Fortune Favors the Lovesick

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You recognized the seal and set it aside, digging into the feast the kitchen had prepared to celebrate your nameday, ignoring the pointed looks of your mother. She had already organized an advantageous match for your older brother Gowen, seeing as Tya was Lannister born and came with a sizable dowry. You knew she hoped your marriage to a Targaryen prince, no matter how low in succession he was, would be her crowning achievement—especially since your third brother Borys was off at the Citadel studying to be a maester and could not bring her another glorious goodaughter for her to gloat about.

“Y/N sweetling, why not open the letter and see what Prince Aerion has to say?” she asked, nudging your father with a sharp elbow.

He looked up from his spiced sausage and waved a hand. “Go on, y/n, do not keep your mother in suspense.”

You sighed and used a nearby knife to break the flame red and gold seal and unfolded the parchment tentatively. Like all his letters, Aerion wrote in red ink; he claimed it was to express the passion he felt for you, but you thought it more likely attributed to his obsession with all things dragon and dragonflame. The letter was long, and the handwriting small as if he wished to fit all the thoughts in his mind upon one page of parchment. Aerion had written to congratulate you on another year lived, remind you—threaten in your mind—that it was another year closer to your wedding, and admonish you for not yet sending any letters to him by way of Balerion. Said raven was back in your chambers, seated on the ornate perch you had built for Edgar years ago, cleaning his feathers, and utterly uninterested in making a flight to Aerion’s window.

You had received Aerion’s gifts already by way of the kingsroad and had Uthor send a note of thanks back with their messenger, but it seemed that was not enough for Aerion. His gifts predictably included a dragon and stag figurine made of gold and set with rubies and black diamonds, and a new steel-nubbed quill and ink pot. He also sent you a gaudy gown you immediately gave to the seamstress to see if she could find use for the fabric and unpredictably a small toy for Balerion.

You only liked the quill and ink pot and the toy, though both had an ulterior motive, so they did not bring you as much joy as you were sure Aerion wished them to.

“What does that madman want?” Lyonel asked as he speared a few diced potatoes onto his fork.

Your eldest brother made no attempt to hide his disdain for your betrothed after what had happened at the Tourney in Ashford, and while you often found it humorous, your parents did not.

“Lyonel, that is a prince of the blood you speak of, and your sister’s betrothed,” your mother scolded.

You folded the letter back up and stood, making your way to the crackling hearth where you dropped it in, watching it turn to ash before returning to your seat. “Nothing of import.”

The next one came at midday, shorter than the first, thankfully; accompanying it was a drawing you hoped Aerion did not pay much for, as it was awful. It was supposed to depict you and him, you assumed, but a version of you two upon a dragon, with rays of light encircling Aerion like a god. You almost tossed it into the fireplace of your bedchambers then thought better of it. Lyonel would find it humorous too, and his booming laugh always brightened your day. You would bring it to him and let him rip it apart with scathing jests that would make tears of mirth run down your cheeks.

The third letter was delivered to you while you were out in the castle yard with Balerion and was hastily scrawled. Aerion was clearly frustrated as there were no flowery words or gifts accompanying it, only demands that you write him back and tell him if you enjoyed his gifts. You considered it, if only to get him to cease writing, and tucked the letter away, cooing at Balerion, who brought you back a shiny piece of fabric from somewhere nearby.

It was near nightfall when a commotion near the doors of the Round Hall drew your attention away from the game of cards you and Tya had been playing.

“I have come to see my betrothed on her nameday,” you heard Aerion declare, his voice echoing down the hall.

You groaned, and Tya giggled behind her hand. “I told you that you should have written him back.”

You sighed heavily, tossed your cards down, and gathered your skirts, making your way to the entrance of the hall.

There he stood, hair wet and stuck to his skin by the rain, violet eyes narrowed as the guards tried to calm him, his usual ensemble of red, orange, and gold now darkened and dulled, water dripping from the edges.

“My Prince, I had not known it was storming outside; earlier today we were granted quite pleasant weather,” you said as you approached, placing a hand on the arm of one of the guards, letting him know you would handle Aerion.

“Yes, well, this castle seems to be plagued by storms without end; it is a wonder any can live here without drowning in gloom-induced sorrow,” he said, wringing out the hem of his tunic.

“I happen to like it,” you said cooly.

He smiled as he looked up from his rain-soaked tunic. “Yes, that is because you are a tempest, my tempest, born to stand alongside a dragon. It is only fitting that you cannot only survive but thrive in such foul weather.”

You fought back the urge to roll your eyes. “Or perhaps it is just because I was born during a mighty storm, and so it is one with me.”

He waved off your objection. “One and the same.”

You pursed your lips. “My Prince, why are you here?”

He pulled a small box from his pocket. “I do not trust the ravens, nor the wagon drivers, to deliver this to you. It is far too precious.”

You braced yourself for what would surely be another ridiculous and ill-suited gift. “My Prince—”

“Aerion, please, or my betrothed,” he said, his tone conveying he would much prefer the latter.

“Aerion, you have given me enough gifts already; I have no need of more.”

He clicked his tongue and held the box out to you. “Beauty such as yours can never be given enough.”

There was no way out; you would have to open the box and fake a smile so he would not throw a tantrum in the hall of your home. You lifted the lid, and a gasp slipped past your lips before you could catch it. Inside the box nestled on a bed of black velvet were earrings. They were gold, with an onyx core, rounded at the top, coming to an elongated point at the bottom where two small spheres of gold dangled. The onyx had small golden stags blazed onto the center.

“Do you like them?” Aerion asked, and you swore you could almost detect a hint of nervousness in his tone.

Shock and awe overtook you. “Are these…?”

“They are not the exact earrings of Argella Durrandon, those I believe are long lost if your kin do not have knowledge of their whereabouts. But they are a convincing replica, I am told.”

You held them up to the light, admiring the way the gold shined and the clean-cut facets of the gems. Argella Durrandon, the last Storm Queen. You had grown up hearing tales of her bravery and had admired her portrait in the library. Now you had a pair of earrings like the ones she wore when she declared that Orys Baratheon may take her castle, but all he would win was bones, blood, and ash.

Of course, her men betrayed her and handed her over to Orys, but their marriage had reportedly been a happy one, and he treated her with great respect. So you considered it as much of a victory as one could, considering the circumstances.

You could not help it; you smiled, and Aerion’s smile grew brighter, warmer. “You like them.”

“I do,” you acquiesced.

“I am glad,” he said before taking a step closer. “Now try them on so that I might see what my ancestor’s half-brother thought worth forfeiting his right to create his own house sigil for.”

You slipped them on, fastening them securely, a shiver running down your spine when Aerion brushed your hair out of the way to better see them. He hummed, the sound deep and rich in satisfaction, and nodded. “Yes, quite a worthy war prize. I, too, would risk my brother’s ire to spare your life and claim you as my bride.”

You perhaps should not have been flattered, but you feared that his plan to slowly weaken your resolve over the years may be gaining ground because you were flattered. Albeit only slightly, but still, the feeling was there.

“Luckily for us both, there is no rebellion that needs to be put down; our betrothal was made during a peaceful time between my house and yours. I pray it continues to be peaceful.”

Joy gleamed in his eyes. “You pray for our future marriage. Daeron and his wife were wrong; you are as happy as I.”

“I pray for peace,” you corrected him.

He took your hands in his and pressed them to his heart. “For our marriage to be peaceful yes, do not worry my tempest, I understood you perfectly well. We are of a similar mind, you and I.”

Gods, you hoped not.

You tugged your hands free. “With the storm, it will not be safe for you to travel back tonight; I will ask the servants to prepare one of the guest chambers for you.”

He caught them before they could go far. “Will it be by your chambers?”

“No,” you said flatly, trying again to free your hands.

Aerion held fast and pulled you closer, a catlike grin on his face, then he kissed you quick, nipping at your bottom lip, his lips surprisingly soft and warm against your own despite him still being soaked by the rain. “I shall see you in the morn then.”

You blinked at him, your lips tingling, then nodded and went to find a servant, your fingers pressed to your lips, a smile threatening to escape the moment you were out of his sight.

Daeron:

He showed up to a feast the king held in honor of your nameday drunk and passed out at the table, leaving you to bear the whispers and stares alone. The king and Maekar scolded you for not doing a better job keeping him in line. It was humiliating, and you had to fight back tears as a Kingsguard carried Daeron out of the Great Hall.

Valarr:

Valarr had a hard time being genuinely vulnerable with people, you included, so when you saw him confiding in a female cousin of his, someone he’d grown up with, it made you feel insecure (you were also well aware of the incestuous habits of his family, which didn’t help.) Your attempt to communicate your desire for him to lean on you didn’t go too well, and he ended up lashing out and chastising you for nagging him.

And of course you couldn’t forget the massive church with its wall of stained glass depicting the way the women of the island overthrew their male oppressor long ago and made their island into the paradise it is today. Nor could you forget the priestess, the witnesses, and the gold bands that were currently trying to meld with your flesh, or at least the one on Sanji’s ring finger looked like it was trying to do that.

The crew had only meant to make a quick stop, just for supplies, in and out, then back on course to save Vivi’s kingdom, but of course things never went exactly as planned.

The island was a matriarchal society, something you, Nami, and Vivi enjoyed seeing. The women would wave and greet you three, completely ignoring the men in your crew or ushering them off to go chat with the other boys.

Nami snickered at the disgruntled look on Zoro’s face when he was told that.

You’re not really sure how it all went from a nice sunny day and easy shopping trip to where you were now. Well, that wasn’t entirely true…the crew had split up, and while you and Sanji were shopping, he did as he always did: complimented the shopkeeper and her assistant. Nothing crazy; he’d been much more conscious of his words since your paint-induced rage freak out back on Little Garden, but it seemed to be too much for the island's inhabitants.

Which brought you here, to an altar, in an obnoxiously garish wedding dress, because according to the island’s laws, a man demonstrating such harlot-like behavior was either to be imprisoned or vouched for by a woman of good standing that knew him well. You thought it’d be easy; of course you’d vouch for Sanji, but you didn’t realize vouching for him on this island meant something very different from literally everywhere else you’d ever been in your whole damn life.

The rings were special, forged with some ancient magic kept secret by the blacksmiths and jewelers of the island, given only to couples who were made up of a former harlot and the gracious woman who’d vouched for him. They had a tracking ability, the woman who’d helped you into your wedding dress explained. That way you’d always know where your former harlot was, and he’d always know where you were, that way when you called for him, he wouldn’t waste your time asking where you were.

You knew a lot of women who’d kill for that kind of magic, and before joining the Going Merry you wouldn’t have said you were one of them but, with how often your crew got into hijinks and got separated it didn’t seem too bad of a thing. Though it’d probably be better to put a tracker on Luffy since he ran off the most, but hey beggars can’t be choosers right?

You glanced down at the ring on your finger; the gold caught the sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass windows. If you kept this up long enough, you were probably going to have an extensive collection of gold themed magic items before you guys even found the One Piece.

The priestess said the vows you and Sanji were to repeat, and you flinched internally at the way the woman behind Sanji dug the knife in when he hesitated.

You didn’t take it personally; you knew Sanji had feelings for you, you knew he loved you even, but this wasn’t the way either of you would choose to get married.

The ceremony was quick, the rest of the crew sitting in the pews with varying expressions on their faces ranging from delight (Usopp and Luffy,) concern (Vivi and Chopper,) and of course, the blank slates of emotion from Nami and Zoro, who had years on the rest of you to learn how to control their facial expressions.

“You may now kiss your husband,” the priestess said, waiting expectantly.

You looked at Sanji, who gave a stiff nod, mindful of the dagger at his throat. Then you leaned in and kissed him chastely, wanting to get this over with so you could get Sanji out of there.

The others in the church cheered, including Luffy and Usopp—though you weren’t sure if Luffy actually understood why you and Sanji were getting married— and the dagger was removed from Sanji’s throat.

“Now the consummation!”

You and Sanji’s heads whipped towards the priestess. “What?”

You stood out on the balcony of the honeymoon suite the priestess had ushered you and Sanji into. The wind ruffled your hair, and the sun dipped into the horizon painting the surface of the sea with brilliant colors.

The whole forced consummation was thankfully over. Turned out you and Sanji were good enough actors that those listening outside the door to ensure the rites were completed fully believed you two had slept together.

It he’d involved an embarrassing amount of fake moans and pleasured cries, you jumping on the bed while Sanji clapped his hands together to try and simulate the slapping of skin, and a groan of your name by Sanji that was so convincing you felt your face burn.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever forget the sound of your name on his lips like that.

Sanji came up beside you, his hands gripping the railing, the setting sun glinting off his ring, his voice soft. “Y/N, I’m sorry.”

You turned your head to look at him, confused and still a little flustered by the memory. “Sorry? For what?”

He gestured to the matching rings on your hands. “When we first met, you were trying to escape an arranged marriage, and now you’re here, married against your will because of me. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I understand if you’re furious with me, if you hate me.”

You placed your hand over his. “Sanji, I’m not mad, and I certainly don’t hate you.”

Now it was his turn to look confused. “But it’s my fault that you ended up in the same situation you were trying so desperately to avoid. And I haven’t forgotten our conversation about Luffy and not wanting someone else to decide if or when you’re married.”

You turn towards him and rest your hip against the slats holding the balcony railing up. “Sanji, when we met, I was trying to avoid marrying a creepy old man who would’ve kept me locked in his house and forced me to squeeze out heirs.”

He nodded in understanding, a heartbreaking frown on his face. “And I would never do that to you, y/n, but still, I know this wasn’t your choice and I cannot apologize enough.”

You shrug and hold your hand up, admiring the ring. “I mean, it kinda was. I chose to vouch for you.”

He chuckled wryly. “The only other option was my imprisonment, love, not much of a choice.”

You patted Sunna holstered on your right hip. “We could’ve broken you out.”

He shook his head. “I know you. I knew as soon as the options were presented that you’d make the choice you did, and I’m so sorry.”

You rest your hand on Sanji’s chest, over his heart. “Sanji, stop, there’s no need to apologize. I made my choice, and I’d do it again if needed. You’re not my former fiancé; you’re my friend and you’re a good man. A good man that I love, that I pictured marrying one day. So yeah, this wasn’t how I expected our wedding to go or even when it would be, and I wouldn’t have worn that ugly dress, or accepted your hair looking like that.”

He laughed and ran a hand through his hair, cringing at the stiffness. “It doesn’t look too bad does it?”

“No comment.”

He held a hand to his heart. “You wound me so cruelly, dear wife.”

You rolled your eyes, intent on continuing the speech you’d been practicing since Sanji asked for a moment alone in the bathroom. “And ideally my aunt and uncle and Zeff would be there, and no one would be held at knifepoint, but…”

Sanji’s eyes, blue as a robin’s egg, were glistening with something that looked very much like hope. “But?”

“But I don’t regret marrying you, forced or not.” It was hard to admit, not because it was something you were embarrassed about, but because it was so vulnerable, so real and open, no jokes or bravado to hide behind.

He smiled, radiant as the sun, and your heart fluttered in your chest. “Me neither.”

You returned his smile. “Plus, now the Marines can’t make us testify against each other, and I’ll always know where you are, even if we get separated.”

Sanji laced his fingers with yours. “I do like that part very much. Though I wish we could’ve gotten a pair for Luffy.”

You laughed. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Another bonus as well, we got to skip seeing Luffy’s attempts to decorate the ship for our wedding,” he added.

“Oh I’m very sure he’s still going to do it. You know he’s going to say a marriage is only done right if the future King of the Pirates officiates it.”

Sanji chuckled and raised your hand to his lips. “At least it’ll give me time to bake you a proper wedding cake.”

“Good because those ten layers they gave us was just not enough, I want at least thirty.”

“Only thirty?” Sanji asked, a smirk toying at his lips. “Don’t go easy on me just because it’s my wedding too.”

You smiled. “Fine forty layers, each one a different flavor.” Then you glanced down at your intertwined hands. “Oh also, I know the priestess pronounced us Mrs. and Mr. Marrow, but we could use your surname if you wanted? I don’t think I actually know what it is, though. Does that make me a bad wife?”

You hoped he would rather use his surname; you weren’t actually sure Morrow was your actual surname. When you woke up on your aunt’s island, she asked you a series of questions, one of them being your full name.

When you told her it, Y/N Y/M/N Marrow, she asked you again and again, then repeated your full name, but when it came to your surname, she said the same as you, though she insisted she was saying something different.

It was weird, but eventually she let it go, and you just tried to forget about it. Morrow felt right, but your aunt’s expression every time you said it made a small part of you wonder if maybe you were wrong.

Something flickered in Sanji’s eyes, then it was gone, and he shook his head. “You could never be a bad wife, but I agree with Luffy; you have the larger bounty, so it should be your surname that lives on.”

You cocked your head. “Are you sure? I really wouldn’t mind.”

Sanji began to kiss down your hand, wrist, and forearm, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “Absolutely sure, in fact it’s an honor to take on my goddess’ surname, how much closer it brings me to your divine mercy.”

Your face warmed, and you bit back a flustered sigh. “Alright then, Marrows we shall be.”

He smiled, and his free arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer. “Do you desire anything from your husband at the moment, Mrs. Marrow? Perhaps an escort back inside?”

You raised a brow. “Inside? The place that’s four steps away?”

“You could trip.”

“Sanji, are you trying to see if I want to consummate our marriage for real this time?”

His face tinted pink. “Was I that obvious?”

“A little, but maybe that’s because I want to as well.”

He beamed and guided you back into the suite, sliding the balcony door closed behind him.

“I tire of this silence of yours; I find it offensive and unsettling. I have brought you this gift so you can cease being angry with me. I will also allow you to break one item of mine as recompense for my actions, which you say caused you distress.”

Daeron:

*On his knees before you, gripping your skirts desperately, eyes brimming with tears, either drunk out of his mind or in the grips of withdrawal depending on what he did and how much he wants to punish himself.*

“Forgive me, my dearest love, the breath in my lungs, forgive me. I am a wretched man, unworthy of you, but I beg of you, do not leave me. I will be better, y/n, I promise, I swear to you I regret all I have done. Just do not leave; do not banish me from your side; I cannot bear even the thought of it.”

And for the first time on my blog:

Valarr

*Wait in the solar of your chambers until you’re less angry, his hands folded in his lap, his mind turning over the words he wants to say again and again, guilt building with each moment that passes.*

You missed home, and yet you did not want to go home because your dearest companion, the raven you had raised since he was a hatchling, had been struck down by an arrogant lord’s arrow and would not be returning with you. Not alive, at least.

When another round of drinks was called for, you got up and left, all patience for the revelry long dead. You walked back to your brother’s tent, keeping careful watch for any sign of trouble. You were a Baratheon; you knew to always watch for signs of a storm. Unfortunately, your grief blinded you to a particularly nasty sign in the form of your betrothed standing outside your brother’s tent.

“Lady y/n, have you finally come to your senses and fled Storm’s End to be with your dearest dragon?” Aerion asked, giving you a self-satisfied smile.

“No,” you said flatly, intending to push past him and try not to cry yourself to sleep.

Aerion caught your elbow. “Why not? What could possibly be more entertaining than your princely betrothed?”

You feigned thought for a moment. “Many things, watching paint dry for instance.”

He scoffed, shock flickering across his face. “I know I am at least as interesting as that.”

You could not help it; a slight laugh escaped your lips, and Aerion lit up.

“Do not puff up like a peacock; I am tired. That is why I laughed; I am so tired even your words can be perceived as humorous.”

His smile did not fade. “I will count it as a win, another reason why our marriage shall be splendid.”

“I do not think you are choosing the right word; perhaps you meant horrendous?”

He shook his head, the torchlight making his violet eyes look as if they were glowing. “No, I meant exactly what I said.” Then he paused and looked at both your shoulders intently. “Where is that bird of yours? What was its name, Enger?”

“Edgar,” you corrected, gritting your teeth against the wave of grief that threatened to topple you.

He snapped and pointed one finger at you. “Yes, yes, clever little thing. I remember he once tried to make a nest of your brother’s hair; that was quite humorous.”

You nodded.

His brows furrowed. “It is not like you to remain quiet about your bird.”

You swallowed hard; you did not want to tell Aerion of your grief; he would surely tease you mercilessly for being so weak as to cry over a pet.

His hand moved from your elbow with surprising gentleness until it encircled your wrist. “Lady y/n?” His voice was soft too, and though it felt wrong coming from lips you had only heard taunts and jeers from, it still hurled a final rock at the dam, and your tears burst forth.

Aerion’s eyes went wide, and he dropped your hand. “I-I did not mean to hurt you; I was not aware of my strength.”

“No, you idiot, I am crying because Edgar is dead,” you hissed, wiping your eyes angrily.

He cocked his head. “Dead?”

“Yes, some lordling fresh off his nursemaid’s leading strings shot him,” you said, your voice trembling with both grief and anger. “If only there were not others around, I would have killed him myself, but he walks free, and my dearest friend is wrapped in my spare nightgown until I return home.”

“Who was it?” He asked, an almost carefree calm about him.

It angered you, and you pushed at his chest. “Why do you care? Are you going to buy him a drink? Toast to his hunting prowess? Laugh about how he has upset your haughty betrothed and put me in my place? Fuck you, Aerion.”

He grabbed your hands, stopping you from pushing him again. “As much as I would enjoy fucking you, now is not the time, my glorious tempest.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to pull away from his grip. “Enough with the pathetic attempts at flattery; I will not fall for them. Now let me go, you brute.”

“Give me his name,” Aerion ordered, “and then I will release you.”

You groaned, narrowing your eyes at Aerion. “Fine, it was Ser Jonos Blackwood.”

He nodded and released you, but not before pressing his lips to your inner wrists, a shiver running through you at the warmth of them.

“Dragons truly do run hot,” you said offhandedly, rubbing your wrists against your gown to rid them of his touch.

He grinned. “How very perceptive of you, my tempest. It is good of you to recognize the greatness that lingers in my veins, as it will linger in the veins of our children.”

You pushed him away by his forehead, ignoring his sputters of disbelief at your actions. “Leave me be, dragon; I am not yours to hoard.”

Lyonel did not return to the tent until the early hours of the morn, apologizing in a strained whisper as he stumbled through the tent, knocking things onto the floor, the loud clattering jolting you from your sleep. You swore at him sleepily, then turned back over and fell back asleep, hoping he would just pass out in a chair and leave you in peace.

An ear splitting scream later awoke you, and you sat up with a jolt, recognizing the voice of your maid, Breda. You grabbed a robe and hurriedly tied it around yourself, calling out for her. You found her at the entrance to the tent, her face white with fear.

“Breda!” You called, rushing over and pulling her away from the entrance. “What has happened?”

“Ah, my tempest, good morn to you. I brought you a gift,” Aerion said, thrusting a basket out towards you.

You peered inside the basket hesitantly, bile rising in your throat. “Seven hells.” Nestled inside the basket on a bed of black velvet was a severed hand. “My Prince, what is the meaning of this?”

Aerion swung the basket back and forth on two fingers. “A gift.”

You stared at him in utter disbelief. “No, it is a severed hand. That is usually a threat.”

The corners of his lips quirked down. “It is the right hand of Jonos; now he will never kill another bird.”

Oh gods, he did that for you. In some twisted show of affection…?

“I-I did not ask you to do this,” you said, pushing Breda behind you.

“I did not say you did. It is a gift; it need not be asked for.” Then he beckoned to someone who brought forth a fledgling raven in a cage.

Your heart broke at the sight; it looked so very much like your Edgar.

“This is also a gift. I have named him Balerian, after the Black Dread. He has been trained to fly to my personal window; that way your letters to me will never be lost by the maesters.”

You took Balerian and freed him from his cage, speaking softly to him, urging him onto your shoulder.

“Do you like your gifts? Only the finest is acceptable for my betrothed.”

You picked your next words carefully. “I am grateful for the raven, but cutting a man’s hand off for what he could claim an accident will surely stir the king’s anger.”

Aerion shrugged. “You are my betrothed; I am duty bound to right any wrongs committed against you.”

You pressed your lips together in a tight line. An argument could be made, and clearly Aerion intended to do so if questioned.

“You do not have to keep the hand; I only wished to show it to you so you knew your pet’s murderer had faced justice.”

In an odd and brutal way that you had come to attribute to Aerion, it was…sweet, and it did feel good to know Jonos had been punished for his careless actions.

Balerian shifted on your shoulder, drawing closer to you, and your heart softened. “Thank you.”

He gave a half bow, motioning for someone to take the hand away. “You are most welcome. Now, if I might request a small boon in return?”

You folded your arms. “Gifts do not typically entitle the giver to a reward.”

He smiled, sharp and infuriatingly handsome. “I ask for your favor to wear. I am soon to do battle against a vile peasant.”

You did not even want to know what that meant.

“If I give you my favor, will you leave?”

“I will leave this tent, but I cannot keep you from dreaming of me.”

Gods, you hated him.

You went back inside the tent and grabbed a golden hair ribbon, holding it out to him. “There, go with my favor into battle, and leave me be.”

He took the ribbon, pressing it to his lips. “With my tempest’s blessing, I shall not fail.”

You did not wait for him to leave, just ducked back inside, pulling Breda with you.

“Was that Prince Aerion near our tent?” Your brother asked when he returned a few moments later.

“Yes, he came to give me a gift,” you said, hoping Lyonel would not ask any more questions.

“Odd, I am set to ride against him in a Trial of Seven tomorrow,” he said.

“Y/N, can I sit with you?” Rhae asked, although she was already dragging a chair next to yours and trying to see what you were writing.

“I cannot believe that Egg is gone but not Aerion. How is that fair?” Daella complained, flopping down onto a nearby overstuffed settee with a huff.

You looked up from the letter you were writing to Aemon at the Citadel, giving Rhae a smile before turning your attention to Daella. “I do not think the gods assure us of a life of fairness.”

Daella huffed again and rolled over onto her side to look at you, wisps of her warm brown hair escaping her braid. “You sound like my septa.”

“Well, that may be because I learned that bit of wisdom from my septa.”

“Of course,” she sighed, clearly fed up with the platitudes everyone had been giving her when she complained about Aerion still living.

You blew gently on the letter to help the ink dry and then set it aside, taking care that Rhae could not read the contents. “Where are your septas? Should you both not be in lessons right now?”

Rhae pouted. “They are boring; everyone is so busy with Aerion that they will not even let us go play in the gardens.”

You leaned back in your chair. Maekar had been particularly tense since all but Aegon had returned home from the tourney. The younger children were not allowed out of an adult’s sight, and you even heard rumors that he was considering recalling Aemon from the Citadel. Aerion had made most of the journey back in an open air wheelhouse, and now that he was under the care of Summerhall’s maesters, he was milking their attention for all it was worth.

“He deserves his injuries; he should never have demanded a Trial by Seven,” Daella said.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Of course, you agreed, but you could not say so.

“Where is Daeron?” Rhae asked, looking around as if he were hiding behind a curtain or bookshelf.

“Probably drinking or passed out in a ditch,” Daella snorted, turning onto her back and staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

“Daella,” you said sharply, giving her a warning look.

“Oooo, you are in trouble,” Rhae snickered.

You gave her a look too, and she fell silent, ducking her head.

Daella was seven and Rhae three when you came to court to marry Daeron, their mother having passed three years prior. As such, you became something of a maternal figure for the girls, more so Rhae than Daella, but you knew it was within your bounds to speak up when they stepped out of line.

Your voice was firm but not cruel. “It is not kind of you to discuss Daeron’s drinking so negatively when you know he is trying to be better. Especially since the maesters and I are attempting to aid him in any way we can. Besides, he is your brother, and he has sacrificed much for you, so I do not want to hear such words again. Do you understand me?”

Daella sat up and folded her arms over her chest, the expression on her face so very like Maekar’s you wished you could show it to him. “But that is what Aerion always says.”

You sighed and rolled out your shoulders. She was still young and bored, pushing boundaries as only a child can. She did not mean it; you knew that. “You want Aerion dead; why would you listen to him?”

Daella tilted her head side to side, thinking on her reasoning before speaking. “Sometimes he says smart things.”

You looked at her flabbergasted. “When?”

“Well, he once told me that love makes you a fool, and then a few minutes later I saw Daeron walk right into a wall because he was too busy staring at a portrait of you. Which is a pretty foolish thing to do, so he was right then.”

You bit back a laugh. “That is not enough to take his word as law.”

“I never listen to Aerion; I like Daeron more,” Rhae chimed in sweetly, hating when your attention was on another for too long. She was so like Daeron in that way.

"Liar," Daella said.

Rhae’s eyes widened. “I am not lying!”

Daella wrinkled her nose at her. “Yes, you are; you are a big, lying babe.”

“Y/N!” Rhae cried, clinging to you, tears welling in her eyes.

“See, you are a liar and a crybaby,” Daella teased.

You pulled Rhae into your arms, letting her hide her face in your shoulder. “Daella, I understand you are bored, but being cruel to your siblings is not the right way to expend your energy. Why not go to your father and see if he will let you play outside if you annoy him enough?”

She perked up. “Do you think he would?”

Gods you wished Daeron was here, but alas, he was discussing plans to retrieve Aegon with Maekar.

“It does not hurt to try,” you said, rubbing Rhae’s back soothingly.

As if on cue, and you thanked the gods for it, Daeron strode in, causing Daella to scramble off the settee and fling herself into his arms. “Brother!”

He caught her, though he stumbled back a step in surprise. “Daella, have you been torturing both our sister and my wife, or only our sister?”

“I have not tortured anyone, ever. Now can we go play in the garden?” Daella asked, looking up at Daeron with a look akin to a pup begging for table scraps.

He chuckled and smoothed down her hair. “Mayhaps later, I have something important I must tell you three. It is a message from Father; he saw fit for me to deliver.”

You met his eye over Daella’s head. Aerion, his fate must have been decided.

Rhae lifted her head, her bottom lip still trembling. “Is it about Egg? Did you find him?”

Daeron’s face fell. You both knew Aegon was with Ser Duncan, but you knew not where exactly. “No, but we are still searching.”

Rhae buried her face in your shoulder again.

“Tell us the news, Husband, then we can take the girls out to the gardens,” you said.

Daeron nodded, steadying himself. “Father has decided that it is best if Aerion be sent away to Lys for a while. He shall be leaving as soon as a ship can be outfitted properly and arrangements are made.”

You thought perhaps Aerion would be sent to Dorne, seeing as the Daynes were kin, but Lys…you were not expecting that.

“Lys, home of beautiful women and expensive wines?”

Daeron nodded, a slight grimace on his face. “Mayhaps Father is hoping he will find a wife that settles him.”

“Good riddance, I say,” Daella said, already skipping towards the door. “Now let us go play; we can say goodbye to Aerion when his ship leaves.”

You shared a glance with Daeron, the both of you trying not to burst into laughter.

“Well, that is not how I expected this conversation to go, but—he stepped closer and took Rhae from you—do you wish to go play as well, little one?”

Rhae smiled. “Yes, can we go now?”

“Of course, as long as you promise to act sad when Aerion leaves.”

“I promise,” Rhae said with all the seriousness a child her age could.

It seemed good enough for Daeron; he held a hand out to you, and to the gardens you went.

The tourney had been absolutely thrilling so far; never would you have believed that so many skilled knights would come to celebrate your marriage to Daeron, but your mother told you it was to be expected. It was a royal wedding after all.

Your champions were much of the expected as well, both your Uncles Humfrey, your goodbrother Tybolt Lannister, Abelar Hightower, the son of your liege lord, and of course your newly wedded husband.

You had been told Daeron was not much of a jouster, even by Daeron himself, but surely he was being humble; he was the son of the Anvil, a great warrior, and the nephew of Baelor Breakspear, a noted tourney champion.

Cheers rang through the crowd as one by one your champions lined up along the sidelines, horses saddled, lances steady, and shields held firm. Daeron was to go first, your favor tied around his wrist. It was a snippet of ribbon from the laces of the corset you wore on your wedding day that you had neatly stitched you and Daeron’s entwined initials onto with crimson thread. You had presented it to him this morn, and he had kissed you so gently afterwards that you thought you might melt into a puddle.

He was against Ser Corwyn Velaryon, who was young and had only competed in one tourney before this; an easy victory for Daeron, you thought.

You leaned over the wall of the dais, catching Daeron’s eye and waving to him. Your heart skipped a beat when he waved back, much to the delight of the crowd.

Your mother hissed at you to return to your seat, and you did as she bid, excitement building in you as the joust was called to begin.

Daeron lowered his helmet and shifted in his saddle; his lance was held straight, but you wondered if his gloves were ill-fitted as he kept adjusting his grip. You cheered loudly for him, confident that he would open the joust with victory and defend your title. His armor was simple but sturdy, and you ignored your sister Janna when she pointed out that the design was very like a barrel of ale. You thought the simple style better suited him. It was also not frightening like Aerion’s armor, which looked as if he had just climbed out of the depths of the Seven Hells.

They took off, lances lowered, shields ready. You watched with bated breath as Daeron and Corwyn approached each other, and then crack, Corwyn’s lance glanced off Daeron’s side, bypassing his shield as if it had never been there at all. You thought it would be nothing, that he would keep upright, but then Daeron fell from his horse and onto his back with a sickening thud.

You bit your lip to keep from crying out in fear as he lay there unmoving in the dirt, your heart in your throat, your mind screaming for someone to go and help him. It must have been a fluke, or Ser Corwyn had cheated somehow; there was no way your prince, your husband who was so kind and courageous, would have fallen so quickly.

“Fuck me,” Maekar groaned from behind you. “I should never have let this tourney progress.”

“Now, now, Brother, it is not right to deny your gooddaughter a celebration like other brides of her status would receive,” Baelor said quietly, mindful of your seat right in front of them.

“Goodfather, that must have been a mistake; surely there was a problem with Daeron’s helm,” you said, turning in your seat to face Maekar, desperate for an answer.

Maekar snorted and took a long drink from his cup.

Baelor in turn gave you a kind smile. “Do not fret, Lady y/n; he may not be a skilled tourney knight, but Daeron has many other redeeming qualities.”

“Do not lie to the poor girl,” Maekar said from behind the rim of his cup.

“Y/N, they have come to retrieve your groom,” Janna said, bringing your attention back to the tourney field.

A few squires and a kingsguard hurried out, helped Daeron up, and carried him to the maesters’ tent.

Worry seized you, your heart pounding in your chest. Was he badly injured? You had only just been married; you did not want to be a widow so young, nor did you wish to marry another. You liked Daeron; he was handsome, kind, well-read, and he would write you the most beautiful notes and poems throughout the day.

Ser Corwyn rode up and took his helmet off to address you. “Princess y/n, I know I am young and untested, but I am honored to now be among your champions, and I will not see any other take your title from you.”

It felt as if all eyes were on you, and you wanted to curl inwards, embarrassment flooding you. Instead, you gave him a smile and thanked him, tears pricking the backs of your eyes, your hands twisting the fabric of your skirts. The silk now felt as if it were sticking to you, confining you, your corset preventing air from entering your lungs.

You sat straight and stiff as an arrow, the shame an ever-burning fire beneath the skin of your face, growing only hotter when Ser Corwyn was immediately defeated by Aerion in the very next round.

Aerion did not even wait for his opponent to push himself out of the dirt before calling up to you, an expression of twisted glee on his harsh but beautiful face. “Dearest goodsister, it seems it is now I who is honored to join your champions. But do not fret; I shall defend you far better than my elder brother.”

You could not even speak, or perhaps you did and you did not remember doing so, for Aerion rode away looking quite smug, and your eldest sister, Bethany, was subtly dabbing at your face with her handkerchief while the crowd was focused on the jousts.

The rest of the jests were a blur, and in the end it was your Hardying uncle who felled the final opponent and defended your title, ensuring the crown of flowers was placed upon your head and no others. You stood and smiled, waving to the crowd as you had been taught to do, letting them cheer for you and your champions. You placed a kiss on the cheeks of your uncles and goodbrother Tybolt, who patted you atop the head—still seeing you as the young child you were when he and Bethany were first betrothed—before sweeping Bethany into his arms. You thanked Ser Abelar for his prowess and moved to do the same to Aerion when he bent down, his cheek turned toward you.

“Do I not get a kiss as well?” he asked, his lips curling up into a smirk that made your stomach turn.

“It would not be proper; I grant it only to my kin,” you said, hoping your goodfather or Prince Baelor would swoop in to save you. But alas, they were both far too occupied with making their way off the tourney grounds and back into the Keep.

“I am your goodbrother now; we are kin,” Aerion said.

You could not refuse him, not with all eyes on you, so you kissed his cheek quickly, your voice sweet to avoid offending him. “Thank you for defending me this day, goodbrother.”

He smiled, sharp and delighted, and grabbed your chin hard, then kissed your cheek, lingering far too long. “You are more than welcome, dearest goodsister. I will always be here to step into the breach. Especially when it is of Daeron’s own making.”

You stepped back into the waiting arms of Janna. “That is very kind of you, but I am sure Daeron will not leave such a gap again.”

“Oh, how adorable you are,” he laughed, the sound following you and Janna back to the Keep, a shiver running down your spine at the pure mockery in it.

You curled up with your back against the headboard of your bed, and began to cry the moment Janna left your chambers, promising to collect you for dinner. You hugged your knees to your chest, staring down at the painstakingly embroidered details of your outer skirt with blurry vision.

What had happened? Why did Daeron’s kin all act as if what had occurred was normal? Why did they look at you as if you were a fool for believing that something awful had happened to Daeron to cause such a loss? You knew he was not as proficient a knight as Aerion, but he had been knighted, and he was strong. He had carried you out of the Great Hall and into his chambers when the court called for a bedding, saving you from being pawed at by lecherous lords.

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve, another wave of tears bursting forth when you saw how your cosmetics smeared across the silk.

The whole court and all those who had traveled to King’s Landing for your wedding had been watching. Watching as Daeron fell, as you had to smile at those who took his place. They were all looking at you and laughing; you were sure they were laughing as Maekar and Aerion had. They were laughing at you because your husband had fallen during the first tilt. But what if he were injured? How could they laugh at him? How could they laugh at your poor, injured husband?

With that thought, you worked up the resolve to stop crying and go to the maester to check on Daeron; it was your duty as his wife, after all. And if it had been an accident or a devious act of foul play, then surely he would be upset and need you to comfort him. You nodded to yourself and wiped your eyes once more. Yes, you would go and comfort him; he needed you. You were good at being needed; you would be the best for him.

Right as you went to sit up and make plans to seek Daeron out, there was a knock at your door, and then he was stumbling in, beelining for you fully unharmed as far as you could tell. You sat up and moved to the end of the bed, relief palpable in your chest.

“Daeron, oh thank the gods, I was so worried for you,” you said, pulling him to sit on the bed the moment he was close enough and searching him for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt? Why did it take so long for you to return?”

Daeron smiled sheepishly and sat across from you, his hands finding your own. “I may have been dragging out my recovery.”

Your brows furrowed. “I…do not understand.”

He let his head loll to one side, not meeting your eyes. “You had nothing to fear; I threw the match.”

You blinked at him. “You threw the match?”

“Yes, I am no knight; I would not have done any good in the jousts, so I threw the match and let others far more skilled than I take my place.”

You slowly withdrew your hands from his. “You threw the match because you are not a skilled knight. The match that was the opening of the joust, in a tourney held to celebrate our wedding.”

“Yes?”

You took a moment to turn his words over in your mind, searching them for any sign of malice or falsehood.

“Y/N?” Daeron asked softly, his voice tinged with apprehension.

You took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You could not lose your temper; you had only just been married, he could petition the king to annul your marriage, and you would be cast out in shame. “Husband, were you not aware of how your actions would reflect upon me?”

“The shame is mine, not yours.”

You shook your head. “We are married; your shame is mine.”

A mirthless, dismissive laugh slipped past his lips. “I have far too much shame to ever be cast upon you; do not fret over my actions; they will soon be forgotten.”

“Everyone was looking and laughing at me!” The words spilled out before you could stop them, all thoughts of remaining calm thrown to the wind. “This tourney was for our wedding. What if I had not had other champions of greater skill than yours? Some other girl could have been named Queen of Love and Beauty at my wedding tourney!”

Tears burned in your eyes, the realization that you had been made a fool of, making you feel sick. “You are awful, awful. How could you do that to me? I had to thank Aerion in front of everyone and kiss his cheek, then he grabbed me and kissed mine! How could you leave me alone to suffer the shame? To be put in such a position?”

He hung his head and mumbled something you could not hear.

“What?”

“I said I am selfish, and I am sorry.”

You waited for him to continue.

“I am not skilled at jousting; I am not a great knight by any means, and I wished to spare us both the embarrassment by taking myself out of the tourney early. I thought you might come to check on me in the tent, and then we could return to the dais together, but then I realized you could not do that since you are the lady of the tourney, and then I found I could not gather the courage to face you there.”

“I…that does not make sense. Why did you not simply send a servant to come fetch me? You are still the prince and my husband; I would have come if you had called.”

Daeron dragged his hand through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. “Because I am an idiot.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying to rein yourself back in. “It does not take the Crone’s wisdom to see that.”

“Yes, well, I never claimed to be the wisest or smartest man in the room.”

You began to fiddle with some of the pearls sewn onto your outer skirt, not sure what to say next.

He sighed heavily and leaned against the towering bedpost, his head bumping into the intricately carved wood. “I did not think of calling for you; I was nervous that you would think me a coward, and so I thought it best you believed I was injured.”

“I would have accepted an excuse,” you said, voice small. “If you had made an excuse, then you could have sat by me the whole time and told me more fantastical stories and made me laugh and held my hand while my uncles were competing.”

“I wanted to; I did,” he said.

You looked up at him; his sandy hair was still disheveled from his helmet, and his violet eyes were searching your form.

“I am a lousy husband; only a few days in, and I have already made you cry, and not in a pleasurable way.” Then he raised a brow. “Unless it is not too late?”

You tossed a pillow at him, heat flaring in your cheeks. “A degenerate, that is what you are.”

He laughed. “I seek only to apologize, sweet wife.”

You bit back a smile; you could never be angry with him for long, not even when you first met as children and he threw up on your most expensive gown.

Daeron crawled over to you—quite ungracefully, you might add—and took your hands in his, pressing them to his lips. “I am a fool, a coward, a degenerate, the worst of husbands, and much more, but I am sorry, y/n.”

You swayed from side to side, mulling over his words. “I want a new gown and earrings to match.”

“Done,” he said instantly.

You smiled and pulled him closer, turning your cheek to face him before tapping it with your finger.

He gave you a strange look. “You want me to slap you?”

You reared back. “No! I want a kiss, to rid my skin of Aerion’s.”

His whole body visibly relaxed. “Good, because I do not think I could hit you, even if you desired it.”

Your sisters would be happy to hear that.

You shook your head, then presented your cheek again, smiling when you felt Daeron’s gentle fingers grasp your chin to hold you steady. His warm lips brushed against your cheek once, then twice, then three times before he turned your head and did the same to the other cheek. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, a giddiness filling your veins.

“Am I worthy of a kiss as well?” he asked softly, his fingers still holding your chin gently.

Then you were hit again, and a strangled whimper reached your ear. That was not Tomas.

You rubbed your eyes, looking around groggily. Where were you? This was not your chambers back home, nor was it your chambers at Summerhall. Then you remembered, and your heart soared. You were in Daeron’s chambers spending the night for the very first time since your wedding. Your parents slept in the same bed, so you had always believed you would do the same with your husband. Daeron had been resistant at first, though he caved a moon after your wedding on a night he was drunk and wrapped in your arms.

How excited you had been when he said yes, how excited you still were now.

Then there was another strangled sound, and your excitement fled. “Daeron?” You whispered, sitting up slowly.

You looked over at Daeron, and your heart plummeted into your stomach. He was pale and sweat soaked, his face twisted in agony as he fought the grip of the sheets.

“Daeron?” You called, shaking him gently, afraid to harm him if he were ill.

He did not wake, mumbled words and curses slipping from his lips.

You shook him again. “Daeron, wake up.”

No response, and then he screamed, his voice hoarse, the sound akin to a man tortured and tormented for decades on end.

You jolted back in fear, wondering if you should run and fetch the maesters before gathering your courage, grabbing his shoulders, and shaking him hard. “Daeron, wake up! It is me, y/n, your wife; you must wake up!”

He shot up, eyes wild, and pushed himself out of bed, staggering to the wall, his breathing harsh and ragged as he leaned against it.

You slid from the bed and approached him cautiously. “Husband?”

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face before sliding down the wall, his back pressed to it, his head thudding against the wall as he leaned it back, his expression one of guilt and anger.

You knelt in front of him, hands hovering in the air between you, the chill of the stone floor eating through your thin nightshift. “Daeron? Are you alright? Should I fetch the maester?”

He shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “No, no, I am fine; just leave me.”

You frown and shift your weight. “B-But you are not well; I can see it plain as day.”

“I drank too much; I am a drunk y/n, it is in my nature; now leave my chambers,” he said firmly, refusing to pull his hands from his face.

You shook your head, though you knew he could not see it. “No, I am your wife; it is my duty to care for you. I will not leave.”

“Gods, woman, get out! I do not wish to hear your childish ramblings,” he snapped.

You bunched your hands in your nightshift, trying to ignore the sting of his words. “You are not feeling well, so I will forgive your harsh words.”

He removed his hands but did not look at you, his voice like steel and twice as cold, piercing you to the core. “Get out; I do not wish to spend another second in your presence. It is pathetic how you cling to me.”

You bit your lip, tears welling in your eyes. “Fine, I shall leave you then.” You got up, trying to hide your sniffle, your shoulders already shaking. You had always been sensitive, but you thought Daeron enjoyed that; he said he did; he told you he found your soft heart to be endearing.

He called your name, his voice no longer as cold, but you fled the room and wept as a servant escorted you back to your own chambers with a sympathetic look and a warm hand on your back.

You lay in your bed, the blankets pulled up to your chin, and sobbed into your pillow, cursing yourself for being so foolish. Words were wind, and princes were cruel; you should have known better. You reached underneath your pillow and pulled out your stuffed bear, Bee, stitched in the colors of your maiden house, that had been by your side since you were a babe. You held it close, burying your face in its soft head.

A child, he thought you a child, and mayhaps he was right.

You stood outside Daeron’s door with a teacup and saucer in hand, your chest tight with confusion and sorrow. He did not want to see you; he had made that clear, and as much as his words had wounded you—especially compared to how kindly he had spoken to you at your wedding feast and in the weeks following—you would still do your duty as his wife. You would bring him the tea, wish him well, and then go seek out his siblings and see if they were in need of help with their lessons.

The guards outside his door let you in, and you saw Daeron slumped on a chaise lounge, half dressed, his hair and the room in disarray.

“Princess Y/N Targaryen,” one of them announced before closing the door behind you.

You crossed the room quickly, your eyes downcast as you held the teacup and saucer out to him, your bottom lip trembling despite your promise to yourself that you would not cry in front of him again. “I apologize, My Prince.”

“Apologize?” He asked, getting up from the chaise lounge.

You kept your arm outstretched and eyes down. “I only became a woman a few moons ago; I have not yet unlearned all my childish ways and speech. Please forgive me, My Prince. I will strive harder to do so in order to not embarrass or annoy you again.”

Daeron took the cup and saucer from you gently. “Y/N I—”

“There is milk thistle, golden root, lemon balm, and honey from my father’s own apiary in there. All that I have read says it will help your ale sickness,” you said, cutting him off before he could admonish you as you thought he would. “I will leave you now, My Prince, and send a servant to collect my things so I do not bother you at night any longer.”

You curtsied and hurried to leave, trying subtly to wipe the tears from your cheeks before anyone spotted them when Daeron caught your arm.

“Please, wait,” he said softly, his hand shaking slightly around your wrist.

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve and turned to face him, trying to summon your composure. “If you wish to chastise me, please know that I have already spent the night doing so myself. I ask you spare me any further reprimand if you do not wish to see me in tears.”

His face crumpled, and he swore under his breath. “Y/N, I…forgive me, please.”

You blinked at him owlishly.

He chugged the tea you had brought him, wincing slightly at the heat, then set it down and pulled you into his arms. “It is my fault. I am a wretched husband, a man only of two years; I am still childish as well, and I was cruel. Cruel, just as I said I would try not to be when we married.”

You stood frozen in shock. You had not expected him to apologize to you.

He buried his nose in your hair. “Forgive me, I—this is why I did not want to share a bedchamber. I have these dreams, these awful dreams that I cannot make sense of. They plague me; they do not let me rest soundly, and in my shame at you witnessing my weakness, I spoke harshly and falsely to you.”

A sob worked its way past your lips, and you clung to him, hiding your face in his chest. “I was so frightened for you, and you were so mean!”

Daeron held you tighter, his voice shaking. “I am sorry; I am so very sorry, my sweet.”

You cried into his chest as he shushed you gently, whispering how sorry he was over and over again until you raised your head enough to look at him. “You could have told me; I would have understood. I would not have judged you; I am your wife, Daeron; I will always stand beside you.”

He shook his head. “You are so wonderful, so kind, and filled with such joy; I did not want to drag you down to the depths with me, did not wish for you to see me in such a state.”

Your voice was soft, tear stained. “What do you dream of that is so awful?”

He sighed, his eyes red rimmed, the circles beneath them dark and deep. “I do not know, and sometimes I do. But they always come true, and they have never been good except for when I dream of you.”

You taste of honey, just as I dreamed.

“You dream of me?”

He nodded and brushed the hair back from your face, looking as if your sobs had pained him more than they pained you. “Those dreams are wonderful. I wish I dreamt only of you; I would be the happiest man in the kingdom.”

Your cheeks warmed, and your grip on the back of his sleep tunic tightened. “Do you mean it?”

He pressed the ghost of a kiss to your forehead. “I do.”

You smiled shyly. “Then perhaps I am not selfish for saying I hope you dream of me more often.”

Daeron’s lips curled upwards. “You are not, though I may be selfish with my request”

“Request?”

“Well, I have two if you would permit your wretched husband such kindnesses?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I will hear my husband out.”

He caressed your cheek reverently as if he could not believe you were real, then cupped it, threading his fingers in your hair. “First, I ask that you forget my vile words last night and never cease clinging to me. Your touch is a balm to my soul.”

“I will gladly grant that request,” you said, feeling your chest lighten as you leaned into his touch.

“Second, I would like for you to stay with me again tonight, provided, of course, you wish to.”

You mulled over his words for a moment. “I do, but you must promise me that you will tell me of your dreams and allow me to share the burden with you.”