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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Warnings: Targaryen family disfunction, the reader is implied to be kinda nerdy.
What you hated most about King's Landing University was that lineage mattered there more than talent.
You had talent. You had earned your place.
Lineage was something other people carried like an expensive, suffocating, heavy perfume.
You arrived in King’s Landing with suitcases, a scholarship letter, and a coat your mother insisted was “good quality, at least,” even if it wasn’t designer. King's Landing University spread across the city in separate campuses like a territorial animal. Humanities near the old harbor, Sciences in a glass-and-steel complex near the financial district, Fine Arts occupying renovated historic buildings funded by names engraved in gold.
One of those names was Targaryen.
You had looked it up before arriving.
They funded half the city. Old money. Galleries. Real estate. Charity foundations. Shipping companies. Land. Technology start-ups. Even a venture capital firm that invested in cybersecurity. The university’s oldest lecture hall bore the name of their great great-grandfather in brass letters.
You were a scholarship student from outside the Seven Kingdoms entirely, which made you feel like an exchange specimen in a museum display. You majored in Computer Science because numbers made sense, and logic was honest. People were neither. Your antisocial tendencies did not improve when most of your peers were sons of lords-turned-CEOs and daughters of ambassadors who had never worried about rent.
Introduction week forced you into interaction. The university called it “orientation immersion.” In reality, it was a mandatory treasure hunt that herded first years across all campuses and student clubs so they wouldn’t get lost on their first day of lectures.
That was how you met Kiera from Tyrosh. She introduced herself like that with theatrical pride. She had pink curly hair that fell to her shoulders in a halo of defiant color and dark brown skin that seemed to glow even in fluorescent lighting. She wore jewelry that probably cost more than your laptop, but she laughed loudly and swore like a sailor when the elevator broke down and stranded your team between floors.
Her boyfriend, Valarr Targaryen, had pressed the emergency button with mild composure.
Valarr dressed in quiet old-money chic. Cashmere sweaters in muted colors. Leather shoes polished to a shine that suggested habit, not vanity. His watch was understated but unmistakably expensive. He bought Kiera coffee from places where the cups were ceramic and the beans single-origin.
He never made you feel lesser.
The treasure hunt required you to find the Archery Club in the athletics wing, the Classical Studies Society in Humanities, and a robotics lab hidden behind a biometric door in the Science Complex. You and Valarr deciphered the clue about the robotics lab together while Kiera distracted the club president by flirting outrageously.
After that week, you were friends.
Not inseparable but close enough that you hung out on weekends.
Still, they were dating. You were not about to become the permanent third wheel orbiting their relationship.
So you stayed mostly within your major, where most conversations revolved around algorithms and caffeine consumption.
You did not know any other Targaryens personally.
But everyone knew of them.
Baelor Targaryen, widely beloved, had been mayor of King’s Landing for nearly a decade. People still spoke of him as if he were a benevolent monarch rather than an elected official. His younger brother, Maekar, had served as Minister of Defense: decisive, cold, respected.
They were alumni of this university.
Their portraits hung in the administration building.
The Targaryens’ philanthropy had funded research wings, scholarships, and half the Fine Arts renovation.
Except for one Targaryen who had not graduated when he should have. Daeron. Valarr’s cousin. Rumors spread like malware. Chronic illness. Mental breakdown. Alcoholism. A hush-hush stay in a psychiatric clinic that the family neither confirmed nor denied. Technically, formally, he was taking a gap year. For the second year in a row. Nobody believed he'd actually make a comeback.
His younger brother, Aerion, was very much present.
Aerion Targaryen majored in Finance with a minor in Information Security. Which meant he sat two seats to your left in Cryptography.
He drove a metallic silver Porsche 911 Turbo S, new model, unmistakable, obnoxiously sleek. You had recognized it not because you cared about cars but because the roar of its engine disrupted the fragile peace of the Science parking lot every morning.
Aerion did not dress modestly like Valarr. He embraced a modern rich aesthetic unapologetically: tailored coats, fitted black turtlenecks, designer sneakers that were somehow minimalist yet expensive enough to make you wince internally. His rings were subtle but heavy. His cologne lingered.
He was known to be an asshole. Yet somehow, he had friends in every faculty. Wealth was magnetic. So was beauty. He had both.
Despite sitting in the front row like you, because you actually cared about the lecture, and he, apparently, did too, he had never directly interacted with you.
Until the partnership assignment. Professor Hightower assigned pairs randomly for a three-week cryptanalysis project. Your name appeared next to Aerion Targaryen on the screen.
You did not react outwardly. Internally, you calculated probabilities of disaster.
He leaned back in his chair and looked you over with open curiosity, as if assessing a financial asset.
“You button all the way up like that voluntarily?” he asked, eyes flicking to your neatly fastened thick cardigan.
You ignored the heat crawling up your neck. “Yes.”
“You’d look better if you didn’t dress like a septa.”
The comment was casual. Thoughtless. Cruel in the effortless way only the rich could afford to be.
You met his gaze evenly. “I get cold easily.”
It was the truth.
He blinked.
As if he had expected flustered indignation or sharp retort.
Instead, you returned to your laptop.
You were neat. Your clothes weren’t cashmere, not real wool, but they were clean, structured. Your winter jacket was a good brand, one you and your mother had saved for months to buy. Your boots were sturdy and practical but elegant. Nothing tacky.
You refused to let him see shame.
The project required collaboration in the lab after class.
You discovered quickly that he was intelligent. Not coasting-on-name intelligent. Actually intelligent. He saw patterns fast. Understood instinctively. When you proposed an alternative keyspace pruning method, he didn’t dismiss it, he built on it.
By the end of the first session, the tension from your shoulders had lifted somewhat.
The last class ended at dusk.
You packed your laptop carefully and headed toward the bus stop as you always did.
He followed.
“You’re taking the bus?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He glanced toward the parking lot, where his Porsche gleamed under the streetlights. “I can give you a ride.”
You paused. The offer was almost polite. But you did not know him.
He had a reputation, girls rotating through his passenger seat like seasonal decor.
You did not say any of that aloud.
“No, thank you,” you said simply.
Silence.
He stiffened.
“What, you think I’m going to kidnap you?”
You adjusted your backpack strap. “I don’t know you.”
It was honest truth.
His jaw tightened slightly, pride nicked. “Right.”
He didn’t insist. But something in his expression shifted.
After that, he spoke to you more in class.
About the assignment at first. Then about side tangents: encryption history, wartime codebreakers, ancient ciphers.
You were both nerds about history. Which was rare in your respective majors.
He quoted anecdotes about Iron Bank of Braavos. You countered with stories about medieval steganography.
Once, he admitted he’d taken an elective in Ancient History just for fun, even though he already knew High Valyrian and everything about Valyrian history.
You had smiled.
Valarr noticed.
Of course he did.
Valarr noticed everything.
He approached you one afternoon in the library café, polite as always.
“I saw Aerion text you,” he said gently.
You stiffened. “He invited me to a party.”
Valarr exhaled slowly.
“I won’t tell you what to do,” he said. “But Aerion…enjoys chaos. He’s not careful with people.”
You appreciated the warning.
Valarr was not jealous or petty. He was protective.
“You think I can’t handle chaos?” you asked.
He studied you. “I think you don’t deserve to be someone’s experiment.”
You looked at your coffee.
It wasn’t that you were naïve.
You simply were tired of being invisible.
The party was rumored to be the event of the semester.
Their fraternity house sat near the waterfront, renovated brick and glass with a rooftop terrace overlooking the harbor.
Kiera was already excited.
“Oh my gods, you have to come,” she insisted, pink curls bouncing as she applied lip gloss in your dorm mirror. “It’s the most fun party of the year.”
Valarr adjusted his cuffs behind her.
“We’re going,” he confirmed.
You hesitated. You had never been invited to a frat party before. You had never really been invited anywhere before. Your wardrobe was limited.
You chose a simple black dress you had bought secondhand but tailored carefully to fit. You left your blouse on top of it unbuttoned one button lower than usual and immediately felt exposed.
You wore your good boots. You told yourself you were going for the experience, not for Aerion.
The frat house pulsed with music when you arrived. Lights spilled from tall windows. Laughter echoed into the cold night air.
Inside, it was too warm. Expensive liquor brands lining the kitchen counter. Boys in tailored blazers they shrugged off almost instantly. Girls in dresses that clung.
Aerion stood near the staircase. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. A glass of something amber in his hand.
He saw you. His gaze traveled slowly.
“You came,” he said when you approached.
“Yes.”
His eyes lingered on the single unbuttoned gap at your collar.
“You’re not dressed like a grandma tonight.”
You held his gaze.
“I get cold,” you reminded him evenly.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Right.”
You should have known he wouldn’t linger.
The moment he acknowledged that you’d come, someone shouted his name from across the room. A circle had already formed in the center: chairs pushed aside, music lowered just enough to hear the shouting.
“Aerion! Duncan! Round two!”
He didn’t look back at you when he was pulled away.
The game was ridiculous.
Two long folding tables were set parallel with a strip of open space between them. At one end, a cheap plastic lance (a broom handle wrapped in tape) waited beside a pyramid of red cups filled with liquor. The “modern joust,” someone explained loudly near you, was simple: both players chugged, sprinted down the gap, and tried to knock each other off balance with the padded ends before reaching the other side. First to stumble lost.
It was idiotic. It was loud. It was very on-brand for boys who’d grown up with swords in family crests and trust funds in their names.
Duncan, or just Dunk, because everyone knew who he was, loomed opposite Aerion. A basketball scholarship student. He was so tall that students regularly photoshopped him into campus memes, scaling library shelves or ducking under doorframes like a mythic giant. Even sober, he looked unreal.
Drunk, he looked invincible.
They chugged. Cheers erupted. They ran.
The collision was spectacular: laughter, shouting, someone spilling a drink over the table.
It ended with both of them staggering, but Duncan hit the ground first.
“You slipped,” Aerion shot back, voice cutting clean through the noise.
“I didn’t...”
“You did.”
Duncan stepped forward. Aerion didn’t step back. For a second, you thought someone would swing. Valarr moved between them calmly, one hand on Duncan’s chest, the other on Aerion’s shoulder.
“That’s enough,” he said.
The Fossoway cousins latched onto Duncan and dragged him back toward the kitchen, still protesting.
Aerion shook Valarr’s hand off.
“Tell your giant to learn balance,” he muttered.
Valarr’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to it.
You realized you were still standing alone with your drink.
Kiera had migrated to the staircase landing with two other girls, phone held high, filming a TikTok dance with dramatic hair flips and exaggerated poses. She caught your eye briefly and blew you a kiss before returning to her camera.
You told yourself you were fine. You had promised yourself you would be careful.
You hadn’t eaten much before coming. The dress fit better that way. Flatter. You didn’t want your stomach pressing against the fabric under bright frat-house lighting.
You sipped slowly. The cocktails tasted sweet. Too sweet. You didn’t realize how much alcohol was in them.
The warmth in your chest didn’t turn into giggly lightness like you expected. It turned into a heavy, sour coil in your stomach.
You swallowed. The music seemed louder.
The room tilted slightly not in a spinning way, but in a nauseating shift, like a boat rocking under your feet.
You set the glass down.
Breathe.
You scanned for Kiera still dancing. For Valarr talking near the kitchen.
You told yourself it would pass.
Then you noticed something else.
Near the back hallway, half-hidden by shadows, some ugly boy, one you vaguely recognized from your own damn faculty, was leaning over a girl slumped against the wall. Her head lolled. Her eyes were closed.
His hand was on her thigh.
You didn’t think. You moved.
You grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back with more force than he expected.
“What the hell?” he snapped.
“She’s out cold,” you said sharply. “Back off.”
“I’m helping her.”
“By unzipping her skirt?”
His face twisted. “Mind your business.”
You stepped closer instead. “Leave.”
He scoffed and tried to brush past you. You snatched an abandoned glass off a nearby table and held it up.
“I will smash this over your head,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the nausea crawling up your throat.
He stared at you. Then he shoved you.
Unlucky for him, Aerion had looked over and saw the shove.
He crossed the room faster than you’d thought possible, expression stripped of amusement.
“Problem?” he asked coolly.
The boy faltered. “She’s crazy...”
“Leave,” Aerion said.
The boy left. Aerion’s hand closed around your arm firmly and he steered you away.
“You’re shaking,” he said under his breath.
“I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
The nausea surged violently.
“I need the bathroom,” you managed.
He didn’t tease. He guided you upstairs, weaving through bodies, and pushed open the bathroom door.
“I’ll stay here,” he said.
You barely made it to the toilet. It was humiliating. You had to brace your hands against the wall in order to not faceplant onto the toilet seat, and retched until your throat burned and your eyes watered.
Outside, the music thudded. When you finally flushed and rinsed your mouth, your legs felt weak but your stomach felt lighter.
You opened the door slowly. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
You avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For...” you gestured vaguely toward the bathroom.
He shrugged. “It happens at frat parties.”
You wiped your face with a tissue, mortified.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
A message from Valarr: 'Kiera got too drunk. I’m taking her home. I assumed you’re fine since you said you wouldn’t drink much. Text when you’re home.'
Your stomach dropped again, this time not from alcohol.
“I’m not fine,” you murmured.
He glanced at the screen. “Don’t tell me you’re about to faint.”
“I might have alcohol poisoning.”
He stared at you for a long moment. “Stop being ridiculous.”
“I didn’t eat...”
“Exactly. You threw up. You’re not dying.”
You swayed slightly.
He sighed. “I’m driving you home.”
You hesitated.
He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’d prefer the bus.”
You were sure you wouldn't survive the bus.
The cold night air cleared your head slightly as he guided you to his Porsche.
The engine purred to life. You leaned your head against the window. The city lights blurred past.
You didn’t feel as bad as you feared. Throwing up had purged the worst of it. Your stomach ached and you felt faint, but the spinning had stopped.
The silence between you was awkward.
Then his phone rang.
He answered through the car system.
“What.”
A man’s voice thundered through the speakers. You couldn’t make out every word, but you heard anger. Urgency.
“Yes,” Aerion said flatly. “Send the location.”
He ended the call.
“My father,” he said.
You swallowed. “Maekar?”
“Yes. He wants me to pick up Daeron,” Aerion continued. “He’s drunk in a bar. Someone’s filming him.”
You blinked. “He can’t send a driver?”
“It's past midnight, they don't work 24/7 shifts. My father is just returning to the city now. A random cab would leak to press. I’m closer.”
You glanced at the road. “But I live...”
“Far from my house. Yes.” He turned the wheel sharply at the next intersection. “We’re taking a detour.”
You didn’t argue.
He followed a location ping on his phone.
The bar was discreet but not discreet enough. A small crowd had formed outside, phones raised.
You stayed in the car at first.
Then you saw Daeron. Older than Aerion by a few years. Taller. Broader. Hair a darker, dirtier shade of silver-gold, more gold than silver, falling into his eyes.
He was laughing at nothing. Slurring at something. Someone was indeed filming.
Aerion exited the car without a word. “Let’s go.”
Daeron blinked at him.
“Ah,” he said slowly. “Playing the responsible brother.”
Aerion dragged him over. “Get in the car.”
Daeron’s gaze shifted to you. He squinted. Then smiled faintly.
“Oh,” he murmured. “You two have already met. At this point I’m having dreams about the present instead of the future.”
You froze.
Aerion’s jaw tightened.
“Ignore him,” he muttered.
It took both of you to maneuver Daeron into the backseat. He was heavy and uncooperative but not violent, just dazed.
The drive to the Targaryen townhouse was quieter.
You hadn’t expected the property to be that expansive.
It wasn’t just a house. It was a private park wrapped around a restored historic mansion: iron gates, gravel drive, manicured lawns. Statues lined the path, previous Targaryens immortalized in marble and bronze, names carved into pedestals. It felt less like a residence and more like a curated dynasty.
Staff appeared the moment the car stopped. They helped lift Daeron out respectfully.
Inside, the townhouse was warm and grand in a way that made your flat feel like a broom closet.
High ceilings. Oil paintings. Polished wooden floors.
Maekar Targaryen stood near the entryway, coat still on his shoulders. Clearly just returned from a long trip that was no vacation. His face was severe. He glanced at Daeron.
Then he looked at you.
You suddenly became acutely aware of your outfit. You were deeply grateful you had refused Kiera’s suggestion to wear one of her dresses: short, tight, expensive.
Your dress reached your knees. Your blouse was buttoned. Your boots were practical.
At least you didn’t look like a girl who had followed a rich boy home from a party. Well, technically you had, but...
Aerion spoke first.
“We met in class,” he said nonchalantly. “I was driving her home. We had to detour.”
Maekar didn’t protest your presence. Didn’t question it.
“Take your brother upstairs,” he instructed Aerion.
He then walked to a liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of expensive scotch.
He held up the bottle slightly in your direction.
You shook your head quickly. “No, thank you.” You remembered after a second that you should've addressed him by 'sir'.
He sank into an armchair.
“I didn’t mean to inconvenience you,” he said. “I didn’t know Aerion was on a date.”
Your brain stalled.
A date.
You opened your mouth.
“We’re not...”
He cut you off with a dismissive gesture.
“You needn’t worry. I’m not the sort to object based on lineage or background. Well, not anymore. All things considered.”
You blinked.
He misunderstood your panic entirely.
“I welcome any decent girl in my son’s life,” he continued dryly. “Frankly, it’s a miracle. The Seven's blessing, as my brother likes to say.”
Your mouth opened again.
Aerion returned downstairs.
Maekar looked at him.
“It’s a good thing you’ve finally brought home a nice girl,” he said. “Instead of an occult weirdo or a model who’s actually a hooker.”
You nearly choked on air.
You looked at Aerion in pure panic.
He saw it. He understood immediately that you had not claimed to be his girlfriend.
He could have corrected it.
He didn’t.
“I can manage my own affairs,” he told his father coolly.
Then he gestured toward you. “Let’s go.”
The car ride was tense.
“You need to tell him,” you hissed. “That we’re not dating.”
He exhaled sharply. “I couldn’t start an argument there when he’s already tense because of Daeron.”
“So you’ll just let him think...”
“I’ll tell him later that we went out briefly and it didn’t work out.”
“Because we didn’t get along?” you asked incredulously.
“Something like that.”
You crossed your arms.
He pulled up outside your building.
“Goodnight,” he said shortly.
You didn’t move.
He looked at you. “What?”
“You need to tell him,” you repeated.
He studied you. “What exactly would be so bad about dating me? Is it that you saw how my family actually is?”
The question wasn’t teasing. It was edged.
You blinked. “It’s not...I don’t judge based on family issues.”
“Oh?”
“Daeron seems like a good person,” you said quickly. “And I don’t care about your father being…severe.”
“Then what.”
You swallowed.
“It’s not like you’d actually want to date me,” you said quietly. “You’re only considering the scenario because your father approved for once.”
He stared at you.
For a moment, he had no retort. Then he looked away.
“…You have a point.”
He sounded almost annoyed about it.
You reached for the door handle.
He bristled again. You stepped out anyway.
The cold air hit your face.
You leaned down slightly toward the open window.
“Goodnight, Aerion.”
He didn’t answer.
The car engine hummed. He looked at you, something unsettled flickering beneath the usual arrogance.
Then you closed the door. And left him almost sulking in the driver’s seat.
Part 2: SEE HERE.
a/n: My inbox and messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Thank you to writers here for making me remember how much I love Targaryen modern AUs. Aerion driving a Porsche is canon in my mind now, so I wrote that in (different model and color from what I saw in the fic!) but I think that's pretty much it.
a/n: I honestly cannot remember who wanted to be on every Aerion fic taglist and who on just the Growing Strong series taglist. Hope you guys like the fic. But if you don't, just comment a literal dot, just this - . , and I will remove you from this series' taglist. Hope I made it easier for you to just comment a dot instead of writing a message. If you do want to be added to the taglist, comment that you do and I'll add you.
Clarice cleared her throat. “I can’t reach my feet,” she said simply.
Aerion stared at her. He looked at her feet, then at her face. His expression flickered between irritation, disgust, and then something else. Something swift and sharp and much too vulnerable that he buried before it could settle into his features.
Aerion let out a short, humorless breath. “Pathetic,”
He dropped to one knee.
a/n: just a small drabble of something that's been on my mind for a while
read Chapter II here
read Chapter III here
The heat in the Reach wasn’t anything like the heat of King’s Landing. In the capital, the summer air smelled of shit and old fish; it was a dry, baking oven that trapped the city against the Blackwater. Here at Ashford, the heat was contrastingly green. It rose from the meadow damp and heavy —distinctively too heavy— smelling of crushed grass, horse sweat, and the river. It clung to the skin like a second layer of silk, inescapable and suffocating.
Clarice Arryn sat on the edge of the camp bed, her blonde hair crimping at the ends, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach. The child was kicking again; a frantic, rhythmic drumming against her ribs that felt less like a baby and more like a trapped bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage in an idle attempt to escape.
A dragon, she thought, the notion tired and familiar.
She was six months pregnant, heavy enough that her balance had shifted, and that daily activities had become nothing short of grueling exercise. She stared defeated at the leather straps lying limp on the rug, then at her swollen ankles. The once simple act of fastening her sandals felt impossible now.
The tent flap swept open.
It didn’t flutter; it was shoved aside with the sharp snap of brute force. Aerion entered. He brought the day’s violence in with him; the metallic tang of fresh oil on armor, the smell of a cheap wine and ale, and that peculiar, electric tension that seemed to crackle around him whenever he was bored.
And Aerion Targaryen was currently very, very bored.
He stopped in the center of the pavilion. He was wearing a doublet of red velvet that looked far too heavy for such suffocating weather, slashed with black satin, the three-headed dragon embroidered in golden thread upon his chest. His silver hair sat short, glaringly too short, over his skull, and his violet eyes were bright, restless, and cruel. He was undeniably magnificent to look upon, in the way wildfire or a venomous viper are magnificent.
He looked at her. He didn’t smile. He never smiled when he looked at her; he merely assessed, his gaze traveling from her face to the mound of her belly, then back up to her eyes. He curled his nose.
“You look ghastly,” he said. His voice was melodic and clear, cultured in a way that made every sentence sound like it was carved in judgment.
“And you, husband,” Clarice replied, her voice dry and cool, “look like a summer mummer who has raided a brothel’s wardrobe. Did you steal from a street juggler?”
Aerion’s lips quirked into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a smile that usually promised violence to everyone else, but for her, it was simply the opening move in their daily game. He crossed the room, stripping off his riding gloves in a gesture of uncalled exasperation. “The humidity is a plague. I should have the river dammed. Or boiled.”
“I’m sure the river is trembling at the threat, dearest.”
“It should.” He tossed the gloves onto a table cluttered with wine cups and maps. He began to pace, a prowling back and forth that made the large tent feel impossibly smaller. “The commons are already swarming. Hedge knights. Squalid little men riding dying horses, thinking they can joust against princes. It smells of unwashed bodies and desperation out there.”
“You invited yourself to their tourney, Aerion,” Clarice reminded him. “If you dislike the smell of hedge knights, you could have stayed in Summerhall.”
“And miss the chance to remind them what a true knight looks like?” He stopped in front of her, his shadow falling over her lap. He tilted his head. “Why are you half dressed? Baelor, may he choke on his own name, expects us at the evening meal. If you are late, he will look at me with that disappointed heavy lidded stare, and I shall be forced to set the table on fire.”
Clarice cleared her throat. “I can’t reach my feet,” she said simply.
Aerion stared at her. He looked at her feet, then at her face. His expression flickered between irritation, disgust, and then something else. Something swift and sharp and much too vulnerable that he buried before it could settle into his features.
Aerion let out a short, humorless breath. “Pathetic,”
He dropped to one knee.
Clarice didn’t move. She didn’t flinch, and she certainly didn’t thank him. She watched the top of his head as he took her left foot with his hand. His fingers were long and pale, yet surprisingly strong. He didn’t do it gently, Aerion didn’t do gently. He jerked the strap tight, winding the leather around her ankle with a precision that bordered on aggressive.
“You are an Arryn,” he said to her foot, his voice dropping to a scornful murmur. “Mountain stock. Supposed to be hardy. And yet, one half-formed dragon whelp and you are rendered invalid.”
“The dragon takes up a lot of room,” Clarice said, watching his hands. “It has your ego.”
Aerion pulled the knot tight —too tight, just for a second, a spiteful and vicious pinch of warning— before loosening it to a perfect fit. He switched to the other foot.
“Does it hurt?” he asked. He didn’t look up.
“The strap?”
“The child.”
Clarice thought about it. “Yes.”
He paused, his thumb tracing the bone of her ankle. It was a touch that lasted a fraction of a second too long to be accidental, but he withdrew his hand instantly, as if the contact burned him. “Good. Pain clarifies the mind. You’ve been too quiet lately.”
“I am conserving my energy. One of us has to have the temperament of an adult.”
He finished the second sandal and stood up in a single, fluid motion, towering over her again. He dusted his knees, though the rug was clean. “Get up. Wear the blue silk. The dark one that matches your eyes. I won’t have you looking pale and sickly next to Valarr’s wife. Kiera always looks like she’s just eaten a basket of plums.”
Clarice reached out a hand.
It was a test, it was always a test with them. They were common currency in their marriage.
Aerion looked at her hand. He sneered, a bitter curling of the lip that showed his teeth. “Can you do nothing yourself, you feckless woman?”
But he took her hand. His grip was hard, pulling her up with a force that was almost rough, but the moment she was on her feet and slightly swayed, his other hand snapped out, seizing her waist to steady her.
He held her there for a heartbeat. His palm was hot against her side, burning through the thin linen of her shift. He was close enough that she could smell the cloves he had chewed on to sweeten his breath, and the faint, blazing scent of his skin.
He looked into her eyes, searching for fear. He always searched for fear.
Clarice gave him none. She looked back, her dark blue eyes, the colour of the moonlit sea, calm and unblinking.
He released her abruptly and turned away, pouring himself a cup of wine. “My father is in a foul mood,” Aerion muttered. “Daeron has lost Aegon. The drunkard can’t even keep track of a child.”
Clarice remained quiet, placing her hands over her stomach. “Aegon is resourceful,” She then said, after taking a long breath. “He probably went to find a cooler place to sleep. Or to look at the knights.”
Aerion brought the cup towards his lips, not taking a sip, as if weighing her words. He then walked to the entrance of the tent. “Dress yourself. And hide the blade you like to hide in your sleeve. This is a tourney, not a back alley brawl.”
“It’s a small knife, Aerion. For fruit.”
“It’s an Essosi stiletto, Clarice. And you use it to clean your nails when you think I’m not looking.” He took a long drink, and dropped the goblet into the rug. “Hurry up.”
He vanished into the heat.
Clarice was left alone in the tent, but the air still felt charged with his presence. It was exhausting, being Aerion Targaryen’s wife. It was a constant dance on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he would push her or pull her back.
*********
The pavilion of House Targaryen was a sprawling construct of black and red fabric, a temporary palace erected on the trampled, suffering grass of the meadow.
Dinner was an exercise in theatre.
Prince Baelor Breakspear sat at the head of the table, dark haired and broken nosed, looking most handsome in a simple, black doublet; radiating the kind of effortless authority that made Aerion grind his teeth. Next to him sat his son, Valarr, small and slim and brown haired, lacking the Targaryen look but possessing a quiet decency that Clarice had always found soothing.
Aerion hated them both. He hated them for their dark hair, and for the way the realm looked at them with hope, while they looked at him with wary, panicked caution.
Clarice sat at Aerion’s right hand. She wore the blue silk, as he had commanded. She usually wouldn’t do as such, as she enjoyed the confrontation, but today she chose caution.
Aerion was restless. She knew the signs well enough. He was yearning for conflict, for a reason to unleash the fire that so viciously burned under his skin. He felt slighted by his father, annoyed by his brothers, and bored by the peace.
Clarice ate small bites of roasted duck, acutely aware of Aerion’s leg pressing against hers under the table.
“The lists are in acceptable condition,” Baelor was saying, his voice a low, steady rumble. “Though the ground is soft near the river end. I’ve warned the master of games to lay down more straw.”
“Straw,” Aerion scoffed, stabbing a fig with his knife. “We are putting knights on horses, Uncle, not bedding down pigs. If a man cannot ride through a bit of mud, he has no business holding a lance.”
“A horse slipping can break a man’s neck, cousin,” Valarr said sharply. “Even a good rider.”
“Then the horse was weak, or the man was clumsy,” Aerion retorted. He sliced the fig in half, its purple flesh tearing open. “Natural selection. We coddle them too much. This is meant to be combat, not a dance.”
“It is a celebration,” Baelor said, his eyes now resting heavily on his nephew. “Not a war.”
“Is there a difference?” Aerion asked, smiling that bright, terrible smile.
Clarice felt the tension spike in the air, sharp as a needle. She reached for her goblet, her movement slow and deliberate.
“The difference,” Clarice interjected, her voice cutting through the silence, “is that in a war, the enemy is trying to kill you. In a tourney, they are only trying to knock you down. It bruises the pride more than the body. Perhaps that is what worries you so terribly, husband?”
The table went still. Valarr looked down at his plate, hiding a grin. Baelor watched them, his expression unreadable.
Aerion turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes were wide, violet irises that seemed too large swimming in white.
“My pride,” he said softly, “is not so easily bruised as a peach, sweet wife.”
“No,” she agreed, meeting his gaze over the rim of her cup. “It is more like glass. Hard, sharp, and spectacular when it shatters.”
Aerion stared at her. For a second, she saw the violence rise in him, a dark tide behind his eyes. He wanted to strike her. She knew it, and he knew she knew it. The air between them buzzed with the electric desire for conflict.
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Eat your duck, Clarice,” he said, his attention back to his plate. “Before you faint, and I have to drag you out by your hair.”
Baelor cleared his throat, unimpressed by his nephew’s threats. “Clarice, how is the heat treating you? You look flushed.”
Clarice smiled. “I am well, Your Grace,” she lied politely. “Aerion ensures I am... comfortable.”
“I ensure she is kept in the shade,” Aerion corrected, his hand dropping under the table to grip her knee. His fingers dug in, marking her skin. “Like a mushroom.”
The meal continued, a strained affair of pleasantries stretched thin over the rocky road that was Aerion’s temperament. Clarice played her part: the dutiful wife, the Arryn beauty. She smiled at Valarr’s jokes and nodded at Baelor’s wisdom.
But she was tethered to the storm beside her. Every time she laughed at something Valarr said, Aerion’s grip on her knee tightened. Every time she looked away, he shifted so his shoulder bumped hers. He was constantly checking, constantly verifying that she was there, that she was his, that she was paying attention to him and him alone.
When the meal ended, Aerion stood abruptly.
“Come,” he said to Clarice. “The air in here is stale. I want to walk the grounds.”
“Aerion,” Baelor warned, his eyes serious. “Do not antagonize the people tonight.”
“I only wish to see the stars, Uncle,” Aerion said, his voice dripping with false innocence. “Clarice is fond of astronomy. Aren’t you, my love?”
Clarice pursed her lips. “Immensely,” she said dryly.
Outside, the night had brought little relief from the heat. The air was thick with the smoke of a thousand campfires, the smell of roasting meat, and the raucous laughter of people.
Aerion walked with a swagger, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his eyes scanning the crowd with open, flaring contempt. He was looking for a fight, she knew. He always was.
He walked fast, his stride eating up the ground, forcing Clarice to keep pace. He didn’t offer her his arm. He walked slightly ahead of her, cutting a path through the crowds, expecting them to part for him. And they did. The sight of the silver-gold hair and the arrogant set of his shoulders was enough to make the smallfolk scramble into the mud.
“Look at them,” he sneered, gesturing vaguely at a group of squires gambling with dice near a crinkling fire. “Insects. They breed and they die and they leave nothing behind but dirt.”
“They grow the food you eat,” Clarice argued, keeping her hand on her stomach to dampen the jostling of her stride. “And they sew the velvet you wear.”
“And worms aerate the soil” he scoffed, “I don’t invite them to dinner.”
He stopped suddenly near the edge of the merchant’s row. A troupe of puppeteers were painting a wooden booth. There were bright dragons painted on the side, in an attempt to be crude and comical.
Aerion stared at the booth. His body went rigid.
“Mockery,” he whispered.
Clarice stepped up beside him. “It’s a puppet show, Aerion. It’s for children.”
“It’s a caricature,” he hissed, in a viperous gesture. “Look at the dragon. It looks like a lizard with the pox. Is that how they see us? Is that what they think we are?”
“They think you are powerful,” Clarice said, her voice firm. She stepped closer, invading his personal space, forcing him to look at her instead of the painted wood. “They fear you. And because they fear you, they make small jokes to make the fear manageable. If you burn down their booth, you only prove that you are exactly the monster they tell stories about.”
Aerion looked down at her. His face was pale in the torchlight, his eyes gleaminng. “I am the monster, Clarice. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“You are a prince who is currently throwing a tantrum over some plywood,” she argued. “It is beneath you.”
He stared at her, his chest heaving slightly. The violence was right there, bubbling under the skin, searching for a release. He wanted to hurt something.
“You have a sharp tongue,” he murmured, stepping in close. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. His fingers were cold now. “One day I will have to cut it out.”
“Then who would tell you when you’re being an idiot?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. For a long, terrifying moment, he didn’t move. She glared at him, her hand instinctively drifting to the small, concealed pocket in the folds of her sleeve where her dagger rested.
Aerion saw the movement. His eyes flashed with delight, with almost manic amusement. “Go on,” he whispered. “Draw it. Let the commons see the Lady of the Vale try to gut the blood of the dragon.”
“I don’t need a blade to gut you, Aerion,” she said softly. “I need only wait for your ego to swell large enough to burst your skull.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other amidst the dust and the noise of the camp. To an outsider, the tension between them might have looked like hatred ; like pure, unadulterated loathing. And it was, in a way. But it was also the only language they knew. It was the intimacy of knives, sharpening each other.
Then, he let out a short, barking laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound, but it broke the spell. “I should have had you poisoned at our wedding feast. It would have saved me a great deal of headache.”
“I recall you tried,” Clarice countered, forcing her tone light, conversational. “Or was that just the Arbor Gold? It tasted vile enough to be hemlock.”
“Next time I shall use the Strangler,” Aerion promised, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “I’ll watch the light go out of those big, judgment filled, delectable eyes.”
“Do try not to botch it,” she said. “Incompetence is so unbecoming in a prince.”
His thumb brushed over her skin, surprisingly gentle. It was this exact dichotomy that maddened her. He could flay a man’s skin off with a smile, but with her, his touch was often reverent, as if he were handling a rare, dangerous artifact that he didn’t want to break.
Suddenly, the baby kicked. Aerion’s hand flinched on her chin, his eyes darting to her stomach. He hesitated, then reached down, placing his palm flat against the curve of her belly.
The child moved under his hand, a rolling wave of pressure. Aerion’s brow furrowed, in a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face, as if he couldn’t quite reconcile the biology with the concept.
“He is restless,” Aerion murmured, his voice losing its edge for a fraction of a second. “He senses the tourney. He smells the blood in the air.”
“She,” Clarice was quick to correct him, “and she smells the roast pork from the kitchens, nothing more.”
Aerion’s hand stiffened over her belly. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “A son. It must be a son. A dragon, Clarice.”
“It will be a girl,” she said, offering him a sweet, venomous smile. “Just to spite you. She will have my nose and she will hate velvet.”
“Do not jest about legacy,” he hissed, though he didn’t remove his hand. He pressed slightly harder, as if he could command her womb to obey him through sheer force of will. “If it is indeed a girl, we will simply have to try again immediately. Until you get it right.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her she was a disappointment before she’s even born,” Clarice said dryly. “It will save you the trouble later.”
He withdrew his hand as if stung, standing up in a single, fluid motion. “Come,” he said, stepping away. “I saw a Dornish merchant selling Myrish lenses earlier. I want to see if they are flawed.”
Aerion turned and walked away.
*********
Clarice lay in bed, clad in a loose shift of ivory cotton. She was reading a tome she had brought from the Eyrie, a history of the Andals, by the light of a single oil lamp.
The tent flap opened, and Aerion entered.
He brought the smell of the night with him, smoke, roasted meat, and wine. He had been drinking, she could tell, but he wasn’t drunk. Aerion didn’t get drunk like Daeron did; the wine only sharpened his edges, making him more vivid.
Aerion stripped off his doublet and threw it onto the floor. He paced the length of the rug, shirtless, his skin pale and smooth; his back all lean muscle moving like water over bone. He was beautiful, in that marble, statue way that Targaryens often were.
Clarice didn’t look up from her book, though she tracked his movements by sound. The rustle of fabric. The thud of boots. The splash of water as he washed his face in the basin.
The mattress dipped as he climbed into the bed beside her.
Clarice started counting the seconds before her peace were broken.
“Still awake,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She hadn't made it to ten.
“The noise,” she replied absentmindendly, turning a page. “It’s quite loud tonight.”
“They celebrate their own filth,” Aerion said, lying back against the pillows, placing his hands behind his head. He stared up at the red silk ceiling. “I saw a giant today, Clarice. A hedge knight. Huge brute. Thick as a castle wall.”
“Truly?” Clarice asked, feigning disinterest. “Did you insult him?"
“Not yet,” Aerion grinned at the ceiling, in a boyish manner. “But I will. He offended me.”
“How? By existing?”
“Precisely. He looked... presumpuous.” Aerion turned his head on the pillow to look at her. The lamplight cast deep shadows across his face, making his eyes look black, dangerous. He frowned. “Put the book away.”
“I’m reading.”
“You’re ignoring me.”
“I can do both.”
Aerion reached out and snatched the book from her hands. Clarice didn’t fight him; she just sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. He tossed the heavy volume onto the floor with a loud thump.
“Talk to me,” he commanded.
“About what? Your imaginary grievances? The color of your doublet for tomorrow?”
“About us.”
Clarice laughed; it was a short, dry sound. “There is no ‘us’, Aerion. There is you, and there is the person you are currently tormenting.”
He moved fast, shifting so he was hovering over her, bracing his weight on his elbows, careful not to crush her. His head fell forward, breath tickling her face. He smelled of wine and cloves.
“You challenged me tonight,” Aerion said, lowering his face until their noses almost touched. “In front of Baelor.”
“I spoke but the truth.”
“You undermined me.” He countered, “you made me look... managed.”
“You need managing, Aerion. You were ready to draw steel on a puppeteer.”
“He insulted the blood of the dragon!”
“He painted a lizard!” Clarice snapped, her own temper finally giving in. “Not everything is about you. Not every shadow is an assassin, and not every laugh is mockery.”
Aerion suddenly seized her arms over her head, slamming her hands against the mattress; small wrists caught in between his burning fingers.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered, his face inches from hers. His voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by strange, almost feverish wonder. “To hear the buzzing. To feel the heat under your skin. I am a dragon in human skin, Clarice. I am not like them. And I am not like you.”
“No,” she said, holding his gaze, refusing to lean back. “You are worse. You are a child who thinks the world owes him its obedience.”
His face twisted. “I could kill you,” he breathed. “Right now. I could crush your throat. No one would stop me. I am a Prince of the Blood.”
“Do it, then,” she challenged him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady. “Stop talking about it and do it. Make yourself a widower.”
“You push too far,” he whispered. His eyes were wide, dilated, dancing with that familiar, manic heat. “You forget what I am.”
“I never forget,” Clarice said, holding his gaze, refusing to lean back. “You take great pains to remind me every hour.”
His face twisted into a sneer, a beautiful, cruel expression that he wore like armor. He lowered his head until his lips were brushing her ear.
“I should have had you killed months ago, woman,” he murmured, the threat dripping with dark, twisted affection. “Smothered in your sleep. Or pushed down a very long flight of stairs.”
“And yet, here I am,” Clarice replied, turning her head in the slightest so she could look him in the eye. She didn’t flinch; she offered him a small, challenging smile. “Why is that, do you think? Were you too busy staring into your own reflection?”
Aerion stared at her. He made a sound in his throat that was half growl, half laugh. “Because you are entertaining. And because watching you try to waddle in those sandals is the only amusement I have in this miserable bog.”
“Liar,” she whispered. Clarice knew him. He viewed her as a prize, a piece of himself that he allowed no one else to touch, but in the quiet, dark hours of the night, she knew it was more than that. He was a man who saw enemies in every shadow, yet he slept with his back to her, certain she would never strike while he was vulnerable.
Clarice stared into his eyes. They were burning with a twist of emotions he would not dare name. She kissed him then. It was hard, demanding, a collision of teeth and lips. He kissed her back like he wanted to consume her breath, to own the air in her lungs.
Aerion licked his lips, tongue whirling around in an all too majestic reptilian gesture, his breathing ragged and hot. “Perhaps.”
The cruelty drained out of his face, replaced by a sudden, stark vulnerability that was painful to witness. He looked young, and he looked lost.
He didn’t hit her, he never hit her. He simply lost the strength to hold himself up. He slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His weight pressed her back against the pillows.
Clarice didn’t push him away, she never pushed him away.
She lay there, staring up at the silk roof of the tent. She could feel his breathing against her collarbone, ragged and fast, slowly, but surely, evening out. His hand reached up to rest on her stomach, fingers splayed wide over their unborn child. Their unborn, whelp of a dragon.
“You are unbearable,” he mumbled into her skin.
“I know,” she whispered.
She reached up, her hand hovering for a moment before settling on the back of his head. She ran her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. It was the way one calmed a nervous dog, she had learnt.
He sighed, a long, tension, releasing sound, and pressed closer to her.
“You had a knife in your sleeve tonight,” he recalled, his voice muffled by her skin.
“Yes.”
“Were you planning to use it on me?”
Clarice paused. “No.”
He shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His eyes were heavy now, the madness condensing into a dull simmer. A strange, twisted amusement curled his lips.
“I liked you better on our wedding night,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the curve of her belly. “When you were plotting to kill me.”
Clarice let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I wasn’t plotting, Aerion. I was deciding.”
“And?”
“And I decided that you were too loud to kill quietly.”
He smirked. It was a real smile, fleeting and uneven. “You’re a wicked creature.”
He laid his head back down on her shoulder. The fight had gone out of him, leaving only the exhaustion.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered. It was so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. It wasn’t a command. It was a plea, wrung out of him against his will.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Clarice reassured him, her hand still in his hair. “I can’t reach my sandals, remember?”
Aerion let out a soft huff. Within moments, his breathing deepened. He fell asleep like that, draped over her like a shield, or a shackle.
Clarice lay awake in the green scented darkness. She felt the weight of the dragon prince on her chest and the kick of the dragon child in her womb. She reached toward the bedside table, her fingers brushing the cold hilt of the fruit knife. She didn’t pick it up. She just touched it, confirming it was there.
Then she moved her hand back to her husband’s hair, and held him while he slept.
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I think a lot of people hate jiang cheng because they are simply not used to characters being so human and well rounded. this is a flawed human character with a dead family who is alone in a world that leaves no space for sympathy. he had to build his sect from a burnt down house. he had no one but his sister during the time that wei wuxian was the in mounds. he thought his brother died. and then after the war, they say that he should have supported wei wuxian and being more lenient. how could he be lenient? he is a 17 year old orphaned sect leader without any help in a dog eat dog world. he is under so much pressure and has so many responsibilities. his right hand man whom people already cover, and want dead at the same time is going around mocking and insulting core members of the sect who is currently most powerful and richest after the war. he is not even carrying his sword.
his sister is heartbroken, his brother is drinking himself to death, and the other sect leaders are alienating him. like why did lan xichen, meng yao and nie mingjue become sworn brother without even considering jiang cheng? now you may say that they are older, they have known each other for a long time and they are very close. however, you can see now that the other three sects are connected together through a sworn brotherhood(?), yunmeng is the only region without any actual connection. they suffered the most casualities. I am not saying that jiang cheng has never done anything wrong. I think he should be treated kindly.
Yandere platonic omega father x neglected child reader PT 8
You were in the living room enjoying one of your few moments of rest, since your father married Sarah it's still weird not to call her Dr. Sarah your whole life has changed drastically
During the wedding planning your father warned you that there would be changes, changes for the better, but honestly nothing prepared you for it, for years your life was a constant monotony suddenly everything changed and you were uprooted from everything you ever knew
The first change was the house, the house you always knew was gone, Sarah sold it for the lowest bid possible and donated the money to some needy orphanage saying
"the past belongs in the past, I don't want any old memories to work on our bright future as a family, do you understand that right dear? Sometimes the best thing to do is to TOTALLY get rid of the past and everything that reminds you of it, so you can focus TOTALLY on the future”
She said these words with such a bright smile that you didn’t have the courage to disagree despite the sadness you felt when saying goodbye for the last time to the house that had been your home since you were born
Now you lived in a big and cozy house, the colors were handpicked and Sarah insisted that you should paint the walls by hand to create nice modern decor together, she was right, despite the sadness you felt for being in a house that was completely foreign to you, it would be a lie to say that you didn’t have fun painting the living room walls a cheerful shade of soft yellow, watching Sarah trip and spill blue paint on your father was completely hilarious
The second change was school, your enrollment in the private school was canceled and now you study at home learning directly from the best tutors that money can buy, it was expected that you could learn several subjects, languages and musical instruments at the same time
And you HAD to be able to learn, failure is not an option, you HAD to show that you are not a failure, show that you are sorry, that you are not USELESS, if you could prove this maybe Sarah wouldn't decide to leave like HE was
You weren't stupid, you knew very well that your school payments were late, it was easy to notice the different way the teachers treated you, always singling you out and never letting you participate in parties or extracurricular activities, you weren't blind enough not to notice the dirty looks that the other parents gave your father or the look of pity that the principal had on her face whenever she talked to your father
It was just a matter of feeling sorry until you were asked to leave school, you were already mentally preparing yourself for the embarrassment that would be all your classmates whispering about you they already were
Your prediction was right, you really did leave school but not the just as you imagined, instead of leaving with your head down you walked out next to Sarah while she was being pampered by the principal, the faculty that had previously ignored you at the very least were now showering Sarah with praise, each one trying their best to cement their place as a helpful educator in the memory of your new stepmother
Your whole life has changed so quickly that you feel like the world has turned upside down
It was already night and you were home alone, your tutors had already left a few hours ago leaving you with a series of homework assignments that needed to be done perfectly and turned in as soon as possible
While you were writing your last essay you heard a noise, loud laughter and shouted whispers, they both seemed happy
Ah it seems your father and stepmother have arrived
You want to feel happy that the two of you get along so well, you really want to feel happy that your father has moved on but deep down, inside your already hurt heart, you you feel the cold feeling of fear whispering insecurities in your ear, what if Sarah gets pregnant? Will you be forgotten and left aside again? Will the only person you love leave you and start loving this new baby more than he loves you? It would make sense, why would he love you, the fruit of a failed marriage, when he can love a new baby from a new love?
You force yourself to silence these insecurities by forcing yourself to focus on the lesson in front of you, it's a lesson taught by a college business professor, Sarah personally chose him to teach you
You hear them before you see them, it's impossible not to, they both look euphoric as they enter your new room, your father looks happy happier than you've seen him in years and Sarah is smiling and smiling
"Today we had an indescribable victory in court", your father's words were breathless, he was euphoric and happy, you could see the happiness in his eyes, he stumbled in the air the same way a sailor used to being at sea for a long time would stumble when stepping on dry land again after months
It was as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders
Sarah on the other hand seemed more in control, the only difference between her normal appearance and the current one is that her hair was literally messy and she was blushing happy on the cheeks
She is so beautiful and smart, if she got pregnant the baby would be infinitely more beautiful than you, you would be overshadowed in beauty and intelligence, if you don't stand out in one of the two what would be your use in the family?
“We were thinking of celebrating, what do you think of a family outing? Maybe a picnic? A stay at a hotel on the beach? Oh we can take a trip to France, I used to go there with my parents all the time, I have wonderful memories, I’ll show you all my favorite places” as she listed everything the three of you would do as a family and all the girl-only activities the two of you could do you felt a little numb
Ironically when you were just a little puppy, before the divorce, your omega father promised to take you on a trip to France, he of course never kept his promise, at least not to you because the last time you looked at his social media, before blocking and permanently deleting you, he took a trip with his daughters to the city of lights
For years you wanted to visit Paris and it seemed like now you would be able to, ironically your omega father was partly responsible for giving you that experience
“By the way about your clothes”, Sarah’s nose twitched in slight disgust
Your clothes? Sarah doesn’t like them? You've already gotten her disapproval... why are you so useless
“How about we give them all to charity? Since we're going to Paris we might as well take the opportunity to buy you dozens of new clothes, you don't have to wear these anymore”
“Sure, I'd love to”, your voice cracked a little, maybe your father and Sarah thought it was due to excitement but in reality it was because of embarrassment, was there something wrong with your clothes? Did she think you were badly dressed? Did everyone think that?
You thought you were well dressed, you made money yourself by selling schoolwork to your classmates, you saved up to buy them and did your best to sew them when they eventually ripped
“WONDERFUL!! I knew you would like the idea, I can't wait, we're going to have a GREAT time together, we can even buy clothes together”, Sarah happily left your room after wishing you a good night, her loud and cheerful voice could be heard as she talked about how this would be the best trip ever and how she needed to start planning the trip right now
Your father finally approached you and hugged you
“Good night dear, remember these are changes for the better, changes for the better”, the hug comforted you a little, but not enough, after he left the room you were alone
Looking in the mirror you started to feel very
self-conscious“I have to do it, I can't ruin daddy's happiness... I'm going to do it”, you needed to change, it was necessary to change, that's okay, even if it hurt to know that your appearance didn't seem to be enough
These are changes for the better, if to evolve it's necessary to change everything about yourself then everything Well, everything will be fine
You repeated these words to yourself like a will throughout the night, unfortunately your attempt to convince yourself of this did not take away the pain in your heart
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