back the sting of tears that threaten to fall and continue to walk beside him in silence. The words you do not voice turn bitter on your tongue.

Standing small at your father’s side, your spine remains straight and hands are folded in mirror to etiquette that was drilled into you since childhood. Even though you hold yourself in place with perfect posture, you cannot ignore your heart beating too fast against your ribs. You assumed you would have been prepared for this moment, or so your ladies-in-waiting had told you, but the nerves rising in your throat made a liar of every lesson.

The dragon prince, Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen stands opposite you, milky hands tickled neatly behind his back before his violet eyes sweep over you in idle disinterest. There is something about him that does not feel entirely human, you tell yourself it is only the Valyrian cast of him, the handsome lines of his face, the sharp bone, silver hair and inhuman calm. You find his presence to be heavy, as though it presses against your lungs with intentions to make them collapse, and you find yourself breathing a touch too quickly for a lady who is meant to be composed. 

The embers in his eyes glow like the flickers of flame as he looks at you, and his calm expression shifts, disinterest becoming irritation. He has not yet said anything, but behind his glimmering daze you can see him thinking. Gaze lingering on you, unfocused, in a sudden flicker of candlelight he turns his head towards his father.

“I have no desire to take someone so plain-looking,” He says at last, and his voice is smooth and steady, and almost silky enough that for a second you do not register the words that slip out his lips. 

Prince Maekar’s expression curdles and he lifts his chin up high in sharp irritation while his lips curl into something close to a snarl.

“Boy,” the Prince bites out, “do not try to be clever with me. You are to wed her.”

Aerion clicks his tongue to this, making a loud and disdainful sound. His purple eyes drag over you from head to toe in a slow and assessing manner. They are striking, you must admit, such eyes are not common in Westeros, and this is the first time you have seen them so closely. For all his cruel words, you cannot deny he is pretty in a cold, Valyrian way. Yet, his satisfying appearance does not help to ease the tightness in your throat. You decide to swallow hard, watching the two of them like some small thing caught between, absolutely insignificant. 

“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sounding bored, “for a prince of the dragon to take a wife of pure blood. It is tradition. She is no pureblood.”

“Pure blood or not, you’ll do as you’re told and take what is given. The matter is settled.” Maekar grunts out, beyond tired of his son's disobedience, then he gives your father an apologetic look. Aerion does not respond but you do see the jaw his skin tightens as he clenches his sharp jaw, the lids of his violet eyes growing heavy in what you suppose is anger at rejection. 

The thought settles in your chest as you take slight offence to the young prince’s words. You are a Dayne of Starfall, not some nameless girl that was plucked from a crowd, but his words make it clear that you are not what he desires. In his eyes, you are not pure enough nor worthy enough, and certainly not what he believes he was promised. 

Mind circling back to the same inevitable truth, you remember he is a dragon. It does make sense that a dragon would want fire and blood, and dragons do not bear disappointment well, they would prefer to scorch it from the world. Your shoulders stiffen as you wonder with a cold creeping dread if he will lose his tempter and spill his anger on you. 

A light tap between your shoulder blades signals your father’s silent command and you know it is time to perform your duty. Lowering your head at once, silk whispering as your pretty purple skirts sway forward, your hair slips forward like a curtain which veils the side of your face. You school your features into something that’s gentle and obedient, the way you were taught, the way a prince would prefer a lady. 

“I hope I will prove… acceptable to you, my prince,” you speak, voice soft, the royal title scraping your throat. My prince, the words feel wrong in your mouth, it is a vow that does not belong to you, like you are bending the knee to the edge of a blade, swearing undying loyalty to it. You are expected to play the dutiful pride, to smile and obey a man who can air his displeasures as openly as he breathes, while it is looked down upon if you so much as flinch. 

His expression tightens further, as though the gods above are mocking him, as though you are mocking him. To him it must seem like your very presence is a cage to be fitted around him, link by link. 

“I will judge that for myself,” he says at last, each word precise. “Soon enough.” 

The words feel like a threat. He licks his lips in a quick, unconscious motion, and for the first time his piercing gaze truly settles on you. It drops from your face to the line of your collarbone, to the way the slightly sheer Dornish silk clings to your body. It is modest enough beneath the sun of Starfall, perhaps, but here it feels suddenly too light and too revealing under a dragon’s scrutiny. 

With a sudden shiver, you realize that he hadn’t properly looked at you before you spoke. Now he is, and his gaze lingers a heartbeat too long before he catches himself, haunting eyes snapping back up to your face. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek and he clicks it again, creating a small, irritated sound that feels like a final verdict. 

The anger painted on his face does not fade. You have a sinking feeling it will not leave for some time, if it ever does. You can only hope he chooses not to sink his sharp claws into you the way a dragon might into a lamb, that he will not prove more cruel in marriage than he has already shown himself to be in court.

──

Aerion is aware of exactly who he is, the second son of a fourth son. In his family's eyes, he is too far removed from the line of succession to be given the honour of a sister or a cousin, too valuable to waste entirely, a convenient piece to trade. His father speaks of great alliances and the strength of the old blood as though that should soothe the insult. His late-mother had been a Dayne, he already paid the price of that through the blood that ran through his veins. Then why must a prince of dragon blood take a wife whose blood does not burn, whose hair does not gleam silver in the light that will not promise him babes with the right look?

During these thoughts, his mind inevitably slips to you. You seemed timid and shy, eyes lowered and shoulders held perfectly tight. A dragon can smell blood, and Aerion had smelt your fear the moment your eyes gazed upon him and you opened your mouth. Perhaps you will provide him with some entertainment in this dreary visit to King’s Landing. The whores of the Street of Silk had begun to bore him, there is no sport in flesh that yields far too easily, and definitely no thrill in maids who tremble on command. He supposes you will be different, untouched, untried yet already flinching. Your face is not entirely displeasing either, fear will suit you he thinks. A scared look on your delicate features might even be pretty.

The pre-celebration of your marriage bleeds into the evening, the last light of the sun dying over King’s Landing as lords and ladies murmur and laugh around you. You notice the sun sets much earlier here than it does in Starfall. You are dressed to be seen, Dayne’s prettiest colours draped over your frame, your gown mirroring the soft purples of the setting sky just before the darkness wraps Westeros in a black cloak. 

Ladies stop you with gentle hands and sweeter smiles, offering kind congratulations as if they are gifts, mentioning what an honour it is to be marrying a prince. What a blessing it is to find such a compelling husband, asserting what a lucky lady you are. You do as you’re taught, smiling and nodding as you let the words wash over you like cold water. The idea of drowning yourself and letting the night blur into nothing slips past you, yet you cannot afford to make a fool of yourself. You cannot risk forgetting the last scraps of freedom you have before you stand beside a dragon at the sept tomorrow. 

Your gaze drifts away from the cluster of smiling girls in front of you, still giggling over some lord who had just entered the hall. Your face morphs into a pleasant neutrality before you spot your beloved, Aerion Targaryen sitting alone at one of the long tables, one pale hand wrapped around a golden goblet. His fingers are restless against it, tapping it irately. If the goblet were not forged of the finest gold by the finest hands, it would already be crushed to splinters under his grip, and there is intent in the way he holds it, as though he is imagining the breaking. The lords near him cast him sidelong glances, eyes widening warily before they turn away, choosing the safety of polite ignorance over the flames of a dragon's temper.

Then, intense violet eyes find yours, and for a second you forget how to breathe. You try to shake off the fragile, trembling feeling that crawls up your spine as his gaze rakes up your face, like a hand turning a blade to catch the light. Something flickers in his Valyrian eyes, an unknown flame that sets you further on edge, then the edges of his lips curl upwards, mouth forming a sly smile. 

It somehow manages to unsettle you more than his scowl ever did. 

Suddenly, he hurls the goblet in his hands to the floor beside him, the crack of the metal on stone splits the room, sharp enough to pierce through the upbeat music and laughter. The sweet, dark wine spills out in a syrupy pool, sliding across the floor, soft and cloying, everything he is not. The serving girl nearest to him flinches violently as she drops to her knees beside his boot to clean up after the fallen cup with trembling fingers. When you look back, his smile drops from his slips yet he continues to stare at you, not with idle curiosity, but with the fixed and hungry focus of a predator who has chosen its victim. 

You tear your gaze from his, feeling your pulse jump and stomach twist, the hall feels too small, too loud, too full of eyes. Slipping away from the intimidating grey of the dining hall, skirts whisper as you weave between lords and ladies, pushing through a door onto the wide terrace that overlooks the dark smear of the sea.

A sob catches halfway up your throat as you drag in a breath, wheezing it out in a shudder. You had not realized how long you’d been holding your fear tight inside your ribs until it started spilling over. The glass clanking against the floor may have been something he had meant to show you, perhaps it was a promise of how easily his temper shatters or a suggestion of what he might do to you when nobody is watching. 

You tip your head back, forcing your gaze up to the sky, dragging in a sharp breath and holding it in, willing the tears to stay where they are. It is a star-dusted night, a faint echo of the heavens above Starfall. You fixate on them, the quiet and the distance , letting their shine stand between you and the horrors waiting for you back in the hall. 

Your fists clench at your sides, silk biting into your palms as you try to hold yourself together, because tomorrow you are meant to marry Aerion Targaryen, and you are not sure how much of you will be left once you do. 

The sound of boots on stone drags you back from the stars, and you see the dragon prince step out onto the terrace like a storm crossing a threshold. His dark cloak snaps in the wind and anger clings to him as tangibly as the scent of wine and smoke. His jaw is tense and his pale hair catches onto the torchlight behind him, violet eyes already fixed on you with a furious disbelief, as though your very presence here is an insult carved into the night. 

“You dare,” he says, voice low and threatening, “to run from your to-be husband?”

The prince looks angry, annoyed and most of all offended, so offended it is as if the emotion has sunk into his bones. You can see it in the tight line of his mouth and the way his hands flex at his sides, as though he's restraining the urge to break something just to hear it shatter. 

“No— never, my prince,” you blurt out, the words almost tumbling over one another in your haste. “I only needed some air.” Your mouth parts as you let out a breath, eyes wide with concern as you meet his violet eyes with fear racking up within your body. 

“Air?” he repeats, as though finding the words and finding them rather bitter. “Tell me, little bride, are you trying to insult me, or are you merely stupid?” 

Heat crawls up his spine, settling hot and ugly between his shoulder blades. He can feel everything in him tense along with it, his jaw, hands, and the muscles in his neck pull tight as your excuse echoes in his mind. What utter insolence he thinks, to leave him sitting alone before half the court, like some unloved fool, while his bride wanders off to stare at the stars. 

In his eyes, it is complete disrespect. Do you not understand the insult, to walk away from a dragon prince in a hall full of lords and ladies, to turn your back on him as though he is nothing.

Your mouth opens to answer, to apologise, to say something or anything, but the prince does not give you a chance.

“Are you always in the habit of abandoning your betters whenever you please?” He cuts in, voice silk over steel. 

He steps forward, and in response your body takes a step back without thinking, the movement small but unmistakable. His eyes flick down, catching your action, the retreat and the fear behind it. You cannot tell whether the sight of his eyes glimmering means he likes it, or simply files it away as something to use in the future. 

“I am so sorry,” you quickly apologize, shame crawling up your throat. You suppose it is better to apologize rather than face the wrath of the dragon, “I did not mean to—”

“First I am given a bride I do not want, but must endure, and now you make me look a fool.” 

You have no answer for him, the words dry up on your tongue. You are suddenly certain if you dare to say anything more, you will pay for it. When you still say nothing, Aerion shifts under his weight, tilting his head to regard you from above, like something curious caught under glass.

“Is this some little game of yours?” he asks, voice low and intentional. “Standing there mute, waiting to see when your dragon will finally lose his temper?”

He moves to close the distance between you with another measured step, the hem of his cloak whispering over the stone. This time, you force yourself to stay rooted where you are, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch. 

“No, my prince. That was never my intention.”

“Then why do you run from me?” he asks, head tilting slowly, eyes narrowing. “Afraid, perhaps?”

He watches the way your throat works as you swallow, the small stiffening of your shoulders. He can smell the nerves on you, they are sharp and thin, like smoke before a fire, it is instinct. You look as though you are about to murmur another sad little apology, and he almost turns away, growing bored at the sight. Instead, you lift your chin a fraction,

“No, my price,” you say in trained softness. “It is the highest honour to wed a prince of the blood.” 

You fight the horrible urge to tremble, and for a fleeting moment it almost feels as though you are standing up for yourself. Aerion says nothing at first, only studies you in silence, eyes raking over your face. Whatever interest your answer had sparked fades quickly before his gaze fools and he peers down at you with an unimpressed look.

“You lie poorly.” He says. “What a shame. If you were not so bound by duty and virtue, you might almost be interesting.” 

“Interesting how, my prince?” you find yourself asking quietly and suddenly. “For smiling when you insult me?”

You think you hate him. He feels like everything made of ash and ember, all heat and hurt and sharp edges, while you are of calmer waves and glassy tides that he would only try to pierce. You know you are pushing too far that you are prodding at a dragon’s temper with bare hands but you cannot bring yourself to be more careful. Everything is too much, the hall, the stares, and the weight of tomorrow, and you are not the only one being dragged into a marriage you do not want. 

“Is that not a wife’s duty?” he drawls, deciding to humour you. “To smile and bear what her husband gives her?” 

Aerion thinks he hates you. You pretend to be obedient, frail and soft-spoken, but the words you dare to offer him are anything but meek. Your words bite and push, his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as his lips curl into a smile that never reaches his eyes. 

“Perhaps you would find me interesting if I worshipped you as devoutly as you worship yourself.”

You meet his gaze as you say it, violet eyes on yours, steady and unflinching. Neither of you move before his eyes widen a fraction, and you see something catch a fire beneath them, a flash of raw, burning fury that makes your stomach drop, regretting your words at once. 

His breathing shifts, and rage seems to ripple through him like a shudder passing down a tethered beast. His shoulders tighten, fingers flex at his sides, even the line of his throat goes taut as if the anger is something barely held inside skin and bone. The prince looks as though he is vibrating with rage, every muscle in his body straining in order not to lash out. 

You wish with sudden, sick clarity that you had kept your mouth shut, that you had not let your frayed emotions drive you to prod at a dragon’s pride. 

The space between you closes as his pale hand is suddenly at your throat, fingers closing hard enough that the breath stumbles in your chest. His grip is iron and unforgiving, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of the side of your neck as his thumb presses against the hollow of your throat. Your back hits the cold white stone of the balustrade with a dull jult, the remaining air leaving you in a strangled gasp.

Your hand flies up on instinct, fingers donned with golden rings wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry him away, however he is far too strong. He peers down at you through dark narrowed eyes, watching the way you struggle, the way your mouth parts endlessly, the way your pulse flutters frantically beneath his palm.

His other hand almost lazily settles along your jaw, long fingers curling against your cheek, the heel of his hand pressing against the edge of your jaw as he forces your face up, angling you to meet his gaze. You try to protest, but you are pinned, held open beneath him, throat in his grasp and eyes locked onto his. 

The world narrows to the burn in your lungs and the heat of his rage wraps around your neck like a collar.

“You will not shame me,” he grinds out, grip tightening. “You are mine to endure, whether you wish it or not, and you will learn your place.” 

He leans in, closing the space between you until you can feel his breath hot across your face. He tilts his head, studying you, and his gaze drops to your lips— parted and struggling for air. There is a dark gleam in his eyes as he watches you struggle, something ugly that makes your skin crawl. 

Your vision begins to blur at the edges and black creeps in, just before you think you may faint, you swear you see your to-be husband's lips twitch, almost forming a smile before his hand loosens. 

You drag in a ragged breath as his fingers slip from your throat, but one hand remains on your sensitive skin, resting almost lightly now at the curve where the neck meets the shoulder. The contrast makes you shiver, a moment ago he was all violence and fire, but now he is close and still, leaned over you, refusing to move away— it feels almost possessive. 

He looks at you as though he is taking in art work, gaze lingering on your exposed throat. You can feel the ache blooming there, the tender skin throbbing where his grip has marked you. His fingers trail over the bruising skin in a slow brush, as if he is tracing the outline of something he has carefully crafted before he finally lifts his hand away. 

“Know who you belong to,” he says at last, voice low and unhurried, as though he is in no rush. “And do not forget it tomorrow.”

Your chest heaves as you fight to steady your breathing, each inhale sharp against your bruised throat. His gaze drops, following the rise and fall of your purple silks as they shift with every desperate breath, before sliding back up to your face. 

It is a shame, really, you used to love the colour violet, the evening-kissed skies over Starfall, the wild flowers that clung to the cliffs. Now you find yourself growing to hate it, it is everywhere, in the dress that draped fluidly around you, in the shadowed bloom that has begun to form on your neck, in the sharp and piercing violet of Aerion’s eyes that refused to leave you. 

You find yourself fearing tomorrow, after it, you will be alone in this world and only your husband’s, bound to a dragon’s temper for the rest of your life. And you cannot help but think that the colour you once adored is already beginning to dull for you.

──

The bells of the city had already begun tolling at dawn, their chime threading through the stone of the keep. The soft ringing serves as a reminder that by sunset, you will no longer be the only daughter of starfall, by sunset, you will be Aerion Targaryen’s wife.

The maid fusses with the clasp of your necklace, her cool fingers brushing the nape of your neck as you stand before a mirror, this is the last time you will see yourself as you are now, you think. Silk falls over your shoulders while the jewels catch the pale morning light, yet your gaze finds the faint purple shadow blooming at your neck. Your fingers trace the edge of the bruise, you know you are meant to be thinking of your vows, but all you can think of is the mark of his hand around your neck. 

“You look beautiful, my lady.” The maid says as she finishes with the clasp and meets your eyes in the mirror, offering you a small smile.

“Thank you,” You say, yet you cannot bring yourself to fake excitement, all you can think about is the dragon prince and the work of his hands. 

“Do you wish for me to cover it, my lady?” She asks quietly, almost hesitantly, her gaze following your eyes, hesitating before she shuffles a step closer. 

Of course, her gaze lands on your throat. After all, what else could she possibly mean with the ugly mark sitting so brazenly on your neck, impossible to ignore despite the necklace that has been carefully placed. The thought of him, your prince, soon-to-be husband, causes tension to ripple through you, a slow tightening in your shoulders as you can almost feel his fingers there again. 

“No,” you say after a moment of thinking. “It is well. Leave it as it is.”

Your eyes remained fixed on the bruise in the glass. If he can lay his hands on you before you are even officially his, then he can live with the evidence. You decide that you will let him see it, let his family see it. You want him punished in the only way left to you, you want the dragon to feel a sliver of the shame you have felt burning since arriving in King’s Landing. If you are meant to endure him for the rest of your life, you may as well make a spectacle of him before he convinces himself he is untouchable. Dragons may be fireproof, but he certainly isn’t, you think.  

Your gaze drifts, heavy and unwilling, to the large bed that rests against the wall, and you can feel fear strike clean through you. Your breath grows thick in your chest, harder to pull in, harder to push out. You know exactly what you are feeling, and you would be a fool to call it anything but fear. If he is this cruel to you before the vows are even spoken, you cannot imagine how cruel he will be when the night is his by right. 

The maid catches your expression and her face softens, giving you a sad, almost knowing smile. It is a look of a woman who has seen what men can do, who knows cruelty first hand. When you glance back at her, she meets your eyes and gives you a steady nod. It is an entirely fragile thing, but you almost feel comforted to know at least one other soul in this kingdom can feel sympathy for you. 

“I would like to be alone for a moment.” You say as you suck in a steadying breath.

Without protest she dips into a curtsey and slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her. 

The reality of today settles on you like lead, in heavy and uneven breaths you cross the room and sink down at the edge of the bed, curling towards it. Tears string your eyes as you stare at it, you try to imagine some way to keep yourself from further harm, some way to defend yourself and remain in slight control when the doors close and there is no one but your husband at your side. 

A tear slips down your left cheek and you find yourself reaching for the drawer beside the bed, pulling it open to the familiar sight of jewellery chests wrapped in velvet. Your fingers fumble past them until they find one particular box, and you draw it out, sitting on the bed as you settle it on your lap. Swiping the back of your hand across your eye you suck in a breath, reminding yourself you are strong, and must be strong. 

Opening the box, inside, Valyrian steel catches the light. A slim, beautiful blade inlaid with the crest of your house remains within, the pale metal taking on a faint white sheen where the morning sun touches it. Your brother had given it to you when you were children, a secret hidden away like a treasure, half forgotten until now. 

For a moment, you wonder what your prince would do if his throat ever met its edge, would he scramble in fear, whimper like a dragon who has lost its wings? You decide that this will be your last resort, if he tries anything with you, you will not be entirely defenceless. 

You tuck the blade beneath your pillow, angling it so your fingers can find it easily. It is hidden but close, close enough that if you need it you can reach for it in an instant. 

──

“I trust you won’t be as defiant tonight as you were yesterday, wife.” 

His words roll easily off his familiar tongue, smooth and casual, and you do not like how binding it sounds. You try to bite back every answer that tries to rise, and he seems to savour it, the taste of your shackling. You cannot help but wish he would find enjoyment in anything other than tempting your anger by simply standing in front of you.

Aerion stands before you in the reds and blacks of his house, colours cutting sharp against his pale skin. His violet eyes linger on you with a kind of idle entertainment, as if he can hear the way the word ‘wife’ grates inside your skull. He rolls the title again in his mind, you’re sure he is savouring it like a mouthful of rich wine. Stepping a little closer, his gaze drifts lower, skimming over the fall of your gown before noticing the bruise on your throat. There is a slight pause and faint narrowing of his eyes as he takes in the mark you chose not to hide. 

“Why do you choose to disgrace yourself like this?” His gaze continues to linger on your throat, voice smooth as silk. 

You pull yourself together and offer him an obedient smile, your head tips, lolling slightly to the side, baring more of your throat to his gaze. “Something made by your own hand could never be a disgrace, my prince.” 

“I do not know where this sudden nerve is coming from,” he says, voice dropping. “But do not toy with me, woman.” His eyes narrow at you, the faint glimmer in them sharpening.

The threatening edge in his voice cuts through whatever sudden spine you had found. You take a small step back, lashes lowering, smoothing your features into practiced obedience.  “I do not toy, my prince.” You say, tone soft and careful. “It is not my place to trifle with you.” 

He watches you as you finish speaking, gaze flickering down to your mouth, to the way your lips tighten around the words. A quiet huff escapes him, half irritation, half something else, and he lets the silence stretch a moment longer than comfortable. Then he clicks his tongue in a sharp, dismissive sound before finally deigning to speak again. 

“You know what is expected of you, do you not?” 

The thought of your wifely duties alone makes you shudder, a cold tremor running down your spine while fear coils in your gut. However, you smooth over your face and force your shoulders not to quake, you nod. 

“Of course, my prince.” You say, voice barely above a murmur. 

He tilts his head at that, considering your words before a low hum curls from his throat. The golden light of the hall catches on his Valyrian features, gliding against his cheekbones. For a moment, you can’t help but notice how beautiful he is, like a blade forged to be admired before it spills blood. 

“Good. Since you are so eager to please me, then you will do your duty and give me heirs worthy of dragon blood.” he muses before continuing, “Real heirs, not some bland little half-bloods.”

His tone is light, edged with condescension and something disturbingly similar to amusement as his gaze lingers on you. It drifts slowly down the line of your bruised throat, falling over the creases of your silks, and settles at your stomach, as though he’s already picturing it swollen with his seed.

“If the gods bless us so, my prince,” you say, eyes lowered, “I will bear you the heirs you desire.”

Your fingers move before your mind can catch up to the words that have just spilled from your lips, crossing your hands over your stomach in a swift yet awkward fold. It is as if you are trying to hide that part of you from his gaze, the gesture feels small and foolish but you try and cling to it. Dislike coils hot inside you, bitter as you continue to gaze at the dragon prince. 

He seems almost pleased by your answer, as though he hadn’t quite expected you to agree. He nods once, pouting his lips before he falls into thinking as you murmur again, 

“If I may be excused, my prince.”

He regards your presence for a heartbeat longer, then inclines his head. “Very well.” 

You leave the hall with your head lowered, the roar of conversation and music dimming behind you in every step. He torches throw wavering shadows over your face as you bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep another sob from clawing its way out, blinking fast to prevent your vision blurring. 

Fear sits heavy in your gut as you make your way into the bedding chambers, a cold knot tightens and presses at your ribs as you are walking away from the girl you will not be again. Yet, beneath it all, you think of Aerion in an unwelcome thread of curiosity, you wonder what he will be like when the door shuts and there are no witnesses. 

You slip inside and close the chamber door behind you, the room is quieter than you remembered, the candlelight pooling soft and golden over the bed. Turning towards the mirror, your fingers find the clasp of your cloak, sliding the fabric from your shoulders, leaving only silk, skin, and jewels staring back at you. It is duty, you think as your gaze stays to the bed behind you in the glass, searching over the pillow where a blade lies hidden beneath, a secret waiting for your hand. 

Moving towards the bed in slow steps, your fingertips brush the carved post as the door opens, and Aerion steps inside, shrugging off his cape in a smooth motion before his gaze finds you at once. The space between you seems to narrow as his violet eyes lock with yours, and that strange feeling coils in your chest again. You refuse it as curiosity, deeming it as nerves as you know you hate him, or you should hate him. Yet, your breath comes quicker and your chest rises and falls as the two of you hold each other’s stare in quiet intensity. 

“Waiting for me already, wife?” He speaks as he slowly crosses over to you, eyes unmoving from yours. Your gaze tracks over him, to the pale fall of his hair and the way the lamplight falls over his face, in this light, he looks attractive. Swallowing as he draws nearer, you feel your throat tighten with every inch he closes between you. 

Retreating on instinct, the back of your knees collide with the mattress and it takes you off balance. You drop onto the edge of the bed with a thud, fingers catching in the blankets as you look up at him. Aerion steps into the space you’ve surrendered, boot brushing your leg as he presses his knee forward. He parts your legs with an easy, unhurried nudge, sliding his thigh between yours until you’re forced to open around him. 

You feel heat seep through the thin layers of silk as his chest looms in front of you, and your breath stutters. His gaze drags down over you, your bare face, your bared throat, and the rise and fall of your purple silks where his knee is bracketed between your legs. Then slowly, his eyes climb back up, pinning you in place. 

His hand rises as you feel every inch of its approach, and it rests along the edge of your jaw. His fingers are careful this time, the pad of his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw rather than digging into it, slender fingers warm against your skin. He exhales, breath ghosting over your lips as he leans down, lids lowering as his gaze roams your face.

“You’re not so bad up close,” he murmurs at last. 

His fingers tighten, just enough to remind you who is in control. “On the bed,” he commands quietly, and you obey him.

Shuffling back, silk whispering as you crawl up against the pillows until they cradle your spine. The mattress dips as he sits at the edge to pull off his boots before he follows you, knees sinking into the mattress, the frame creaking softly under his weight as he looms over you. His hands go to fasten his top, one by one he works the buttons loose before the sharp line of his throat and collarbones appear, pale in the lamplight. 

You watch, unable to look away while he shrugs the garment off his shoulders until he tugs the shirt away completely and reveals lean muscle painted with shadows of old bruises or training scars that rise and fall of his chest. Heat crawls over you, prickling beneath your skin and you are not sure if it is fear, shame or something else you cannot name. He tosses the shirt aside before looking back at you, hair spilled on pillows as silk draped over you, it is as if he’s cataloguing every inch of you laid out before him. 

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” He suddenly asks, eyes lingering where the silk hitches up your thighs. 

You pause, chest heaving a little too fast, fingers knotting in the sheets. “Yes,” you breathe, “I am.”

“Good,” he says, running his tongue through his teeth. “They’re always easy to get wet.” 

He moves in and a startled breath slips from you as his hand finds your face again, fingers curling more gently this time along your jaw as his finger rests beneath your cheekbone. Holding you there steadily his violet eyes lock with yours before he lowers his head. His mouth finds the crook of your neck, feeling your pulse beat against his warm lips that move slowly, as if he is tasting something that he now owns. A small whimper escapes your throat before you can stop yourself, and you feel his mouth curve against your throat, a small smile pressed into your skin. His eyes open and his gaze darkens as he lifts his head upward back towards your face.

Heat pools low in your belly, and it feels shameful the way your body betrays you. You can’t help but look at him, eyes wide and full of something that feels much like guilt, as if he’s caught you in a sin you never chose. 

“Enjoying this now, are you?” he asks as something shifts in his gaze, tone going cool as he inhales slowly. His eyes track over your face then inevitably down to the bruise at your throat. Like flames flickering beneath skin, his hand slides from your jaw to that mark, fingers tightening suddenly as he grips your throat and presses your head deeper into the pillow. You feel panic slam through you as the mattress seems to swallow you whole. 

Your lungs burn, his fingers brand your throat, and your vision narrows to the dark blur of Aerion’s face above you.

“M…my prince—” You try to reason, but he does not hear you, only leaning in further as his eyes remain fixed on yours, and you see his other hand rising, fingers tensing as it comes towards your neck. 

In fear, your body decides for you as your arm snaps sideways, diving beneath the pillow. Your fingers close around the cool steel, the familiar shape of the hilt fitting into your palm as you rip it free and drag it up in a sharp and desperate slash. The blade flashes in the candlelight and meets the flesh of his hand in a wet resistance, parting his skin a fast gash. Heat splatters across your knuckles as Aerion jerks back both of his hands with a snarl,

“Fuck—!” He yells as blood spills from the gash, dark and bright all at once, running in quick rivulets down his palm and dripping onto the sheets between you. 

The dagger slips from your fingers and falls onto the mattress, your hand recoiling as though burned. Scrambling backward, your spine presses hard into the headboard while your husband stares at his hand, blood splattering onto the sheets in soft drops. His palm curls, flexes, crimson welling fresh with every twitch as you watch it trail down the line of his wrist, staining his pale skin. Aerion lifts his head, fury in his eyes blinding, violet eyes gone dark, burning straight through you. Your stomach lurches at the sight, gaze trapped onto his bloody figure. 

“You whore,” he spits, low and vicious. “You dare to shed blood of the dragon?” 

“No— no, my prince, I—” The words die in your throat as he looks at you through half-lowered lids, rage simmering just beneath the surface. His injured hand reaches for the dagger and his blood smears over the hilt as his fingers wrap around it. 

Bringing it up, you whimper a small and broken sound as the blade comes closer, glinting in the low light. His face follows, leaning in as a warm drop of blood falls from his wrist onto your bare skin, then another, sliding hot and sticky over your collarbone as he lifts the knife toward your throat. You suppose this is the end, you’ve laid steel against the prince of the realm, there is no taking that back. 

“You spill a dragon’s blood, wife,” he says, studying you with the length of the blade, voice low and calm when it comes. “And you think there will be no price?” 

His gaze drops from your eyes to your collarbone, to where his blood makes a trail over your skin. He stares at it with a terrible, intentional hunger, like a man eyeing a feast laid out before him, watching each red line crawl over the sharp jut of bone. 

“You must be taught the cost of that.”

Slowly, he moves the dagger that shines in the candlelight toward your collarbone, pressing the cold edge against your warm skin. His violet eyes watch intensely as your skin splits apart, blood sweeping through the slash like sweet wine dripping from a goblet, your blood swelled and mixed with the crimson already staining his hands. His thumb smeared through both as though ready to taste the liquid, his and your own mingling over your skin in a glistening streak.

“H—haah…” You whimper out at the stinging pain, a broken sound caught in your throat. At once the sweet noise you make catches his attention as he lolls his head up to your pained expression with an unnamed satisfaction.

“I was right,” he murmurs, nails dragging slowly against your neck, voice low and almost thoughtful, “You do look pretty with fear on your face.”

He leaned down again, slower this time as the heat of his mouth brushed against the bloodied trail along your collarbone. The touch made you suck in a deep breath, your whole body going taut against him as he shifts closer, closing the space between you. It feels wrong. It feels disgusting. And yet, your body betrays you as your legs tense and a restless heat gatherers low inside you, it is dark and shameful and impossible to ignore. 

The warmth of his mouth traces at the thin red line at your collarbone and you feel a sudden drag of his tongue against you. You try to catch your breath, but it is of no use as the heat of his mouth is lingering and unhurried, and he continues to lick away the blood as though he is savouring the taste of it. A dark warmth pools low in you, feeling humiliating throbs between your legs, the satisfaction is so dirty you feel it makes shame rise hot beneath your skin. You do not want it, you think you do not want it, but your body answers differently as you press your hips into his thigh, aching cunt trying to press against him in some hope of friction. 

His nails drag slowly where they rest against you and your breathing turns uneven, leaving you in a trembling rush. You tip your head back to look at him breathlessly, lashes heavy and mouth parted as your eyes find his, and he looks up at you in terrible focus, listening to every little hitch in your breathing. You suddenly feel him pressed against the heat of your cunt, his lips parting faintly as he pushes himself closer, almost like he’s refusing to let you grind onto him. 

“You enjoy it,” he says, breath caught in a sharp hiss when he feels you move against him once again.

“I do not,” you manage, breathless as your chest rises and falls, trying to pull in another breath under the heat of his gaze. 

His mouth curves upwards without warmth, taking in your ruined figure. “No?” he continues, thumb pressing against your neck before it tightens, which forces you to arch subtly towards him. “Then why are you pressed against me like a bitch in heat?” 

He pulls your head back slowly as his gaze drags over your tired face, forcing your gaze up at him. You try to pull in another breath, but it only seems to amuse him as he leans closer, inhaling sharply through his nose. 

“No, you do not get to move against me like that and pretend innocence,” he begins, staring you down with his violet lidded eyes before he drags them over your throat, to your jaw and then to your lips. “You must taste the blood you’ve spilt.” 

Aerion leans in slowly as you feel the heat of his breath as blood continues to stain his lips, smeared at the edge of them before his mouth presses to yours and stains your lips with red. His lips move against yours as though he wishes to claim all of you, below you his hand tightens just enough to keep you in place while his lips continue to drag against yours slowly. Your lips part slightly as you let out a shaky moan into his mouth and he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes of metal and rust, and the blood continues to drip into your mouth, smearing your lips with red. 

He pulls back only a small fraction, just enough to free you and see the red that is now smeared across both your mouths, branding you of him. It all feels wrong, tastes wrong, like the memory of claws biting into flesh, but the realization steals through you all the same, you want him. You want to feel the heat, you want the fire, and you want to burn. 

A single dark drop of red gathers at the curve of your lip, trembling before it begins to slip down your parted lips, trailing lower to the line of your chin. His gaze follows as it falls, then his hand rises and once slowly, his thumb catches it before it can fall any further, smearing the red across the pad of his skin. His violet eyes stay fixed on your face with terrible calm before he draws his hand back, gaze locked with yours as he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it with infuriating slowness. He sucks his thumb clean without looking away, as though your reaction is the truly satisfying thing. 

His hand slides down your thigh, fingers settling there before they drag a little higher, slow enough to make your breath hitch. “Your legs tremble, wife,” he murmurs, his eyes remaining on your face as his mouth curves, “Are you growing restless for me?” His voice is mocking, but you cannot find it in yourself to deny him.

You drag in a shaky breath and tilt your chin up at him, trying to gather what little pride you have left. “You speak as though it displeases you,” your breath shudders against him, lashes fluttering before you push your head back onto the pillow behind you.

Aerion tilts his head at you, and his hands move to grab your hips without bothering to reply. He forces your back further against the bed before he presses you down into the sheets before you can move. The mattress dips beneath you and the silk twists at your legs as his grip tightens, full of possessiveness before his mouth curves faintly,

“I will not be displeased so long as you remember to obey me.” 

Then he shifts closer, slow enough to shake you until the space between you begins to vanish again. His slender fingers then reach for his pants, fastening his clothes, undoing them with slow hands as you can only watch as he shoves them aside, his face does not soften before he looks at you once again, and his lips are on yours again. 

You taste him and feel the heat of his body as his hands pull on edges of your dress, pulling it over your stomach, revealing your trembling cunt dripping with pain before him. Aerion hisses, hips jerking toward your soaked cunt as you feel the tip of his cock brush against your slit. You latch onto his sweaty shoulder, nails digging into his pale skin before he lets out a heavy breath.

“You weep for me, wife.” he says as you let out a whimper and brush your hips further into his hard cock, silk beginning to flatten against your stomach as he moves closer, wrist flicking as he grabs the base of cock, giving it a light stroke. 

“Aerion— please,” you find yourself speaking in desperation, head lolling to the side as he lets out an amused huff and his lips brush against yours again.

“There, there,” he says softly, almost mockingly. “That is better. You should remember how to speak with me.” 

Aerion then curls his slender hand around your waist, jerking his hips forward before he begins to push himself into your warm cunt. Unable to handle your bodyweight, your head slips further into the pillow as you feel him penetrate you entirely, your gaze blurs before you feel a sting, trying to adjust to his sheer size. 

You gasp, throwing your head back as you feel a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, his cock stretching your walls. Aerion slips his dick in you further and your nails dig into his shoulders as you whimper, trying to bury your head into his shoulder. He snaps his hips forward, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix as you gasp, “Hah—” it's so deep in you, you swear you feel yourself seeing stars. 

Aerion lets a grin out at the sight and continues to rut into you while breathily grunting, “You belong to me,” be begins, drawing out the sentence with quick huffs while he continues to thrust into your wet cunt, “all of you belongs to me.” His hand begins to trace your thigh shakily as he grunts out a quiet “fuck!” when he feels you clench around him, pressing his face closer to yours.

Tears well up in your eyes as he hurries his pace, chasing a high both of you seem to be reaching before he begins to suck at the crook of your neck where the mix of your blood begins to dry, “Tell me you belong to me.” he commands, hips dipping further into you as he continues to lick the blood dry, you can only moan in response as he drags his tongue

When you don’t respond immediately his abdomen tenses and he removes himself from the crook of your neck, earning a needy whine from you. “Say it,” he bites the words out, eyes lingering on yours with the embers of flames glimmering behind them, and you can almost see the frustration build up within him as he grips your neck, forcing you to look at him as he continues to thrust into you with slowed movements. 

“I’m yours,” you say, biting your lip as tears well up in your eyes as you feel his thrusts begin to fasten again, his cock once again buried deep inside you. Your thighs burn with pleasure as his cock continues to push into your gummy walls, and his chest flushes against yours in satisfaction before you feel breathless. 

He settles against you fully, skin to skin and the heat of him wraps around you like flesh giving into flame. It feels like you are being burned, it is cruel and consuming but you find yourself wanting more of it, you think this must be how a dragon leaves its mark, where you cannot tell the difference between warmth and burning. 

Your hand slides into the silver of his hair, gripping it tightly before he snarls at you and moves to give you an open-mouthed kiss, and you find yourself kissing him back with similar intensity. You lewdly moan into his mouth before he speeds up again at the sound of the soft melody leaving your throat, and he suddenly bites down on your lip and you let out a choked noise. 

Suddenly you find yourself slipping your arms around his shoulders and bringing his body closer to you as you feel your belly grow warmer and pleasure coils through you, “Aerion,” you breathe out, hands sliding to cradle him as his slightly watery violet eyes meet yours.

His head falls forward toward you as he ruts into you fast, like a territorial animal, and you suppose it is because dragons are territorial creatures after all, but you do not mistake the way he lets out a huffed groan. You squirm under him, feeling that coil in your stomach intensify before you desperately cling to him, rolling your hips into him slowly. 

Aerion’s pace grows sloppy as he feels your cunt spasm around him and he grinds his teeth together, “Fuck— Don’t move.” Instead, you do the opposite and jerk your hips upwards earning a lewd moan from him before he throws his head back with a clenched jaw and his veins bulging in sudden strain. 

Locking your legs around him you mutter his name over and over and with one last roll of his hips he spills his seed deep inside your cunt, thrusting forward once more in order to make sure a drop of it doesn’t leak. Your lips brush the side of his shoulder before the coil within you snaps and you find yourself cumming around his cock, whining while your hips stutter. 

Neither of you move and Aerion makes no attempt to slip out of you, remaining where he is with heavy breaths as your bodies press together in marital bliss. The room around you remains swallowed in candlelight as his hand does not leave you. Instead, his fingers drift slowly to the bruised skin at your neck, tracing the mark, as though admiring something he has made. The touch is light, but it makes your breath hitch nevertheless. 

His eyes stay fixed on the darkened shape before they lift to yours, lips curling into a small smirk. A dragon has laid claim to you, and you feel it like the claws buried beneath your skin. There is nothing more you can do now except be held here and burn. 

“You are mine to endure now.” he says at last, voice unhurried. “Do not forget it, wife.” 

divider made by me (please credit if used)

woahhhh this one shot was long aff hahahah and it took so long to write. i love my aerion so much he deserves all the love but at the same time he is a complete evil man!!

all reblogs and comments are so so so appreciated and loved <3

On a day deemed auspicious by the Faith, the two of you were wed. The black and red cloak of House Targaryen was draped over your shoulders. You exchanged vows you did not truly mean. In the eyes of the Gods, of the Realm, and of Aerion most of all, you became his.

His, in every sense of the word.

The wedding feast was suffered through without so much as a glance his way.

It did not keep him from taunting you. His hand still found your thigh beneath the table. You were still forced to put on a false smile as you stood beside him and cut the pigeon pie. You were still made to take him up in a dance, a show of your happy marriage to all the world.

The revelry grew boisterous as the night bore on. The men were deep in their cups, dancing and groping the serving girls, spilling drinks wherever they went. The pair of you seemed to be forgot for a moment, and it was a relief. A relief, until Aerion stood up beside you abruptly, holding out his arm with the expectation you would accept.

“Let us retire, wife.” He said.

You’d half a mind to refuse, but should you stay, you would certainly be made to endure the bedding ceremony. You had thought he might want for one, if only to humiliate you, but perhaps he was all too possessive for that. Perhaps he did not enjoy the thought of every drunk lord of the Seven Kingdoms groping his newly wedded wife.

“Very well.” You took his arm stiffly, though that did not upset him in the slightest. In his mind, you were his, and he had won.

He did not bother with words once your chambers were reached. He was upon you the second the doors fell shut. You had seen the dogs in the yard, seen a stallion mount a mare, your maids told you scandalous stories they heard of one another — you were not a fool. The ladies of Westeros were sheltered, and though you remained a maid for the sake of it, you knew what Aerion’s intentions were. The thought of it sent something hot and uncomfortable running down your spine.

He did not kiss you, no, he simply grabbed hold of your elbow and pulled you towards him. For a moment, you went stiff. His hands found your cloak, unfastening it with little ceremony, letting it fall behind you with a satisfied grunt. Then his hands were upon your gown; one held your waist, firm, refusing to let you slip away.

“Aerion — ” you hissed when his other hand found the laces of your bodice; when he threatened to tug them loose, you swatted his hand away. “Let go of me.”

“No.” He answered, blunt, not letting you move an inch when you made to jerk away from him. You felt your stomach twist with fear, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. He should not have been so strong. He did not deserve his strength. His hand reached up for your laces yet again.

“Let go.” You repeated.

“No.” He repeated, mocking, fingers toying with the strings, watching how you might react.

You’d a very beautiful wedding dress; Myrish lace was carefully worked over the bodice, it was encrusted with blood red rubies and black diamonds, with flowing silk skirts. It had long, billowing sleeves, too, the sort which were good for keeping things tucked away. You were not a fool, you knew Aerion. He was an overgrown babe at arms, afflicted with delusions of grandeur, who believed that all in the world were beneath him, that all the world belonged to him — yourself included.

So, in your wisdom, you had tucked a dagger into your sleeves. It was a simple thing, not the elaborate creations of Valyrian steel with decorated hilts that Aerion might enjoy. It was sharp, however, and that is all that mattered. He would see it, and he would release you. You knew that he would. He would, would he not? He had to.

You let the dagger slip from your sleeves, taking a deep breath, steading yourself, steadying your resolve. You did not give him the opportunity to realise what you were doing. You were quick, you had to be quick.

The blade presses against his throat.

Aerion stills.

His eyes flicker down towards the blade. There is something detached about the way he studied it, as he might idly observe any number of the mundane happenings of life.

“Will you do it, then?” He asks, with a callous disregard, entirely unperturbed.

It is terrifying that he holds such little regard for his life. It is terrifying that he holds such little regard for you. For the threat you might pose to his life. He seems every inch a dragon, a haughty and prideful monster, not in the least affronted by a little bird, beating her wings against the cage of his claws.

It sets you off balance — you had expected he would balk. You had expected that he would seethe and rage, every inch the indignant, arrogant, spoiled child that all the world had made him out to be. That you had expected him to be. You had not considered that he might be quite so sure, so deluded, that even with a blade pressed up against his throat, he had not the slightest worry that he might be denied.

“Well?” Aerion drawls, something too close to a cold, ugly amusement playing across his face as he observes your turmoil. “You’ve drawn the blade. Do not tell me you do not mean to follow through.”

“Aerion.” You warn.

“Wife.” He hums, the word a taunt, a reminder.

You press the blade closer. It is an effort to keep your hand steady. He leans in, towards it, until the edge kisses the line of his throat. Too deep a breath, and the dagger would draw his blood. It was infuriating that it made your breath catch in your throat, fear spiking up your spine.

You were no fool, you knew better than to murder a Targaryen prince. He knew you did. Or, perhaps he did not. Perhaps he simply did not care if you would murder him. Perhaps he wished to toy with you a moment further, to poke your flank and see if you might bite. Never-mind if you do.

“No?” Aerion sighs, bored too quickly, the brief excitement of the moment soured by your hesitance.

“Let me go.” You hiss, but he has stolen the conviction from your words, he has stolen the threat from your hands.

“Ah, would that I could...” He shakes his head, as though your suggestion is entirely implausible. To a princeling like him, it must seem as much.

His hand, the one not toying with the strings of your bodice, trails up your side, to skim across your neck. His fingers are cold. His touch burns. He observes a moment, as he writes secrets across your flesh with his fingertips. His hands frighten you more without a blade, than yours, with a blade, had frightened him.

“But you are my wife.” He continues, words simple. “We are married before the Gods.”

“You have no respect for the Gods.” You interject, breathing too fast, too shallow as his hand slips around your throat, tightening a moment, then easing the next.

“It makes no matter how it has been done, but you have been made mine. From this day, till your last, you are mine.” His words have conviction. There is not a question in his mind about what he says; to him they are more than vows and laws and traditions, they are the truth, and the only truth that matters.

When his eyes rise back to yours, you are caught between stiffening and shuddering.

“Put away your arms, wife.” His words soften around the command, as though he has any desire to ease the humiliation that eats up at your pride. When your only response is to set your jaw with defiance, he huffs, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Keep it, then.”

He tilts his head to the side, eyes pinned upon your face, as his fingers once more tug at the laces of your bodice. They come undone with a practised ease, and you tense, your hold on the blade tightening. He pays it no mind.

“Take it off.” He orders, hands falling away from you to gesture broadly at your undone dress. He takes a measured step backwards, away from the blade, though you’re sure it is only to give you the room to obey.

“If I refuse?” Your protest feels futile, but you’ve enough pride to protest him still.

“I will not repeat myself.” He snorts. “I’ve let you keep up your dagger, have I not? The least you could do is obey like a proper wife.”

Your jaw works a moment as you regard him. You should refuse. You should do anything but obey. Yet — and yet, with the dagger still in hand, you find yourself pulling your arms from your sleeves, and tugging down your bodice and your skirts, till they lay in a pile of Myrish lace and silk and jewel encrustations at your feet.

“Good.” Aerion nods. “Now the rest.”

You listen again, trying to keep your breathing even, trying to fight the flushed feeling that rushes up your neck as you loosen your chemise and unfasten your small-clothes, letting them join the pile, too. It is only when your stockings have been peeled off and your slippers kicked away that Aerion is satisfied.

The air of the room bites; despite the heat from the hearth and the braziers, gooseflesh runs up your arms and legs. Yet, nothing bites quite like his gaze.

He is entirely unabashed in the way his eyes rove over your body, taking note of every little detail. You feel raw, as though more than your clothes have been peeled away, as though your insides have been turned out for him to see. You supposed, soon enough, he’d be well acquainted with your insides. The desire to heave up your wedding feast at the thought is unbearably strong.

When he steps forward, onto the fortune that is your wedding dress without a care, your dagger rises to his throat once more. He is still unbothered by its presence. To you, it is all you have to feel some semblance of control. To him, it is little more than an inconvenience, an afterthought, an amusement. A small smirk pulls on his lips when you press it firm against his throat as his hands settle upon your waist.

“Your arm will grow tired, wife.” He remarks, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin. His hands belong there, in his mind, for you belong to him. You must seem the grandest fool for trying to fight it.

He guides you back against the bed, not so much so as flinching when the dagger digs into his throat as he moves.

“Worry not.” He murmurs, pressing your back against the sheets. “I’ll take care of you, wife. Haven’t a choice, now have I?” He nods towards the blade, his jaw nudging against it.

You despise that he does not care about the weapon, that him obliging to the threat it poses is nothing more than a favour, a small token to appease your pride. Yet, you do not stop him as he settles over you, as he pushes apart your thighs. Your spine goes rigid, your chest feels tight. There are a dozen things you should like to say, but you say none.

He spends a moment examining you, appraising his latest possession. When he is satisfied, he gives a low hum of approval. You had almost expected him to say something cruel, to mock you, but perhaps he has enough sense to know you’d certainly bleed him — if only a little — should he.

“I shall taste you, wife.” He declares, unceremoniously. “You may resume threatening my life once I am done.”

You open your mouth to protest, but even if you had the chance to speak, he would not have cared. He pulls away from the blade, dragging his nose down the length of your stomach, breathing in the scent of you, till he’s settled between your legs. He looks up at you, those pale lilac eyes hazy with desire. You’re not stupid enough to believe it is a desire for love, even for bedding you, or for any other reason than to possess you completely, to claim what is his.

“Do not look away.” He breathes, hot against you. “I will know if you look away.”

You nod, sharp, and inhale, sharper. You refuse to be affected by that smallest of sensations. Your resolve is instantly challenged when he presses closer, his tongue skimming between your folds, with teasing intentions. It seems, though, his resolve is as weak as yours; when his tongue laps out again, giving your cunt a proper lick, all the way up to your clit, he groans, and all teasing intentions are forgotten.

Your hips buck into his face of their own volition as his mouth moves against you, kissing, sucking, licking you from your entrance to your clit, letting his teeth graze against you just to see how you might squirm. Though you’re certain it feeds his behemoth pride that you do, his hands find purchase on your hips, holding them down so that he may give you pleasure only as he sees fit.

He works with a skill that belies experience. You had not thought Aerion the type to worry about a woman’s pleasure, but perhaps it feeds his vanity to see your defiance give way to your desire, perhaps it is simply the threat of being cut that motivates him to make it tolerable enough for you.

This more than tolerable. Pleasure builds low in your stomach faster than you had thought. Your fingers were never so quick to pleasure you, you’d never the recklessness to let someone else. You do your best to keep your eyes on him, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other white-knuckled around the dagger. You’re gasping, moaning, to your shame, after but moments spent with his mouth sucking on your clit. You feel your muscles tighten, already brought to the edge, shifting beneath his grasp to further the friction, seeking relief with a desperation you despise.

He lets you for a moment, loosening his grip just enough to have you grinding against his face. Then he pulls away, leaving you raw and pathetic with your need to finish.

“Aerion.” You hiss, breathing fast.

“Wife.” His smirk broadens, his face messy with the slick of your arousal. “Do you want to come?”

Your pride tells you to say no.

“Yes.” You swallow down your pride and answer from your clit, throbbing with need, and your cunt, clenching around absolutely nothing.

“Then ask politely.” He says, as though it should be the easiest thing in the world.

“Please.” The word is dry, foreign on your tongue, and entirely debasing. It is not enough to satisfy him — it does not meet the parameters of his demands, and so with a sigh, you find yourself nearly begging. “Please, Aerion, let me come?”

“Good.” He says. “You will learn to do better, but I will not deny you, lest you cut off my cock.”

It is a tempting thought, but before you can contemplate it, Aerion’s mouth has found its way between your legs again. He makes quick work of your release; he licks a stripe up your cunt before his mouth latches onto your clit once more. Your climax comes fast, sudden, your back arching up as the tension spikes and then melts. Aerion does not cease, not until every last shudder has been wrought from you, until you’re on the verge of begging him to stop.

He pulls away with a groan, licking up the slick of you from his mouth. He’s risen up from between your legs and his mouth finds your own before you’ve the chance to put the dagger to his throat again. You taste your release on his lips. It is anything but a kiss. It is a claim; rough and demanding, his teeth bite into your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and then he’s soothing the wound with an obscene sucking.

It is only when his tongue pushes into your mouth that you find the sense to press the dagger against his throat again, pushing his mouth away from yours with the bite of the steel.

He laughs, and it settles into a sigh, caught between something strangely bemused and something mocking as he looks down upon you.

“You’ll do well.” He muses, leaning back and away from you, only to make quick work of his own clothes, speaking on as he does. His words bear no affection, no true praise, only that same possession that is in all he says and does. “Carrying the blood of the dragon. You’ve enough fire in you. You will give me many little dragons, wife. No matter if you hold a dagger to my throat when I fuck them into you.”

His words make you bristle. It is a wonder, that is tongue can be so skilled at bringing you to your peak in one breath, and humiliating you in the next. Though, when you consider it, there is little difference between the two. Not to you, and surely not to Aerion.

His cock is hard when it is free of its confines. Your breath catches when you see it, all too much to Aerion’s amusement. You wonder how long he has wanted to shame you like this, fuck into you and make you come, over and over, till you’re round with his children. You’re sure he has thought of it ceaselessly, since he was old enough to have such thoughts.

He settles himself over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other one running up your side, finding purchase on your chest. He squeezes your breast beneath his hand, watching you tense a moment. You know not whether it is from fear or anticipation, and you refuse to entertain any other reason besides the two.

You press your dagger against his throat, but he does not seem to notice. He busies himself lining the head of his cock up with your entrance, and you exhale, breath trembling, when he grinds the tip of it against you.

He is not rough when he sinks in, but nor is he slow. He pushes himself in with one thrust. The stretch of it burns, more than you had thought it would, and you squeeze your eyes shut with the pain of it. Aerion does not stop until he has buried himself to the hilt, but he gives you a moment to adjust. It is a small mercy, one you did not think him capable of.

“Open your eyes.” He demands, and it is only when you do that he slowly begin to rock his hips, back and forth. Testing at first. Not for long. He groans, low in his throat, wasting no further time in setting a steady rhythm, even as you stiffen beneath him, biting back the pain. “Your body will adjust. It will not if you fight it. Let go, wife.”

It is difficult to listen. Each movement of his hips stretches you out further, and it burns, sears your walls. Yet, you force the stiffness from your spine, let your head fall back against the bed. The slick from your first release helps, and so does the blood — you’re more than certain you’ve bled, your maidenhead smeared across his cock, across the sheets. Your spare hand weaves around to grip on his back, and Aerion only groans when he feels your nails dig in.

He keeps his pace steady a while, not slow, but not nearly as fast as he should like. You’ve no choice but to ignore the burn, to focus on the good that might be found in it. It is no easy task, but only at first. You observe Aerion’s face, the way his sharp lines have softened, the soft grunts he makes, and there is a begrudging satisfaction that you are capable of pleasuring him — he may never have pretended otherwise, but to see him so unguarded whilst buried in your cunt is perversely fulfilling.

The pain does not go, but the pleasure builds, becomes easier to focus on.

It does not take long for a little whine to escape you at the feeling of his cock pushing into you, and that only goads him further, moving a little quicker. You’ve kept the dagger pressed against his throat the entire time. There are times where you fear that he might slice himself upon the edge of the blade as he thrusts into you.

“Do you think it scares me?” He grunts, his hips picking up, his movements rougher, quicker. “The dagger. Wife, do you think I do not know what it is to bleed?”

“Aerion,” you gasp, nails digging deeper into the flesh of his back. It is an effort to keep the blade steady in your hand. Every thrust into you has the blade jerking upwards, threatening to bite into his neck as you tremble, as the pleasure builds up. He still does not care.

“To bleed to keep what is mine... for what is mine — ” His words cut off with a groan, his breath shuddering, chest rising and falling quicker. He doesn’t relent his pace, even as it becomes an obvious effort to keep his thrusts even. “Seven hells, look at you. Taking me so well. Your body betrays you, wife. Fuck, good, let it.”

His hand leaves your chest, trailing down until it’s between your thighs, his thumb finding your clit and circling. His movements are insistent. The pleasure is unfair; the sensation coiling low in your stomach is unfair. It has your back arching against him, your hips pushing upwards to meet him, cunt clenching around his cock as that sensation tightens. It spurs him on, he circles his thumb faster, his cock presses in deeper, faster still.

“Come.” His order is firm, but there’s a breathlessness to his voice, it’s gone higher, needier in a way you never imagined he would be. He does not make you beg this time, he simply works harder.

You obey him; that sensation peaks, then comes down in rolls of pleasure. Each one racking through you has your nails scratching harder against his back, your head tipping back, another pathetic moan escaping your mouth. He keeps steady enough through it, watching with intent focus as you ride through your release, keeping his thumb pressed firm against your clit even when the last of the waves bleed away, leaving you a melted, boneless mess beneath him. He relishes in the sight of it, that much is obvious even to your murky mind.

He does not fight the way your walls clench around his cock, practically milking the seed from him as the pleasure of coming gives way to overstimulation. His pace becomes less controlled, less purposeful, chasing after his own release with a single-minded focus. He makes no effort to hide the way his groans become whines. When he does come, when he spills himself inside of you, it’s with your name on his lips. His head tips forward, just enough for the dagger to bite into his throat, leaving a little knick of red against his skin.

He does not pull out, does not move at all — neither of you do. Both your breaths are ragged, heavy, regaining sense of the world for a moment as the haze of fucking slowly fades.

You, at last, pull the dagger away. Your fingers unfurl their iron-clad grasp around it’s hilt, letting it tumble from the bed and clatter upon the floor. As soon as it is gone, Aerion sighs, letting his head drop to the crook of your neck, his mouth pressing there in something almost tender enough to be a kiss.

He moves then; he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him till your back is flush with his chest, but he does not leave his cock out of you for long, pushing his seed back in with it.

“My wife.” He murmurs, and there is a softness to his voice that should make you stiffen, but you are too spent to fight it. “My good wife.”

His arms are gentle when they wind around your waist, but the way he tightens them is nothing but possessive. His hands skim over your abdomen, as though you might already be with his child. That thought must please him incessantly.

“You are mine.” He declares.

You are too spent to fight that, too. Perhaps you will be his. Perhaps you already are. Perhaps there are worse fates than to bleed for Aerion Targaryen, and perhaps there are worse fates than Aerion Targaryen bleeding for you. Then again, perhaps there are not. It makes no matter. There is no other fate for you.

Aerion Targaryen was a prince of the realm. From the day of his birth he’d gotten everything he’d ever wanted or needed, no questions asked. The world appeared to revolve around him. When he’d met you that day during some royal feast for something or another and you had denied his offer of a dance that he had not even wanted to do, having been forced by his father, he’d realised he was going to make you his.  

He’d been struck by your audacity at first, denying a dragon something so publicly was cause for great punishment. Though the more he thought about it, the way the fire ignited in his chest at your challenging gaze, when you stared at his expectant palm before uttering a simple ‘no thank you, my prince’ and turning back to your friend, leaving him standing there like a fool. He’d sought you out the next day, cornering you in the garden under the guise of you making up for your lost dance. However when he’d said this to you, you’d only scoffed saying that there was nothing to make up for, that you owed him nothing and had better things to do. He’d stayed still for a long moment after you’d left him there, the scent of you curling around him as again that same fire ignited in his chest. He liked the challenge, he’d realised, and the desire to make you bend to his will clouded his senses. You brought out the dragon in him, made his flames stronger and that was something he couldn’t let fall from his grasp. He knew you’d never accept him outright. You turned up your nose whenever he approached, lips curling in a way that began to haunt his dreams, he dreamt about kissing them, biting into the plush flesh there until they bled and the warm flavour of your blood engulfed his mouth. 

He just had to bide his time, wait carefully and plan his next moves wisely. It began with the suitors. He knew he wasn’t the only one to notice your beauty, he wasn’t an idiot, he just didn’t expect the sheer quantity and relentlessness of them. Whenever he watched you, which was frankly a lot, there’d always be some minor Lord’s son tripping over himself like a bumbling fool for your attention. His gaze would always linger on your barely concealed disgust as you dismissed whoever it was with a backhanded remark shrouded in fake courtesy. Your soul was fire and it astounded him you didn’t bear the targaryen name, not yet you didn’t at least his mind would always supply helpfully. The least he could do was get these men out of your vicinity, it also helped that it benefited his plan greatly of course. You began to notice the dwindling number of men crowding for your attention, mixed with the scalding gaze of Aerion Targaryen that you pointedly ignored. He’d begun lingering closer you’d realised; pushing the lines of propriety through lustful gazes that lacked subtlety and movements that had him leaning into your space more than you deemed necessary. People had of course noticed, Prince Aerion was a fearsome figure, kept under the surveillance of most due to his temperament so his out of character behaviour had not gone unobserved. They’d whispered scandalous things, swirling rumours of you and the prince, that you’d seduced him. 

That couldn’t be farther from the truth.

The truth of it was that you’d heard of his cruel nature and determined that becoming a princess wasn’t worth tethering yourself to a man of such inhumanity. That avoiding him and his interest was the best course of action. You had thought that denying him a dance at the feast would be all that was needed, humiliating him in front of the court and his family would leave a bitterness in his mouth at the sight of you so strong he’d have to turn away and never look back. But then he found you in the gardens, his cold calculating gaze tracing over you with the hunger of a dragon. The cold dagger of malice you plunged into his chest again and again only seemed to be a lever for him to pull himself closer to you. You had captured the beast’s attention and you did not know how to shake it. He was planning something, that you knew, though what it was you couldn’t understand. You had told your father that should Prince Aerion try to come to him with an offer of marriage that he was to deny it and if he didn’t you would slit your own throat before you could ever make it to the altar. Your father had of course laughed it off, thinking it to be a joke. Because who wouldn’t want to marry a prince of the realm?

It didn’t help that your own mind was beginning to betray you. Where once fear and disgust was all that you felt when you thought of the prince, now a dangerous potion of anticipation, unease and desire had begun to brew. Every time he leaned into your space and your lungs were seized by his spicy perfume your heart jumped. Every time he brushed against you and your hands met the soft skin of his along with the cold bite of his rings a shiver traced its way down your spine. You didn’t understand it; how was it possible that you could hate him so but still need to ravage him so severely all at once? 

These emotions had frankly drained you and you found yourself leaving tonight's celebrations early so you could get some rest. You’d felt the scorching heat of his stare as you left, unyielding, unwavering and feeding the raging inferno in your chest as you walked down the empty corridors. The only issue is it hadn’t left you once you’d exited the hall, or more accurately he had followed you. You heard the steps behind you, solid, rhythmic, calculated. You ignored them walking at a steady pace, you just had to reach your room-

“Are you well, my lady?”

His voice was even, fake concern dripping from every syllable. You stopped and turned to him but he did not do the same. He kept walking until he was a hair's breadth away, crowding into your space that had your head spinning with his intensity. He looked at you like you were prey, like was a mere predator toying with his food. He studied you intently, barely hiding his lust.

“I asked you a question.”

You blinked irritation overcoming you once again as you glared at him. 

“I’m perfectly fine. I just found the company in the room to be particularly… stifling.”

He chuckled at that slow menacing grin stretching across his lips as he stepped even more into your space. His hand running up the length of your arm before gripping your elbow with possessive determination. His voice was low when he spoke again.

“I do suppose you would be stifled by the boars in that room, they know nothing of true enjoyment.”

You met his tone with searing venom.

“It is not them I speak of.”

His gaze hardened, that familiar passion blazing in his chest. He didn’t waste a moment, crashing his lips against yours and swallowing your noise of surprise as he pushed you until your back met the cold stone of the wall behind you. You didn’t move for a few moments, the urge to push him away and slap him warring with the deep inexplicable desire within you. Eventually it was clear which side won out as you reached to grasp him, one hand on his shoulder and one in his hair, yanking him roughly back by the strands. He gasped out, a shocked moan leaving him as your roughness while you forced your tongue into his mouth, both of you battling for dominance while his hands furiously grasped at your dress. He pulled back for air but you didn’t let him go far, teeth digging into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as he tried to escape. He groaned loudly and your tongue invaded his mouth again to taste the blood there. You pulled back and smiled at him impishly, his blood on your lips and teeth. The sight made him frenzied, he dove back in to kiss your neck, sucking and biting harshly at the skin there. The feeling of it caused your head to fly back, colliding with the stone behind you in an ache that overwhelmed you, the pain combining with the pleasure in a dizzying whirlwind. 

“Aerion.” You gasped, “Touch me.”

It was a command you’d summoned the last of your coldness for. He’d stopped, looking up at you with more of that false concern that made your blood boil. His tone was laced with mischief as he tried to keep up his facade. 

“Are you certain my lady, what if someone sees? Your honor would be compromised”

You ground your teeth, he didn’t truly care about propriety and you both knew damn well where this was going no matter what.

“Fuck honor. Give me what I want.”

The heat in him burned impossibly brighter as he grinned before complying with a torturous lack of speed. One of his lithe hands had begun to grasp your skirts tugging them up until he could finally grip the flesh of your thigh. His hand found the heat between your legs and the soft pads of his fingers started to circle your clit with a deliberate slowness that had you writing in his grasp. His other hand reached down to hold your hip, slamming you back against the wall to keep you still. He continued to kiss along your neck, before reaching your ear to whisper scandalous encouragement to you. You felt as the hand still between your legs parted your folds, gathering the wetness there before two of them started to push inside you, his thumb circling your clit all the while to allow him easier access. You gasped out harshly and his lips claimed yours again. He kissed you hard, denying you air as you became lightheaded. His fingers had started to drag in and out of you curling just slightly as they did. The heel of his palm began to grind against you and you slapped the hand that had gripped his shoulder over your mouth as you broke away from him to cover the noise. As soon as you did that however his ministrations stopped and he pulled back to look at you sternly. 

“Take your hand off your mouth or I’ll leave you here now like the desperate whore you are.”

You took a shaky breath before complying, staring him down as you placed your trembling hand back on his chest, the coarse fabric of his doublet only grounding you slightly. His lips curled sadistically as he watched and he gave an experimental grind of his hand that had you crying out.

“Good girl.” 

He started up again, this time his movements faster, rougher, his hand on your hip moving to pull up your thigh so he could reach deeper inside you. You felt your peak fast approaching and your noises get louder in response. He leaned in close to your ear before whispering to you again, the threat piercing into you and causing your core to clench around him.

“I’m going to make you mine, and we shall see then whether you still treat me so cruelly.” 

He nipped your earlobe as he pulled away, his teeth digging a touch too tight and the pain caused your orgasm to rip through you with a flash of hot white intensity.

Your breathing was ragged as he pulled out of you, not going far and not even bothering to fix your skirts properly as he started you down, lifting his soaked fingers to his lips to suck your come off them. Once he was satisfied he took his still wet hand grasping the back of your head to connect you again, making you taste yourself on his tongue. You didn’t have time to think about the taste before a shocked gasp interrupted you and you tore yourself away from him.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach as you saw your father and Prince Maekar just down the corridor, a maid with them that must have led them to you. 

“Aerion.” Prince Maekar said, eyeing his son wearily as Aerion stepped back from you lazily, seemingly unaffected by being caught. 

“Father.”

Your father looked furious and turned his ire onto the young prince. 

“You have ruined my daughter, taken her virtue.” His eyes settled back on you though shame did not let them stay for long before moving back to Aerion. “You must marry her, swear yourself to her before anyone catches wind of this scandal.”

Your breath caught, this was exactly what you had been meaning to avoid. You’d just have to let your lust win out. Surely Prince Aerion would reject the offer now his game was over. 

“I accept.” 

The words shocked you again, the night feeling as if one never ending labyrinth of surprises. Your father nodded and moved to pull you away, his grip harsh though you couldn’t help but let your eyes drift back to your now betrothed. When your eyes met his you suddenly realised; the maid had not found you by accident, he’d planned this all along, and you’d walked right into the trap.