Gabby

Valarr was sitting by the heart tree, watching the other children play come-into-my-castle from afar. The little prince, at the green age of five, was fidgeting with the hem of his cloak with his little fingers, wishing but not daring to join the game. In the middle of the makeshift castle's borders made out of tree branches, Aelor, his cousin, only one year his elder, was holding his court with a young courtier's son. Around them were at least five to six other children of the Keep, shouting out their suggestions for the identity of the lord of the keep. 

"By your weirwood tree you can only be the bannerman of Lord Tully, Lord Bracken, and so I name you" the courtier's little son declared at the entrance of the tree branch castle, his chest puffed out in certainty. 

"Wrong! You're all wrong! I'm Lord Blackwood, you've got my sigil all wrong!" Aelor shouted out in joy, pumping his small fist in the air. "Nobody made it into my castle, so I win!"

Valarr got up from his observation post, and timidly made his way to the group of boys. "Aelor, I want to play too! Maester Archibald said that I am good at learning the sigils of the houses! I could.." 

"No! we don't have any more space for you, cousin. We're already too many, and we have to wait so long for our turns", Aelor cut him off. The older princeling had never liked his cousin very much, his mismatched blue and brown eyes and dark brown hair with only a thin streak of white drawing a stark contrast to the rest of his family. Everybody else had beautiful, pure Valyrian features, even Daeron, with his dirty blond hair, had lilac eyes to show for it. But Valarr looked half Dornish in coloring, just like his father Baelor.

Rejection stung Valarr's eyes, especially after he had been so brave to get up and ask the boys to play. As he nodded and made his way back to the heart tree, a small hand reached out and tapped on his shoulder. 

When he turned around, he came face to face with you, a child of five as well. You had a big grin on your face, eyes twinkling and hair done up in a braided bun. He knew you from sight; your mother had come to court recently with her household to be a companion to his own mother. 

"Our mothers are friends, so we should be friends too!" You exclaimed, "we're going to play monsters and maidens, you should come play with us!" You waved at the little group of boys and girls a few yards away. 

Valarr blushed at the invitation. Though children were careless beings, they weren't careless enough to disregard the obvious hierarchy between their parents. Other children were taught to be weary of accidentally injuring him; leading to most other children's hesitation to let him into their games. He felt addressed to as an ordinary child for the first time in his short life, and grasped his first chance at a friendship with his small hands. 

When he nodded, you took his hand in yours, shouted out to your little group of friends that he "absolutely had to join" your game of chase, and hurriedly dragged him to them. 

That was the first time he felt the warm, fluttering happiness of making a new, genuine friend. 

-

The two of you were fast friends, soon inseparable apart from the hours spent at your lessons. When Valarr would curl up with a fairytale book under a tree, his little head already adept with his letters, — maesters called him a prodigy, already reading deftly and starting to write at only five years of age —  you'd sprawl out next to him and listen to him read aloud stories of knights, dragons, and princesses, begging him to read you another story before supper time. 

"If we were the princess and the knight from the story, we could befriend the dragon instead of killing it", you mumbled, staring into the leaves rustling in the wind and the bright blue sky. "We could fly away on the dragon, and build a castle on a beautiful unknown island. Then we'd only eat cake, and go on adventures all the time, just the three of us. We'd declare the island ours, and nobody else would be allowed in!"

Valarr's cheeks flushed pink. You liked it when he blushed, you liked pink and you liked Valarr's squishy cheeks. It was a great combination. 

"But what about our families?" He lightly furrowed his brows. Valarr, the little prince, so dutiful even at his age. 

"They could still visit us whenever they want, they're family!" You exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing.

"That'd be nice", he smiled lightly, already envisioning your castle on an island far away, living with you, the dragon, and flying into the sunset for adventures. He'd be your knight, and you'd be his princess. He'd protect you from any harm and get you all the lemon cakes you wanted. 

-

198AC

When Valarr's sixth nameday came, you'd already been six for three whole moon cycles. By then, you'd been inseparable for almost a year, and your families were completely endeared by your friendship.

You woke up on the morrow buzzing from excitement for your closest companion's nameday, almost vibrating in your chair while breaking your fast with your parents. They suggested visiting prince Baelor's family in his solar to bring his son's nameday present, a richly ornamented saddle for his pony.

"Val's six too now, Papa!" you cried out, elated by the thought of being allowed to visit your friend so early in the morning. 

"That he is, my darling." His eyes crinkled in amusement. 

You were practically bouncing at the door when your household set out from your quarters, running laps around your parents and the servants holding the big boxes meant for Valarr. 

When your little procession arrived at the door to Baelor's solar, you sprinted off and nimbly sidestepped the poor startled guards at the door, slamming the doors open and running into the room to see your dearest friend. 

"Happy nameday Val!" You shouted, running straight at him and hugging him tightly. The impact of the hug was great enough that he let out a huff of breath, and only croaked out a quiet "thank you". 

Behind you, your parents were apologizing to the guards, but entered nevertheless, and greeted the heir's household. The servants placed the present boxes on the floor next to the gift pile, then bowed before they took their leave.

"My prince, dear Jena, we wish you the jolliest and the most blessed nameday for Prince Valarr. Apologies for our daughter's.. overflowing enthusiasm to congratulate his little grace." 

Your mother dipped into a curtsy, your father bowing his head next to her. 

Lady Jena was having none of the formalities, and crossed the room in quick steps to greet your mother in a hug, followed by two quick kisses on the cheeks. "Thank you dearly to you both for the lovely wishes, that is most kind. And Baelor and I are simply delighted that our children are so close. It endears me greatly that their friendship blooms so wonderfully just as ours did."

As the adults sat on the high-backed lounge chairs while discussing their mysterious adult topics, Valarr and you padded to his little brother's crib, Valarr wishing to introduce you to his mere 3-weeks old baby brother. 

"He's so little", you wondered at his impossibly tiny hands and feet. 

"His name is Matarys", Valarr introduced him. "Matarys, this here is my closest friend", he then solemnly introduced you to the little newborn, stating your given and family name to the babe as if the little one was to remember it. You giggled at that, and played with his tiny hands. 

"Do you want to open the gifts with me?" Valarr suggested, pointing at the high-piled boxes of gifts from the entire realm. 

You nodded, excited at unboxing the undoubtedly beautiful gifts sent to the crown prince. You both sat at the foot of the pile cross-legged, delightedly tearing through the delicate packaging and revealing the gifts one by one. There was a bejeweled dagger, the pommel a golden dragon's head with a ruby in its open maw. The next was a beautifully stitched doublet, made of shining black and red velvet. Your parents had gifted him a gilded saddle and bridle for his pony, with jeweled ornaments running through the straps. As you looked through the gifts, your face suddenly saddened. 

"What's the matter?" Valarr asked, his brows scrunching up in concern. 

"I have nothing to gift you", you murmured, fidgeting with your necklace. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, commissioned by Baelor at Valarr's insistent demand for your last nameday. The fine golden chain held a delicate pendant, a huge blue topaz placed between winding golden vines. Baelor and Jena had gifted you a matching diadem, a masterpiece done by the castle's goldsmith with blue topaz ornaments and swirling ivy vines. 

You regretted not insisting on getting Valarr a present of your own, especially as he had asked his father to commission something so beautiful just for you three moons ago. 

Valarr's eyebrows furrowed further in confusion. "Your parents have already gifted me the saddle and bridle. You have no need to get me anything else."

You shook your head, and looked down to the floor in consideration. Then, you took your ring off your pointer finger, a small signet ring with your family's sigil on it. 

"I can't take that, that's yours." Valarr shook his head.

"Yes you can, I have many other rings just like this", you insisted as you took his left hand and slid it onto his index finger. "Also, now you have a gift from just me, which is good because best friends should always gift each other things for their namedays."

Valarr flushed while looking down at the signet ring on his finger. He didn't protest any longer, and smiled shyly at you. "Thank you. I'll always cherish it." He nodded solemnly with his promise. 

-

The idea came to you on a sunny day, when you were both lying in the grass, out of breath from the last game of monster and maiden. The two of you hadn't found any other children to join you, already tied up in other games or off to lessons. But playing only with Valarr was just as fun as with the whole group, his company always beat everybody else's. You were looking up at the clouds, thinking that they looked like a herd of sheep traversing a light blue lake.

Suddenly, the idea struck you. 

“Val,” you called, and he hummed in response. “We should get married when we’re older.”

Valarr craned his neck around to look at you, confusion evident in his eyes.

“If we get married, we could be best friends like this forever. Just the two of us. Septa Marya says that one day, my parents will choose a Lord for me to marry, but I don’t want to do that. We could get married like the princess and the knight, and go on adventures and see all the wonders of the world, just like in the books.” You continued, still gazing up at the clouds, imagining the scenes from the fairytales.

He smiled at that. “Yes, we should get married when we’re grownups. I’d like that. Maybe we could go sailing across the Jade Sea, I read that dragons still live there.”

You sat up, looking at him with a smile blooming on your face. "Do you promise?"

"I promise. On my honor." He sat up to face you, and nodded with all the solemness a six-year-old could muster. 

"We need a more serious promise, though. In case we grow up and forget", you added. 

Valarr hummed in agreement. "We could make a vow on the parchment. My father says that a promise made with words on a parchment and then sealed with the houses' sigils are binding." 

"If you want to promise to marry me", he quickly added, a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. "You don't have to if you don't want to." But your excitement took momentum, and now you were consumed by the idea of being being friends with Valarr forever, without having to marry someone you did not know yet like Septa Marya said. 

"I want to! We have to get married Val, it would be the best thing! But," you hesitated. "How would we make the vow? I don't know how that works."

"I saw a parchment at my father's desk once, I can do it. We just need the big signet rings from our fathers so we can stamp the seals." Val's so smart, you marveled. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent with barely muffled giggles and whispers, as Valarr fleshed out the plan for you. Your little conspiracy meeting only ended when your mothers each sent their maidservants to collect you for supper; even then, you parted ways reluctantly.

-

The two of you chose to execute your plan while the royal party was on a hunting trip. Your parents would be absent from the Keep, with only the servants and the maester or septa to keep watch over you. It would almost be too easy to sneak off to the Hand's Tower and draft an unofficial official document. 

After your parents left the Keep, you sneaked to the solar, where your father's velvet doublet hung over the backrest of a chaise longue. When you patted the breast pocket, where you had observed your father tucking his ring into before riding off to the kingswood, you felt the distinct shape of a ring under your fingers. You pocketed it, evading the eyes of the maidservants. Your heart was beating wildly, and your hands were visibly shaking, never having taken something without leave before like this. But as you left the quarters and headed to the Hand's Tower, the anxiety soon turned into giddiness, with your giggles barely contained as you skipped the rest of the way. 

This felt like an adventure, a mischief, something that the characters from your fairytale did. Like a princess outwitting a cruel witch to reverse her spells, or a young knight valiantly stealing the keys to the cage of his one true love from the pockets of the sleeping giant. If you did this, you and Valarr could live out your dreams, never separated from each other's closest friend. 

Valarr was waiting at the door to his father's office, grinning widely from excitement. The door was not locked by some wonder, and the two of you padded in to the chamber, giggling and whispering from the excitement. 

Valarr sat himself in his father's chair, sitting at the edge of the seat so he'd be able to reach over the desk, while you sprawled across the armchair, facing him. "So what now?" You asked. Valarr was the mastermind of this plan, after all. 

"Now, we write our promises", Valarr stated, pulling out a blank parchment from a drawer after searching for a moment. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, and his hand hovered over the empty page. "Are you sure?" He raised his eyebrows, seeking your confirmation with a hint of insecurity in his expression. 

"Yes! It's going to be amazing when we're married, Val. We're going to go see the God's Eye, the Free Cities, and have a baker make us treats for all meals!" You giggled. Your priorities clearly stood with confectioneries tied to the royal sugar bakers.

"I am going to need to see how to write just like father does", Valarr mumbled as he pulled a parchment with a filled out contract — something about orchards and taxes — and a seal stamped upon it, "it needs to look official."

Valarr was now leaning over the parchment, occasionally looking over to his reference material, brows furrowed in concentration so the letters would be as orderly as possible. While he painstakingly wrote down the short terms of your contract, you were busy lying across the armchair and listing off all the things you wanted to do once you were grown up. Valarr, ever the polite, dutiful child, made sure to answer with "yes, sure" or a hum every once in a while. 

Once done, he pushed the parchment filled with his over to you, his eyes shining with pride. On top of the parchment, both of your names were listed with the proper titles. 

This contract made on the fifth day of the seventh moon of year 198 AC between the two persons parties above binds them in a pact of marriage. When Prince Valarr Targaryen comes of age, the two parties will be joined in marriage in a sacred ceremony. 

This agreement is valid in every corcom circumstance without conditions.

Signed,

Valarr Targaryen 

Your lips moved quietly as you sounded the words out, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Next to his signature at the bottom of the page, the three-headed dragon of his house was drawn clumsily. 

"What is a pact?" You lifted your eyes, curious over the new word.

"I think it means an agreement or promise in official words, I found it on this sheet." Valarr waved the other parchment in his hand. 

You nodded, quietly marveling at Valarr's adeptness with his letters. The words sounded so grown-up; and the penmanship was slightly wonky, but to you, it looked as perfect as any. 

"Now what?" You asked again. 

"Now you sign your name, and we stamp it. Then, it's official." Valarr said solemnly. 

You took the quill from his hand, and dipped it into the ink. Septa Marya had shown you how to write your name, stating that it was the foremost essential thing a lady should be able to spell. You pressed the tip of the quill into the page, your effort evident in your furrowed brows and tongue sticking out of the side of your mouth. The signature was a little shaky, but it was written in your best cursive, and you reckoned Septa Marya would be proud. Then, you scribbled the sigil of your house next to it, just as Valarr had. 

"Now, we stamp", Valarr put the stick of black wax on the desk, a slight look of hesitation on his face. He was afraid of burning his fingers on it, but he tried his best not to show it as he heated it against the candlelight and dripped the wax onto the parchment. He then rummaged through the drawers and produced a big signet ring, which he then pressed into the wax. You watched, fascinated by the process. Elated, you took the wax from his hand and copied his actions, stamping your father's signet ring into the little pool of wax. 

"Is it done? Is it official now?" You bounced in your seat, clapping your hands from excitement while Valarr blew on the seals to dry them. 

"It is", he confirmed once he was done, a big grin splitting his face. You squealed, then pulled him down from his father's chair to hug him tightly. You were going to marry Valarr, and now you were going to be best friends with him until the end of days. 

-

The news of your departure from King's Landing came abruptly on a cloudy afternoon. Your parents had summoned you to the solar after your lessons, and sat you down on the armchair across from them with a serious look on their face. 

Your initial confusion faded and a feeling of despair and sadness descended upon you as they explained that you'd all have to return home. As they went on about the inheritance conflicts between the minor houses of your region and how they, as their liege, would have to be present to manage the quarrels, your mind wandered to everything you’d be leaving behind. What of your friends here? What of the delicious cakes and beautiful gardens? And most importantly, what of Valarr, your best friend? 

Their faces blurred as your eyes welled up with tears. Although you pressed your lips together to appear brave, a helpless sob wrenched itself from your mouth. 

Your mother noticed your distressed state, leaving her seat to kneel before your armchair and hug you tightly until you'd calmed. Your mother's hand drew slow circles on your back, whispering words of consolation. 

"When do we leave?" You asked as your mother loosed her hug, teardrops clinging to your lashes. 

"In four days, at daybreak." Your father had a look of sadness as well, knowing that his daughter had found true, close friends at court. His guilt at having to tear you away from them due to his and your mother's duties as lord and lady paramount apparent in his expression. He’d always been exceptionally lenient to his only daughter’s wishes, but now he was faced with a wish he could not possibly fulfill.

But the promise. What of the promise with Valarr? You were going to get married. Panic washed over you. 

"But what about Valarr? We were going to get married. I promised him," the truth spilled out of you with a new wave of tears. You let out a poorly contained sob, and your mother held you again in her arms as you buried your face in her shoulders. 

"I'm sorry, sweetling. We both are. But sadly, it cannot be helped." She patted your back, assuming the talk of marriage was simply a talk of a child's whimsy, a play-pretend between two children. Children could be quite imaginative when playing, after all. 

You sniffled, but nodded. No more fairytale readings with Valarr, no more playing lord of the crossing or monsters and maidens with the children of the court — and Valarr, of course —, and no more pony rides with your parents and Prince Baelor's household. Your little heart ached from the farewell, but you knew you could not stay when your parents were returning to your ancestral home.

When you took your leave to go to the godswood, your eyes were still red and swollen from the tears. Valarr spotted you from afar, and got up from his seat under the heart tree — our seat, you thought — to greet you, but his face fell when he saw your expression. He placed the fairytale tome on the ground, and walked up to you to meet you halfway. 

"What's the matter?" His eyes searched your face, seemingly trying to guess the source of your distress from your look alone. 

"We're leaving, Val. Mama and Papa just told me", you choked out, the lump in your throat from suppressing another sob growing almost painful. 

His eyes widened at first, then fell into a sad frown. "But you're coming back, right?" he asked hopefully. 

"I don't know", the corners of your mouth tilted down even further, "could be months, years 'till  we get back.”

His gaze fell to the ground, his lips pulled into a taught, downward frown mirroring yours. He started fidgeting with the ring on his index finger, your signet ring on his index finger. 

"It's going to be okay", he tried to be reassuring, though his voice shook slightly. "We took a vow, remember? When we're grown up, we'll get married, and we'll see each other again then. I will make sure of it."

"Promise?" Your voice trembled. 

"Promise." Valarr nodded. Your Valarr. Your dearest, closest friend in the world. You nodded back, and you walked together to the heart tree, settling into your usual seats, and Valarr opened the book to read out your favorite story anew for the umpteenth time, the one about the princess, the knight, and the fearsome dragon. 

-

208 AC

You sat on the terrace of your ancestral home, overlooking the gardens. The warm, early spring breeze threaded through your hair, the sun shining gently over your skin. The gardeners were working tirelessly, planting saplings and flower seeds for them to bloom once summer came. The watered wine on the side table had grown lukewarm under the sun’s rays, the open book in your lap laid forgotten as you watched the gardeners work their magic.

“My lady,” your maidservant called gently from behind you. “Your lord father wishes for you to join for afternoon tea in his solar now.”

You simply nodded, closing the book shut and placing it on the side table to stand up from your comfortable seat. Your mind was still firmly with the gardens, and what it would look like once the fruit tree saplings and the flowers bloomed. You hoped that there were peach trees among those planted today, peach tarts were truly one of the most delicious creations in the whole realm.

When you reached the double doors to your father’s solar, you waved off the guard’s question to whether he should announce your arrival, and swung the doors open yourself. Your parents were already seated at the tea table, lounging comfortably while leading a hushed discussion with smiles on their faces. You chose a chaise longue to sprawl on, and picked up a lime biscuit to nibble on.

“Father, mother, what might be the joyous matter you are discussing?” You raised an eyebrow, ignoring all the crumbs that were spilling all over your gown.

“We have royal invitations to the Red Keep, we leave in a sennight’s time,” your mother turned to you, a smile spreading on her face at the thought of visiting her dear friend, Lady Jena. “It will be marvelous to return there, do you remember when we spent a year at the Keep? You used to have quite a few friends there as a girl.”

You vaguely recalled the hazy memories, already a decade past now. Running through the godswood, learning to ride a pony, the games played with the other children, and the stories read under the heart tree.

“I remember,” you smiled, “I was devastated when we left. I think I had quite a nice time there.”

“You did,” your father smiled fondly. “And we think it would be nice for us to visit again. Your mother has missed Lady Jena’s company dearly, and you could reunite with your childhood companions. We would like for you to accompany us to the Red Keep.”

Your mind then jogged a deep-seated memory, Valarr. Your Valarr, who had been one of your dearest childhood companions. You remembered his plump cheeks, the curious white streak through his hair, and his mismatched eyes. For a few months after your departure, you had exchanged ravens - you had help from Septa Marya to write your letters - but, as children go, the contact had dwindled slowly. But he had always held a fond, nostalgic space in your heart. 

The idea of seeing your childhood friend was not entirely unpleasant, you decided. You pouted in consideration, then asked: “What is the occasion, anyway?”

“The King has declared a royal tournament in honor of Prince Valarr’s sixteenth nameday. There will be plenty of our bannermen participating, and some of your cousins. You will not lack in company whilst we reside there.” Your father explained.

“And it would be a marvelous opportunity to find you a match! You’re a woman grown, love, and perhaps a handsome Lord or knight would catch your fancy,” your mother added joyfully.

You weighed the pros and cons on your mental scale, your pout persisting as you looked down at your tea cup. The long carriage ride to the Red Keep sounded dreadfull, but the occasion did seem quite merry. Plus, if you were lucky enough, you could secure a match of your preference as to avoid marrying an old, wrinkly Lord as some of your lady acquaintances had. Finally, you gave a nod in agreement.

“Wonderful! Remember darling, we leave in a sennight. Make sure to instruct your maids to pack your prettiest gowns! Oh, what a beautiful feast it will be,” your mother clapped her hands in elation, then sighed with a dreamy look. Your mother did always regard these occasions with her typical sense of whimsy, and her excitement to revisit her old friend, Lady Jena, only fanned her joy.

You nodded and smiled, perhaps it would indeed be nice to visit the place from your childhood again.

-

As the guests to his nameday tournament continued to stream in through the Red Keep’s gate, his eyes searched through the processions, his ears perking up at every announcement of the stewards. Most guests were arriving many days in advance to the festivities, but the presence he was most looking forward to was nowhere to be seen yet, despite the letter of acceptance sent by a raven days ago. He fidgeted nervously with the little signet ring on his right little finger, the child's ring now being too small for any other digit. 

As he mechanically greeted the arriving Lords and Ladies, his mind kept wandering off to the neatly folded piece of parchment in his desk drawer. Only three more days, he reminded himself. Only three more days before his nameday, and there would be no more proposals of marriage pacts from houses he cared little for, no more dutifully reviewing the portraits sent from every corner of the realm, and he could finally declare his intentions before his family and the council.

As the sun started hanging low, his hopes for the day were starting to dwindle as well, before he spotted a procession in the distance, the unmistakable flag whipping in the wind with your sigil proudly stitched upon it. His heart leapt up in anticipation, but he commanded himself to remain steady at his father’s side.

It seemed to take an eternity for the carriage to finally pass through the gates and spill out its inhabitants. As he duly noted your father and your mother stepping out of the carriage, his eyes were tirelessly searching for your familiar face. When he finally spotted you, it felt as if the gods had slowed time before his eyes. 

It had been almost a decade since you last saw each other. He had been besotted with you then, a simple playground child’s fancy, but now, the woman grown walking towards him, carelessly exchanging jests with your parents, snatched his breath away from his lungs and left him gasping for air. Time had changed you, but at the same time, it hadn’t changed you at all. The childish features had left your face, leaving behind a delicate, lovely visage, seemingly carved by the Maiden herself. The curvature of your nose, dropping into a philtrum and smoothing into the arch of your lips had stayed exactly the same as he remembered, as had the playful glint in your eyes. 

As the rounds of greeting went by and you came to stand in front of him, he felt as if the gods had grasped him from the present and placed him back in time, standing dejected by Aelor in the godswood, as you tapped on his shoulder for the first time and invited him to join your group to play. He had fallen back then — as hard as a six-year-old with no real understanding of love could fall — but now he was helplessly spiraling again as you dipped into a curtsy before him. 

"Prince Valarr," you greeted, his name falling from your lips sounded like the sermon bells of the Great Sept themselves to his ears. 

"My lady," he collected himself and steadied his voice, "it is good to see you again after all this time." With all the grace himself, he carefully took your hand — a beautiful hand, he remarked — and kissed the back of it lightly. He could only hope that the slight nervous tremor would go unnoticed by you. When his gaze lifted to your face again, his eyes trailed down to your neck, where the blue topaz was glinting in the notch between your collarbones. The embers in his heart were fanned into a full-blown flame as he recognized the pendant, his pendant, a sign of his childish affection for you from a decade ago. You had kept it. What's more, you were wearing it even after all this time. 

"As it is to see you," you smiled at his recognition, "I still hold our memories of childhood quite dearly." To anyone else, it might have come across as simple courtesy, but to Valarr, the fact that you held fond memories of him felt like salvation granted by the Seven themselves. 

Valarr would have been content to stand there for the rest of eternity, holding your hand loosely in his grasp, looking at your face as the setting sun graced your skin with a golden glow. But as the round of greeting went by, he was forced to let you go, and greet the rest of your household in tow. 

Then, he heard his mother speak words to your mother that sounded as though angels were descending from the heavens and blowing horns: "Dearest, it has been way too long! Oh, how I have missed you so. We must meet for a family afternoon tea, just our two households." She held your mother's hands in her own two hands, both giddy at the long-awaited reunion. 

"Of course, Jena. Whenever you'd like. I'm sure my husband and my daughter would greatly enjoy it as well." Your mother beamed, and it was decided. Your two households would take afternoon tea in two days' time, in the privacy of the royal gardens. Valarr stole a glance at you, and his heart stuttered at your soft smile. 

-

On the day after your arrival, you sat in the gardens under the white marble pergola with the other young ladies of court, as would be expected of you. Everyone was chattering excitedly about the upcoming tourney, which was no grand wonder as the castle seemed to be buzzing in preparations for it. The first day was set to be on the prince's nameday, with all the champions' jousts taking place on that day. The next few days would consist of melées and lower ranked jousts. You sat next to an old acquaintance of yours, a daughter of a bannerman of your father, only a year your senior, making her seventeen years of age. 

"Oh, I hope Ser Devin will ask for my favor! How dreamy that would be," she looked into the distance with her eyes glazed over. Currently, she was swooning over your eldest cousin, who was part of a junior branch of your house and stood first in line to inherit his father's lands and castles. Personally, you did not understand the appeal, but politely smiled and nodded as to not spoil her fun.

"And are you looking forward to seeing any specific knights in the tilts, my lady?" A girl your age sitting on your other side inquired. If your memory serves you right, she was the daughter of a Stormlord. 

"Oh, well I suppose I will cheer for my cousins, of course," you said, as it was common courtesy, "but otherwise, I must say that I am not quite sure yet. Perhaps the knights of the Kingsguard, they are famed to be the most magnificent knights of the realm, after all."

Some ladies sitting in your vicinity nodded at that. A girl you did not recognize started with a faint flush on her cheeks: "I most certainly am excited to see Prince Valarr in the lists, he is the very picture of chivalry, not to mention how handsome he is!" Murmurs rose in agreement. 

Well, you could not deny her on that front. Valarr had definitely grown into his features; soft, pudgy cheeks had long been replaced by sharp, carved lines. His mismatched eyes he used to be insecure about only added to his handsome face. But frankly, you had a hard time imagining the sweet, timid boy from your childhood being so gallant in the lists. 

"The Prince comes of age upon the first day of the tourney, I wonder what sorts of arrangements will be made in regards to choosing a match for him. How dreamy it would be to marry such a handsome prince! He is even the heir's heir, as if his gallantry and handsome face were not enough." Another lady spoke out wistfully. 

"Well, if it is his affection you are seeking, I am afraid we'd all be out of luck on that front," lamented a slim, brunette girl, surely a few years your senior. "He's already been presented with hundreds of potential matches and it's said that he turned down every single one of them, one of them from my own family."

"So do you suppose he simply has no intention to marry?" Your lady acquaintance's eyes widened. 

"Aye, or I reckon he has a paramour, every man has desires, after all," snickered the brunette girl. 

You frowned, as that sounded highly unlikely for Valarr, but held your tongue. As if the sweet, gentlest boy you used to know would ever dishonor himself and a woman that way. 

"Whoever that woman is, I do greatly envy her," another girl you did not recognize sighed deeply, "What wouldn't I give to be in her place."

-

The afternoon tea on the day before the beginning of the tourney took place in the more private areas of the godswood, the little clearing in the woods had been transformed into a small gathering space, with chaise longues and cushions placed on the grounds beneath ornamented parasols. The only other presences aside from your two families were the servants, and the occasional small children running by, playing their games in the godswood just as you and Valarr had as children. 

Lady Jena chatted happily away with your mother, lounging comfortably on the cushions. Prince Baelor sat on a chaise longue, facing your father, discussing lordly matters with him. You were sprawled out across the feather cushions and half-heartedly following the conversations when you heard someone clear their throat from behind you. 

When you tilted your head back to face the person, the upside-down face of Prince Valarr greeted you. He was holding a hand out and lightly smiling, as far as you could tell from your position. 

"Would you take a walk with me?" He asked, an almost unnoticeable hint of pink gracing the tip of his ears. 

You have an affirmative hum, then got up to your feet to turn and face him. He was offering you his left arm to hold, which you gingerly accepted. 

"Are you looking forward to the tourney, my prince?" you asked as to make polite small talk. He had grown into a quite tall young man, and you had to crane your neck to see his face at a close distance. As you did, you admired the beautifully carved lines of his cheekbones and jaw, he really had turned into an exceptionally handsome prince.

Valarr frowned slightly at that. "There is no need to be so formal, we did use to be quite close, after all." 

"Well then Valarr," you corrected yourself, "are you excited for the tourney?"

Valarr's pink flush extended to his cheeks at the sound of his name falling from your lips. "Yes, among other things, I suppose."

"One's sixteenth nameday is always an occasion to look forward to," You agreed casually. "I am sure it will be a day to remember."

Valarr's steps slowed, which meant that you came to a halt with him in tow. "Speaking of sixteenth namedays," his cheeks were really quite pink now. You wondered if he was feeling warm under the sun's rays. "I believe yours has to come to pass three moons ago, if my memory serves me right." He smiled shyly. 

You were slightly taken by surprise. Had he really remembered that detail? 

"Yes, it has. Although, I denied my parents the pleasure of throwing a tourney or any form of extravagant celebration for the occasion." You mused. 

"I had something commissioned for you," he reached into the pocket of his doublet with his free hand, and produced a small, square box. "You did tell me back then that best friends should always gift things to each other for their namedays."

You pulled your hand away from Valarr's arm to examine the box. When you opened it, small, ornate earrings made of twisting golden vines holding a blue topaz in the middle came to sight. Your breath caught at the goldsmith's intricate handiwork. 

"Valarr, this is.." You searched for words. "Beautiful, thank you. It is really most thoughtful of you." It indeed was, as you noticed that it matched your necklace gifted from him all these years ago perfectly. 

"You must forgive me," you scrunched your eyebrows, a slight pang of guilt going over you, "I did not bring any personal gift for your nameday. My parent have brought a-“

Valarr's smile did not falter as he interrupted your panicked words. "No matter, I had something in mind as to what you could gift me for my nameday, anyways."

You looked at him in confusion. 

"I would like to ask for your favor to wear at the tilt tomorrow," his mismatched eyes searched your face. For what, though, you could not tell. "For old times' sake," he added hastily. 

It made sense, you supposed. It was not unusual for knights to wear their sister’s, cousin’s, or a close companion’s favor, so Valarr simply must have continued to value your childhood friendship more than you expected. Still, it confused you as to why he would not wear the favor of a lady he wished to court.

“Of course,” you agreed, to his relief. “It would be an honor to have you wear my favor.”

He offered you his arm again to keep on walking, which you gladly accepted. As you walked further around the godswood, the sounds of children playing grew closer.

“Hai-yah!” a boyish voice cried out. When you turned your head in the direction of its source, you spotted two young boys, one with a shock of silver hair, another one with a tuft of auburn hair. They were wielding tree branches as if they were swords, clashing them against another and running wildly through the woods.

As you watched them, a strange sense of nostalgia bloomed in your chest. You distinctly remembered these woods, the familiarity growing stronger with every step. The two of you used to run through these very woods a long time ago, laughing wildly and jumping over the twisting roots.

“Little brother! Cousin! I must ask you to compose yourselves before our distinguished guest,” Valarr called out to the two boys. They slowly halted their wild chase, and padded over to you.

“My lady, may I introduce you to my brother, this is -“ 

“Matarys,” you interrupted Valarr’s introduction when you recognized the soft, auburn curls. He had been only a newborn when you last saw him, but Lady Jena’s auburn locks and Prince Baelor’s stern jaw was evident in the young princeling. “My Prince, it is an honor to meet you. Last I had seen you, you were still only a babe.” You dipped in a shallow curtsy and introduced yourself.

Valarr smiled fondly at you recalling the short meeting. 

“The honor is all mine, my lady,” Matarys bowed, albeit a little clumsily. “Are you the lady friend my brother has been talking about?” He studied your face.

“Matarys,” Valarr hissed, the tips of his ears burning. Matarys let out a giggle, but held his tongue.

“And I’m Egg, my lady!” The silver-haired boy cried out, bouncing in excitement. “My name is actually Aegon, but everybody calls me Egg for short.” He grinned.

“It is a true pleasure to meet you, Prince Egg.” You dipped into a curtsy, your use of his nickname earning a giggle out of him. 

“One day, I will be Ser Aegon of the Kingsguard! You see, I’m already training hard to be a strong knight.” He puffed his chest out, which reminded you a little bit of a small bird puffing its feathers to make itself seem bigger. You smiled fondly at his antics.

“Speaking of,” Egg turned to Valarr. “In case your squire cannot come, could I squire for you, cousin? Daeron does not wish to participate, but I would like to be a squire. Ser Donnel has already said I would make a good one! I-“

“Sure, cousin,” Valarr mirrored your fond smile at the little boy. “Gareth is quite healthy as of now, but at the event that he may not be able to partake, I will send for you.”

Egg whooped in joy, thanked Valarr, and took his leave by making an exaggerated bow. He dragged Matarys with him, who politely bid his farewells to you while Egg pulled at his arms. 

“He has grown so fast,” you murmured as you resumed your walk, “sometimes, I cannot believe how time has passed by so quickly.”

Valarr hummed in agreement, and the two of you started back to the clearing.

-

On the bright and early morrow of his nameday, Valarr Targaryen used his privilege as a crown prince of the realm, and ordered his page to summon the Small Council for the first time in his short life. After he dressed himself in a formal doublet and trousers, he opened the small drawer of his writing table, and took the small, folded parchment out. He held it in his hands, feeling the weight of the hide and the wax seal. The passing of time and his frequent touches had frayed the edges, the surface smooth from the oils of his fingers. The creases and wrinkles showed that it had been folded and unfolded many times over the past decade, but the content etched in ink was still very much legible, clear as day. He tucked the parchment safely in his breast pocket before leaving his quarters.

He willed his drumming heart to calm on his walk over to the council chamber. The nervosity made him restless, his hands lightly shaking upon close inspection. As he waited for the council members to arrive, he mindlessly turned the signet ring with your house’s sigil on his right little finger, willing it to give him courage for what was to come. 

The members of the council arrived one by one, some with still bed-tussled hair. His father, Baelor, was perfectly composed as ever, and raised his eyebrows at him in curiosity as to what the summons may be about. The remaining council members sat down groggily, and mumbled a good morrow and merry nameday wishes to Valarr.

“My Lords, father, I thank you greatly for your presence, and your heartfelt nameday wishes. I wished to bring a matter before the Small Council this morrow, ahead of the tourney starting at midday.” He did his best to speak with the quiet authority of his father, and stilled the small tremor in his voice. “As you all know, I have come of age today, and wish to let my intentions for  marriage to be known. After all, it would be my utmost duty to the realm to marry and strengthen the line of succession.”

Many nodded, Baelor merely raised his eyebrows even further at his son’s sudden declaration of his interest for marriage. After all, he had sternly rejected every single courtships and proposals until now, and he had begun to suspect that he had no intention to marry at all.

“That is most wise, my prince,” croaked the old Grand Maester. “The council has a list at ready of all the eligible ladies of the realm, including-“

“Thank you, Grand Maester. However, that will not be necessary”, Valarr interrupted with a raised hand, “for I have been promised to a lady for nigh on a decade already.”

All eyes in the council chamber widened almost comically. Using the stunned silence, he took the parchment out of his breast pocket, unfolded it carefully, and placed it on the table. Baelor reached calmly for it, and read the words carved into it, remarking the childish handwriting. The Grand Maester rose from his seat, and leaned down from behind him to inspect the document as well.

“What is this?” his father asked, eyes lifting from the parchment.

“A marriage contract,” Valarr stated plainly. “It’s been signed by our own hands, and has the official seals of our houses on it.”

“I can see that,” Baelor furrowed his brows. “When-“

“My prince, if you would excuse me,” Grand Maester interrupted. “Marriage contracts usually involve witnesses, and I can’t seem to see any accounts of them.”

“I am a witness to this contract,” Valarr declared firmly. “I was there when it was written, signed, and sealed, obviously.”

“My apologies, your Grace, but a witness is usually-“ the old maester croaked.

“I am a prince of the realm, and a man grown as of today. Do you mean to doubt my abilities to stand witness to such significant matters?” His voice deepened, summoning an air of authority and sternness seldom witnessed in him.

The room fell into silence. Finally, the silence was broken when Baelor spoke. “According to the date, this was agreed upon when you both were but six years of age. Do you mean to stand by this contract nevertheless?” The look on his eyes was illegible. 

“I do not take vows for naught, father,” Valarr stood his ground. “I have given my word upon my honor, and will stand by it. I have loved her since I was a boy, and will not take any other to wife.” He hesitated for a sliver of a moment, then added, “if she will have me.”

Baelor put the parchment down on the table, and pinched his nosebridge. The Grand Maester immediately picked up the document, and inspected it so closely, Valarr was worried he may bury his nose in it.

“My Lord Hand, the seals and signatures are indeed.. genuine. And if the prince and the lady are in fact, both of age, then I fear that there are no grounds upon which this contract can be denied.” He sighed.

Valarr watched his father’s reaction. For what seemed like an eternity, Baelor’s eyes remained closed, with his hand pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he opened his eyes to face his son, and placed his hands on the table.

“And you are certain, my son?” He asked, an exasperated look on his face.

“I have never been more certain, father.” The young prince met his gaze steadfastly.

“Very well,” Baelor huffed out, “I will speak to her father about this after the jousts today. Considering the delicate nature of this.. pact,” he waved his hand at the parchment, “I will need to approach this matter in a careful fashion.”

Valarr felt a great weight lifted from his chest, and breathed out in relief. Through the window, the sky seemed to shine a brighter blue, the trees the most vibrant green, and the sun’s rays graced everything with a golden glow.

“Thank you, father.” He bowed his head slightly.

“Do not thank me yet, son. We will see how the day goes, and whether her family will agree to this arrangement. Until then, nobody is to speak of this matter to those outside of this council.” With that, Baelor rose from his seat, and dismissed the council with a curt nod of his head. As Valarr watched the rest of the council members scurry out, he felt he could’ve hugged his father, so great was his gratitude at this moment.

-

The gates of the Red Keep was buzzing with excitement as carriages and horses carried the spectators of the tourney out of the Keep and towards the tourney grounds right outside of the city gates. As you sneaked a peek out of the carriage window, you could see children running alongside, shouting in glee as they made their way to the tourney as well. 

You held a silk ribbon in your house colors in your hands, fidgeting mindlessly with it as you watched the narrow streets of King’s Landing pass by. The topaz earrings dangled from your ears, swinging along with every bump and pothole in the road. Your parents were chattering about the participating knights, and voicing their concern for your cousins’ safety. You were admittedly not too concerned about the matter, the jousting lances’ tips were made out of soft wood, made to shatter, and your overeager aunt and uncle had commissioned very intricate armors for your cousins to joust in.

When you rode past the city gates, your eyes were greeted by hundreds of colorful pavillions and banners snapping in the wind. The empty meadow outside of the city walls had been transformed into a marvelous tourney ground, bustling with life. 

The carriage stopped, letting your family step out onto the spring grass. Your parents craned their necks as they searched for your cousins’ pavillion, which was spotted rather quickly due to the tall flag with your heraldry stitched upon it. You threaded your arm through your mother’s, walking past the busy squires, merchants shouting out for the nobles to look at their wares, and steelworkers hammering away in their tents. 

Once arrived at your relatives’ pavillion, your parents eagerly entered, wishing to bid your cousins good fortune for their tilts. You were briefly distracted in front of the entrance by a small mouse scuttling about, watching its movements, when a warm touch on your shoulder startled you.

Your body whipped around in surprise, and yelped when you came face-to-face with Valarr standing before you in his armor. His broad frame, with the added breadth of the armor, easily towered over you.

“Hi,” he was already smiling, dimples forming on his chiseled cheeks. His mismatched eyes were glinting with something you could not quite place. When he spotted the jewelry dangling from his ears, his smile widened.  

“Valarr, hi,” you breathed out. 

“I wanted to come see you before the jousts started shortly,” he took a small step towards you. The heat eminating from his body was almost palpable, even through his thick steel armor. “For the favor.”

That made sense, you supposed. You did promise him a favor for the tilts today. 

You were still holding the silk ribbon in your hand, the floral stitchings along with your house sigils had been embroidered by your own hands. 

“May I-“ you gestured at his arm hanging by his side.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He slightly lifted his arm, allowing you sufficient space to wrap the ribbon around his upper arm, and secure it with a bow. 

“It’s beautiful, thank you.” He took your hand, and bent down to plant a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I must get going, the champions must be present when the start of the tourney is announced. I hope I’ll see you in the stands.”

"You will," you smiled back at him, "happy nameday, Valarr. And good fortune in the lists today."

"I have all the fortune I need, but thank you," Valarr mused, holding up the arm with your ribbon tied around it. 

And with that, he took his leave. You blinked, processing whatever just occurred, then collected yourself and entered the pavilion to wish your cousins good fortune. 

-

Your mother's closeness with Lady Jena ensured that your family's seats in the stands were situated right next to the royal box; offering an excellent view over the jousting grounds. As you sat, the herald blew the horn, marking the start of the tourney, and announced the champions as they rode in.

The crowd burst into a roar as the knights in shining armor rode in on their mounts, you quickly spotted Valarr, the white streak in his hair a clear beacon even from a distance. Your ribbon on his arm was snapping in the wind, you could faintly hear the whispers of courtiers speculating whose favor the Young Prince could possibly be wearing. Riding on his pitch black destrier clad in elegant armor, he really did paint a handsome picture, his body moving fluidly with the horse, adeptly commanding it with a squeeze of his legs and a light tug on the rein. His black armor with his house’s sigil enameled on the breastplate glinted in the sun, and you briefly wondered whether that was done intentionally as to blind his opponents in the sunlight.

The champions raised their swords as the crowd cheered, then all bowed their heads to the royal box in a show of respect before riding off to the sidelines where their squires were waiting. The champions’ first opponents rode in as well, searching for their squires in the chaos of it all.

“Helmet!” You heard Valarr shout out to his squire, his voice a couple notes deeper than usual. He was always soft-spoken and gentle, and you had never heard him sound quite so commanding before. Soon, his white streak was hidden under the helm, and he was only recognizable via his armor.

As the knights lined up by the lists, the warhorses were impatiently huffing and stomping on the ground. You squinted to see who Valarr’s first opponent be, and identified a blue enameled fish upon the armor. A Tully, then.

The horn blew, and kicking up a great dust storm, the mounts galloped forward, the riders upon their backs lowering their lances. The first pass was over in a blink, the wooden tips of tourney lances bursting against shields and armors, and you saw that some riders had been unhorsed already.

Your eyes seeked Valarr out, and to your relief, him and his black destrier emerged from the dust cloud victorious; his opponent lay unhorsed on the ground. Valarr dismounted at the sight, and walked over with a hand on the sword’s hilt to his opponent, struggling to get back on his feet.

From a distance, you faintly heard him yell out, “I yield, my prince! I yield!” Only then, Valarr eased the grip on his sword, and held his hand out to help him get off the ground. The crowd burst out in another wave of cheers at the sight; praising the Young Prince for his chivalry. 

In the next tilts, Valarr faced five more challengers, one of them being his own cousin, Aerion Brightflame. He donned a spiky black armor, paired with a helmet showing a monstrous visage upon it. After two titillating matches, Valarr finally rode him down; after which Aerion rose against him, unsheathing his broadsword. The melée that followed was not short-lived, steel met steel in a flash of sparks and wooden shields splintered under heavy blows, until Valarr unarmed him and held him at swordpoint. 

The crowd, highborns and smallfolk alike, were roaring in his support; a glinting hope in their eyes that Baelor Breakspear’s line proved to be just as skilled in arms as he was. An ember of pride was fanned every time he raised his lance arm after unhorsing an opponent, your favor waving in the wind. Maybe it really had brought him good fortune.

Your cousins fared adequately enough, Devin, the eldest, unhorsing two opponents before being unseated himself in the third tilt. The others had not been so lucky, and fell from their horses in their first rides. But they all seemed unharmed, aside from minor scraps and bruises.

The tilts, which started at midday, continued until the sun was nearing the western horizon and a pale moon shone on the opposite side of the sky. There was only one tilt left for the day; Valarr was to ride against Ser Roland of the Kingsguard. After a brief break, Valarr returned to the lists.  He swung onto his black destrier, riding to the sidelines as his squire followed with the helmet and shield in his arms. 

As Valarr held his helm in his hands, his head turned towards the stands. At first, you thought he might be looking at his family in the royal box, but his gaze came to rest upon you. His hair was matted from sweat, dark brown strands plastered across his forehead from the heat and exhaustion, but his face held a determined look. You held eye contact and gave your dear childhood companion an encouraging nod before he slid his helmet on. You could not be sure due to the distance, but it almost seemed as if the corner of his mouth lifted in a soft smile before it was obscured by the enameled helmet.

His squire promptly delivered him the shield and put the lance in his hand, and scurried off to the weapons’ racks as to be ready when Valarr would need his next lance.

Ser Roland looked formidable as well on the opposite side of the lists, he was sitting upon his chestnut warhorse, clad in all-white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard. He was older, and more experienced, which pushed the odds in his favor. However, Valarr rode as if he had been blessed by the Warrior himself that day, the memory of the success in the council chamber that morning filled his tired muscles with strength, and he felt almost battle-high.

Not a moment too soon, the herald announced the start of the final tilt. “May the Crone guide your lance, and the Warrior grant you strength!” He cried out, then blew the start horn. 

The sound of the hooves striking the ground thundered across the meadow, the cheering of the crowds so loud your ears were threatening to ring. In a flash, both lances broke cleanly off the shields, and both riders remained seated. You held your breath as Valarr seemed to sway slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. As he urged his destrier around, you were not sure if the glint of his mismatched eyes gazing in your direction was only imagined or not.

The second pass was more brutal; the riders met in a clash of bursting wood again, but Ser Roland had met Valarr’s pauldron with the tip of his lance, sending the Young Prince reeling from his seat. In contrast, Valarr’s lance had harmlessly broken against the Kingsguard’s shield.

A collective gasp went up from the crowd as Valarr’s body lurched backwards, with only one foot remaining in the stirrups. However, to the delight of the spectators, his hooked his foot firmly around it, and pulled his body upright again, sitting tall upon his mount. 

As the horn urging the third pass blew, Valarr kicked his destrier’s sides firmly with his greaves, riding with his torso lowered against his mount, and his shield raised in defense. In the final moment before impact, Valarr’s lance drifted laterally by a minuscule bit, its tip bursting against Ser Roland’s breastplate in a shower of splinters. Ser Roland was cleanly unhorsed, landing with an uff on his back.

The crowd erupted in a roar, and you felt yourself grin at his victory. He had won his nameday tilt, your sweet, gentle Valarr had truly grown into a most gallant knight.

While the cheers died down and Ser Roland was helped up by his squires, the herald climbed down from the stands and marched towards Valarr holding the wildflower crown. The victorious prince lifted the helmet off, revealing a proud smile upon his face. He nodded to the royal box in a show of respect, to which Baelor and Jena rose their cups in response.

Valarr took the wildflower wreath from the herald, and the grounds fell into silence in anticipation to which lady would be crowned queen of love and beauty by the Young Prince. You looked on in anticipation as well, but your breath caught in your throat when he urged his destrier towards your family.

He softly called out your name, and you felt all eyes turn towards you. “Would you grant me the honor of crowning you as the queen of love and beauty?” You almost choked on your own spit from surprise. “For old times’ sake.” He added in a hushed voice, his eyes glinting under the blueish lights of dusk. Despite the apparent exhaustion, he looked beautiful. In the background, you vaguely perceived an excited squeal from your mother.

You barely registered yourself nodding before you made your way down to the railing and lowered your head to accept the wildflower crown. Valarr gently lowered it on the crown of your head, and brushed a hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. In your daze, the deafening applause and cheers from the crowds sounded almost muffled in your ears. You accepted the crown in a haze of confusion and perplexity. To the onlookers, his eyes held the look of a man utterly enamored when gazing upon you, clear as day. Not that you noticed.

-

The festivities in the Great Hall were as grand as any, if not grander. King Daeron the Good had not been frugal at all when planning his grandson’s sixteenth nameday feast, quite the contrary in fact. There were seven absolutely extravagant courses gracing the tables, not even counting the appetizers and desserts. You dug in as your hunger had grown quite insistent during the day, t’was hard work sitting unmoving in the stands under the sun. Jests aside, the food was marvelous, every course truly a testament to the castle’s cooks.

When the last course had been cleared away by the servants, the guests started to take to the dancefloor. Strangely enough, Prince Baelor had vanished from the dais around the same time. Probably some matters of the realm, you brushed it off as the Hand of the King attending to some royal affairs. You adjusted the flower wreath on your head as it was starting to slide down to your brows, and watched the dancing pairs glide across the floor. As you reached for your goblet of wine, a warm hand reached from behind and tapped on your shoulder.

“Valarr,” your face broke into a smile when you saw the victor of the day’s jousts. “My congratulations for winning in the lists today, you rode splendidly.” 

“Well fought, my prince,” your father, seated next to you, joined in with his own praises.

“Thank you, truly.” Valarr tilted his head in gratitude. “Would the queen of love and beauty grace me with her first dance?”

You looked down at his hand held out in invitation, before nodding and graciously taking his hand in acceptance. As you walked to the middle of the floor, heads turned as they spotted the crown prince and the flower wreath perched atop your head. You both took up the starting pose, with your hand placed on his shoulder, and his arms wrapping around your waist to rest on the small of your back. His hand gently held your free hand, and you drifted into familiar steps of the dance.

“Do not be alarmed,” Valarr whispered, “but I think my father has just summoned yours to his solar. I saw his page speak to your father, and leave the room with him.”

“Oh?” Your head tilted in bemusement. “Whatever might that be about?”

Valarr’s cheeks reddened at the question, and your confusion deepened. Perhaps he did not feel well discussing his father’s more confidential proceedings, so you decided to leave the topic for the sake of the poor boy. Your two families had been close for a decade now, surely they had enough matters to discuss. If it was important enough, your father would disclose it to you later anyways. 

“Your final tilt against Ser Roland was magnificent, by the way,” you teased, “I had feared you might lose your seat during that second pass, but the recovery was quite impressive.”

The poor prince’s cheeks grew impossibly redder. Even as a child, he’d never been adept at handling praise. He could only mumble out a thank you. The contrast between the valiant knight at the lists and the blushing prince in front of you was almost adorable; perhaps Valarr had not yet entirely outgrown the sweet, timid boy he used to be.

As the song came to an end, a Lord you did not recognize stood in front of you, requesting your next dance. Valarr, ever the kind, dutiful prince, took his leave to return to the dais. 

The status as the queen of love and beauty of the day came with a steady stream of dancing partners, you forgot their names almost as soon as they introduced yourself; you were never really adept with names and faces anyways. When your feet began to ache and you excused yourself to take your seat by your mother’s side, a page intercepted you just as you were about to pull out your chair. Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her husband had been occupied in a meeting with the Hand for a good while, and apparently it now required your presence, as well. 

“M’ady, I apologize for the interruption. The Hand and your father require your presence in the Hand’s solar.” The young boy, twelve years of age at most, stuttered out.

“Of course, would you be so kind as to lead the way?” You smiled as you lowered the crown from your head and placed it on the table, assuming you’d be returning in a short while.

-

The dim, torchlit corridors leading to the Hand’s solar were unfamiliar at first sight, but as you ventured further with the young page, the memories started swarming back. The afternoon teas with the two families, Valarr’s sixth nameday morrow, and sitting idly while your father discussed lordly matters with Prince Baelor surfaced with every step you took.

Soon enough, you stood in front of the familiar double doors leading to Baelor’s solar. This time, you patiently waited as the page announced you before stepping in. You were greeted by the sight of Baelor sitting at his desk, your father sat in the armchair facing him. The candlelights bestowed a rather serious atmosphere in the room. 

“Father, my Lord Hand,” you took a shallow curtsy, “I have heard you sent for me.” You searched their faces for hints as to what this may be about, but failed miserably.

“My lady, thank you for joining us,” Baelor tilted his head. “We have quite important matters to discuss with you, specifically-“ he briefly searched for words, “regarding your marriage pact.”

Your head went blank. “..What?” What is it with a marriage pact now?

Letting the evidence speak for itself, Baelor slid a piece of parchment in your direction. You approached his desk, and lifted the document to your eyes. The parchment was obviously quite old, but not old enough to crumble in your hands. The soft, smooth surface indicated frequent handling, as did the numerous creases. The writing upon it was carved into the hide in a child’s handwriting, and it contained a very briefly written marriage contract between you and Valarr. When your eyes reached the end of the parchment, you identified your own handwriting as a child, crooked and wonky in a way the late Septa Marya used to scold you about. Your thumb traced the wax seals, worn down by time but still obviously genuine.

Oh. You now feintly recalled the day where you produced this document. It came as a surprise that Valarr had kept this all this time, but then all Valarr did the last few days was surprise you. 

“Valarr presented this contract to the Small Council this morrow, he says he will not take anyone else to wife.” Baelor calmly explained, watching your face closely. “The Grand Maester has inspected the document himself, and has declared it genuine. I initially wished to discuss this matter with your father alone, but he has insisted on hearing your opinions on this. Believe me my lady, neither of us will see you married unwillingly on the basis of a pact you signed at the age of six.”

You briefly unpacked your mental balance scale, weighing your options. The benefits included the fact that 1. he was your dearest childhood companion, 2. he had grown into a quite handsome man, and 3. he was considerate, gentle and kind. The only drawback was.. Well, you rummaged through your head, but failed to come up with any. 

“Will you have him?” Baelor asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern at your silence.

“Yes, I will,” the words left your lips without a hint of hesitance as you placed the parchment back on the table.

“Are you sure, daughter?” It was your father’s turn to question you.

“Yes, why not?” You shrugged. “He’s grand.”

“Grand?” The Hand’s eyebrows rose in amusement at you describing his son as grand. You and Valarr’s antics today were certainly providing Baelor’s facial muscles with quite an exercise.

You nodded, as if your statement was to explain anything and you did not understand what the confusion was about. He truly was grand, after all. There wasn’t much else you could wish for in a future husband. The crown prince and your father were staring at you with a look one could only describe as bewilderment.

“Just to confirm, you will accept the terms of this.. contract, and take my son as your lawful husband?” Baelor asked, a slight look of confusion upon his eyes, wondering whether you had heard the question correctly.

“I will, my prince.” You nodded again, your casual tone steadfast.

“Then it is settled,” The Hand looked to your father, who nodded in agreement.

As you and your father took your leaves from the solar and shut the doors behind you, you came face to face with Valarr, who had obviously been pacing. His gaze shifted between you and your father, a look of hopefulness evident in his eyes.

“Val,” you softly called his name. “Guess we truly are getting married now.” You shrugged lightly, and giggled. 

A sigh of relief punched itself out of him, and he looked to your father.

“You have my blessings, my prince. You can consider yourselves.. officially betrothed now.” He offered a slight bow.

“That is most wonderful news,” his face split into a smile as he stepped towards you to clasp your hand within his own two hands. “I swear, I will do the utmost to make you happy, anything you want. Simply tell me, and I will see it done. Even if it is not in my power, I promise I will make it so.”

You blushed, then looked down, suppressing a wide grin. Only then, your eyes trailed down to his right hand, where the small, children’s sized signet ring rested upon his little finger. Your breath caught in surprise as the torchlight glanced off the polished band.

“You kept it,” You murmured.

Valarr looked confused for a moment, but lowered his gaze to follow yours. When he realized what you’d meant, his joyous smile melted into a more calm, fond one.

“Of course I have, it’s from you. And I promised to always cherish it.” 

Oh. You felt as though somebody had smacked you on the back of the head. Every hint, every glance, every word clicked into place in that moment. Valarr had been in love with you all along, since you were all but children. He’d taken care to remember all your childish promises to each other, even keeping the scrap of parchment tucked away safely for nigh on a decade. 

“Have you really? After all this time?” Your voice was hushed, your heart picking up its pace in your ribcage. Your lips parted slightly in awe.

“Yes, love. It’s always been you.” Finally, he confessed, his beautiful, mismatched eyes gazing adoringly at you. 

As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

- Epilogue -

When you returned to your family’s assigned quarters, your motherr was already waiting at the tea table, eagerly waiting to hear what all the fuss had been about. When your father retold the events of the evening, she was practically bouncing in her seat in excitement at your betrothal.

“In retrospect, I must ask you, daughter,” your father turned his head towards you, “have you been aware of the existence of that document all this time?”

“Frankly, I had forgotten,” you shrugged. “But now that I saw it, I do remember sneaking into Prince Baelor’s office that day.” Your parents tried to look scandalized, but the air of amusement was evident.

“Darling, she did try to tell us that one time, remember? When we told her we were leaving King’s Landing.” Your mother’s eyes lit up, recalling your confession which they both had assumed was simply a child’s fancy. “She said that she was going to marry him, and that they promised.”

“Well, nobody expects their six-year-old daughter to go and sign a marriage contract,” your father snorted. Honestly, that was a fair assessment.

“The most important thing is, it did turn out quite well,” you held up your palms in defence, a smirk on your face. “I am quite satisfied with the match, if I dare say so myself.”

Your parents laughed out at your understatement laced with a jest. Indeed, it had turned out quite alright. 

Taglist: @good-night-starlight @enouche @literallyafallenangel @rakiroad

"A guest." Johnny reluctantly confirmed.

"Well, no matter. Is she in the back?"

"Yes," Johnny got to his feet, leaning forward as Alastor linked arms with Charlie once again, leading her behind the counter, "but I really don't think it's a good idea to... and they're gone."

"Wasn't that rude?" Charlie asked as Alastor pulled her behind the curtain that separated the main store from the backrooms and Rosie's apartment, "Oh no, is that guy going to get in trouble? Because of us?"

"Everything will be just fine my dear, don't you worry." Alastor patted her hand reassuringly as they came to stop before a door.

Letting Charlie's arm fall free, he straightened his jacket just the slightest bit before knocking on the door. There was a moment of silent anticipation before a voice from the other side called:

"Who is it?!"

"Alastor, Rosie." Alastor replied calmly.

There was a rustling of fabric, a handful of hasty footsteps, and the door swung open to reveal a woman. She was tall and beautiful in her long dress and her wide brimmed hat.

"Oh my stars!" she exclaimed with a bright smile, "Do my eyes deceive me? Alastor? Alastor! Where have you been? These halls really lost some of their sparkle without your lively presence and-"

The woman, Rosie, trailed off as she caught sight of Charlie standing beside her dear friend.

"Oh, who's this you brought with you? Come now, Alastor, she's much too young for you. Oh, I'm just kidding. But where are your manners, Mister? Introduce us, why don't you?"

"Ah, yes, Charlie, this is Rosie: the most darling, delightful, and dangerous Overlord this side of the pentagram."

At his words, Rosie smiled, giving a perfect curtsy. It was as her form lowered that Charlie caught sight of the interior of the room, and the strange seated figure it housed. Alastor seemed not to have noticed and as Rosie straightened herself up again, she laughed slightly.

"Oh, always such a charmer."

"And Rosie," Alastor continued, "it is my pleasure to introduce you to Princess Charlie Morningstar, daughter of Lucifer and heir to the throne of Hell."

Charlie smiled weakly, waving slightly at the imposing and nearly off-puttingly cheerful woman.

"How do you do?" she asked awkwardly, "I am very sorry for interrupting your meeting, I tried to get Alastor to wait but..."

"Oh, yes!" Rosie suddenly exclaimed, almost as if she had forgotten about her previous guest in all the excitement, "Come on in you two, I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

Charlie was about to protest when Rosie grabbed her by the arm, dragging her into the room. Alastor followed, turning his back as he shut the door behind them. Charlie's mouth fell open slightly as her eyes finally saw the truth of Rosie's guest.

She was tall, probably tall enough to rival Alastor or Rosie herself. Skin tinged slightly blue, she seemed to be covered in a faint gold dust that clung to her draped, toga-like dress and skin in equal amount. Heaps of gold jewelry hung on every inch of her as well, wrapping her wrists, her neck, her ankles, her fingers, even braided into her hair. Resting atop her head was a crown of gold with a half moon on it, her feet were bare. With wide, white eyes that nearly seemed unseeing, the woman watched Charlie carefully.

"Can I offer you something to eat?" Rosie was asking, but Charlie could barley hear her, unable to break eye contact with the woman, "I'm sure I have a leg around here or something..."

"I am afraid were not here for food." Alastor thankfully stepped in, turning to Rosie with closed eyes and a wide smile, "We happen to be in need of some help."

"Alastor?" the woman spoke and her voice resounded in itself, loud yet soft at the same time, singular and yet somehow plural.

"Well, aren't you fresh."

That was the first thing she had ever said to him. Alastor had been wandering Hell, minding his own business when he had heard that voice say those words and felt a fire ignited in him. Slowly, he had turned around to see a pair of towering demons. Overlords, he realized, and big ones at that. Alastor's smile sharpened at its edges as he began to formulate a plan.

Charlie turned at last, as if whatever spell the stranger had cast on her had broken at the sound of her voice, to look at Alastor in mild confusion. She heard his breath hitch in his throat. The man in question was frozen, his ears twitching wildly, his eyes now wide open.

"Is that you?" the demon asked again.

Alastor somehow seemed to reassemble himself before their very eyes. Slowly, he turned to the room's only occupied chair.

"Who are you?"

Alastor feigned innocence, looking up at the titan herself as she took a step forward. In an instant, she stood at his height, looking him dead in the eyes.

"An odd one too." she hummed thoughtfully, white eyes tracking the stars, reading his future it almost seemed, "Most people go with what before who."

Alastor was unsure how to respond to that one. The titan chuckled, a grin flashing across her face. It was unexpected, disconcerting. Alastor hadn't thought her face capable of any expression save solemn disinterest. She turned her head slightly to the side, looking back over her shoulder to her companion.

"Zestial, cara mea?"

The spidery demon took a step forward, meeting her eyes.

"Yes?"

"Don't you have something you need to be getting to?"

Alastor may have been dumbstruck, but he wasn't stupid. He heard the order as clearly as if she had not bothered with the formalities of disguising it. It shocked Alastor to his core. This might be his first time encountering Zestial but, he had heard the demon's name before. Most frequently, it had been spat at him by his victims who claimed that one of Hell's oldest and most respected demons would come for him. So who was this other overlord, the titan? Sure, he'd heard of her before but enough that such blatant disrespect towards Hell's most respected made sense? No. Not at all, in fact.

Zestial paused a moment before bowing his head slightly.

"You're quite right." he hummed, "I will be seeing you presently I expect?"

"Perchance." the titan lazily replied, her gaze having long since switched back to Alastor, set on analyzing his features, "I'll let you know."

With another polite bow, Zestial had turned and began walking in the opposite direction. The titan held an arm out for Alastor. He looked at it curiously before meeting the demon's eye's again. She laughed.

"So suspicious. I thought you we're the one killing overlords, not me."

His eyes went wide.

"How do you..." he cleared his throat, "how did you know?"

It was a stupid question and he knew it. There hadn't been any secret keeping, not really. Sure, he never outright said he was the Radio Demon who broadcasted screams but he supposed there couldn't be many Radio Demon's out there really. It didn't matter that he had only been going after overlords for a month or so now, she was one. Of course she would know.

"Let's go for a walk, shall we?"

All it took was one look. Suddenly, he was new again, spat fresh out of life on Earth and in to Hell's gaping maw. One look at her, and he dissolved at the edges, forming and reforming his own ability to speak and comprehend the world around him.

"It is." the woman hummed, a wide smile breaking across her face, revealing the blackness of her teeth, her mouth.

Alastor soon formed a bit of a soft spot for the inhuman overlord. It was that first meeting, that first walk. He had asked, hunting for information to wield against her, about her life on Earth and in Hell. It was her fault really, for answering. That's what had him stuck.

Y/n had laid her life out for him like a freshly pressed table cloth. She had been raised on the streets of ancient Rome and executed as a witch. She was perhaps the oldest demon remaining in Hell, the exterminations having eventually wiped out even the strongest members of her times. Just as Alastor had been reborn as a deer due to his death, so too was she reborn as what they had accused her of. Every ritual, every spell, prophecy itself all worked for her. It was then Alastor understood the interaction he had witnessed between Zestial and Y/n, then he understood the respect.

He found himself drawn to her more and more and, somehow, he always seemed to be able to find her when he went searching. He assumed it was some strange magical nonsense she controlled. Alastor didn't question it.

Y/n showed him Hell in a way he had never seen it before. She taught him where to gather herbs and how to use them, how to bend the earth to his will, how to spin iunges and call down the storms, the rain, the moon. Alastor devoured, fed by her hand.

It was odd, Charlie had never seen a demon like her before. The white eyes, the teeth black with what seemed to be darkness, the gold. All of it was off putting yet somehow, captivating. Alastor seemed to be acting weird, his eyes flitting wildly across the woman, taking in her every detail. Charlie wasn't sure what to do about that.

In some sense, Alastor seemed to be scared. In another, he was in an overjoyed state of disbelief. Charlie wasn't sure which was more disconcerting, or how to respond to either and so, she simply watched.

"I have a question, mea ocella."

Y/n announced one day and Alastor turned from where he sat spinning stories into his microphone at her feet. That was what she had called him, her little eye. She told him it was a term of endearment. Alastor had no reason to doubt. The red grass swayed slightly in the breeze as he looked up at her, immediately bringing a halt to his broadcast.

"What is it?"

"You've been so set on ending all us overlords for so long now," she hummed, "wouldn't you like to do something different?"

"Something like what?"

"See from the other side of the glass."

Her white eyes glowed blue, the gold on her skin shining out into the world around like stars. Alastor sighed.

"You're prophesying again."

She nodded in agreement. Y/n had never seen the point in lying, she had never known its use. Not since before she could remember, back in the times she lived. They were so distant now, so immaterial and unimportant she rarely payed those memories much mind.

"So, what is it you see me doing?"

"Simple riddle or play on words?"

The two types of prophesy, the two options. Alastor put a finger to his chin, humming in thought.

"Simple riddle. Please, not in dactylic hexameter if you would, decoding that always gives me a headache."

"But that has been the meter of prophecy since Justice herself sat on the Delphic throne, mea ocella." Y/n retorted in surprise, meeting Alastor's eyes.

"Yeah, well."

Y/n laughed lightly, looking back out blankly toward the future.

"As you wish, ocella. Just this once. My gift to you."

Alastor hummed his non-comital thanks, turning his gaze back out the the skyline of the city as well.

"One will be two, two will be four, when that number comes be ready for more. Seven years past under grim sudden stress, four becomes ten, I'll tell you what happens next. Help one bright star to the top, not too far, and you will be free from the one not the three."

"Rhymes? Really?"

Y/n looked down at him, the glow fading from her as their eyes met and the future vanished from the scope of her vision.

"You asked for no hexameter, I still get to have fun."

"Yeah, yeah."

The pair fell into a comfortable silence. Alastor ran the words of her fortune in his head, trying to gain any semblance of reason from them.

"They don't sound very... avoidable."

"That's because it's not one of the ones you can change."

"Oh."

Y/n pulled herself to her feet suddenly, her chiton swirling around her. Alastor watched in awe as her image flickered in the air for a moment between the image of herself just a head shorter than him, the one who loomed around nine feet tall, and some three headed monster at what must've been five stories. Leaning, she held a hand out for him to grasp. It took Alastor a moment to realize, shaking his head slightly as he at last accepted Y/n's help and got to his feet.

"Where are we going?"

"I've decided you are going to be an overlord, mea ocella."

"Why?"

"I think it might help you down the line."

It had been years since Alastor had seen her. Long before he had taken his so called seven year sabbatical, Y/n had vanished. Alastor knew she wasn't dead, he would have been able to tell if she was dead. Surly the world would have shifted in some new and strange way to lose the goddess of the crossroads, the titan, Hekate made flesh and blood. Nothing like that had happened and so he knew she was alive, just not where or how.

Y/n's prophecies were always accurate. Standing here before her now, Alastor recalled her words from all those decades before.

One will be two, two will be four. When that number comes, be ready for more.

One had been just him. Two? When he had died and met his shadow. Alastor realized now that three had been Y/n herself and that the fourth important person who had come into his afterlife was the very person who owned his soul.

Seven years past under grim sudden stress, four becomes ten, I'll tell you what happens next.

Seven years he'd been gone, indeed under an unexpected and disastrous situation. When, after seven long years, he had returned to Hell, he had gone to the hotel. It was at the Hazbin Hotel that he not only met Charlie, Vaggie, Angel, and Sir Pentious but that they became vital parts of his life along with Husk and Nifty who before then had mostly existed on the periphery. Those six, plus the original four, made ten.

Help one bright star to the top, not too far, and you will be free from the one not the three.

All along, all those years ago, she had known. Alastor had always respected Y/n, always harbored a soft and disconcerting love for the witch. Never before now had either felt so overwhelming. Alastor took a trembling step forward from his place at Charlie's side. The world closed in, she was the only thing he could see.

Y/n smiled as he sunk to his knee before her, his head bowed.

"Mea ocella." she happily hummed, lifting his head up gently with the tips of her bluish grey fingers.

"Y/n."

----

This fic will probably have a part two.

TAGS:

You sat at the table you and Alastor always started your mornings at, usually chatting before the day got busy. Today Alastor was out, so you sat alone. Down the hall came Mimzy, who spotted you immediately. Her eyes narrowed as she saw you at that table. There was really nothing about you that could make someone hate you so much, but Mimzy's jealousy of you was undeniable.

The click of Mimzy's heels brought you out of your thoughts as you looked to her coming over to you. "Still waitin' on Alastor, are ya?" She asked. "Well, he's out this morning, so I'm not sure when I'll be seeing him." Mimzy thought for a moment, before a cruel idea slithered into her mind. "Well, sweetie, I really don't think there's a point in waiting up on him." You tilted your head, confused. "I'm sorry?" Mimzy sat down in the chair that Alastor usually occupied. "C'mon, honey. You really haven't figured it out by now?" You didn't know what she was on about. "I guess I must be missing something." Mimzy rested her chin on her palm. "Honey, I hate to break it to ya, but Alastor doesn't like you." Pain shot through your chest like a bullet. Mimzy knew she had you now. "[Your Name], he doesn't even like you as a friend!" You looked at her in disbelief. "That's ridiculous. We have-" Mimzy cut you off. "Has Alastor ever been the first to approach ya? No. You're always the one running to catch up with him, start the conversations unless it's a 'good morning' from him, and you're always pestering him!" You looked down at your hands, tears threatening to spill. "Honey, I've known Alastor a lot longer than you. I can easily tell by now when he doesn't like someone. He's only pretending because he doesn't want a friendship lecture from Miss Princess. Honestly, how could he ever like you? I mean, you'd probably be horrible for him, anyway."

You felt like someone was just stabbing you right now, each insult and lie from Mimzy you thought was truth biting at you and making you feel so small. Mimzy put on a fake sympathetic face. "I just wanted to warn ya now before you got in too deep." She stood up and left. The sound of her heels faded and you were left in a suffocating silence.

-

The hotel had felt like a cage rather than a home since that day. You avoided Alastor at all costs, and everyone knew something was wrong. Charlie had asked Alastor if he knew what was wrong, why you haven't been smiling, but he was clueless.

Alastor sat at the table where you two always met in the morning, patiently waiting for your arrival, but met with nothing for the sixth day in a row. He spotted Angel Dust walking by. "Angel Dust, has [Your Name] left her room yet?" Angel stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, his second pair shrugging. "I don't think so. She's been so weird lately." Alastor thought for a moment, before rising from the table and making his way up the stairs.

-

The quiet of your room was interrupted by a knock at the door. You rose from your seat and opened the door, but an immediate pain struck your heart when you saw it was Alastor... But his expression was softer than usual. "My dear, may I come in?" You hesitated, but you gave in. You opened the door for him to step inside and shut it when he was in the room. He kept his arms folded behind his back, and turned away from you. "You've been strange these past few days, my dear." You kept your eyes on the ground, not able to find words. He turned to face you, concern filling him, a strange thing for the Radio Demon. "Did something happen?"

Mimzy's words from a few days ago played in your head on loop, causing you more pain. But in the end, Alastor was your friend. You needed the truth from him. "...Mimzy said you hated me. She said I should stop with this damn crush I've had on you for so long now because I'm not good for you." Alastor was taken aback. He felt his heart skip when you confessed you've had feelings for him for a seemingly long time now. You hugged yourself around the middle. "I just need to know the truth, Alastor. Do I mean anything to you? Even just as a friend?" Alastor came closer to you, his voice soft and low. "My dear, you mean everything to me." Your eyes widened and you looked up at him. Alastor's smile was tender. "Darling, don't believe Mimzy's words, only mine. You are so very precious to me." You could feel the tears welling in your eyes. Alastor chuckled, gently taking your chin between his fingers. "Don't cry, my dear. Smile! You're never fully dressed without one." A smile crept onto your face and a short laugh escaped you. "There, much better." he said. He leaned in close, and kissed your temple. The action about made your heart combust. He smiled against your skin. "Now come downstairs, dear. Everyone's missed your lovely smile."

He took your hand and led you out of your room, leading you down the hall. "And my dear? Don't worry about Mimzy." You looked up at him and he met your gaze. "She isn't welcome here. If she ever steps foot in this hotel again, she'll regret it."

-

“Mmh…” You blamed the babe growing within you. Surely that had to be the reason, you thought, as you kissed him back with equal fervor, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while his arms lowered you to your marital bed.

“Heh,” Aerion chuckled under his breath, watching your screwed-shut eyes as you chased his lips, incredibly wanton to him.

Strange, wasn’t it? The way life could twist bitter enemies into lovers before either of them even realized it themselves.

Your breath hitched as his hands slid beneath your knees, spreading your legs apart. He broke the kiss then, drinking in the sight of you— and you became self-conscious, only then realizing that he had made a quick work of your dress and you had been left in nothing but your lace undergarments.

“Y-You can’t...” You pressed your lips together, instinctively touching the swell of your belly. “That won’t… be good for the babe.”

Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.

“Oh?” he drawled, violet eyes glinting as they swept slowly over you. “Then why, pray tell, are you dressed like this, sweet wife?”

He was right, this was your own doing. Why would you have chosen such a racy, provokating thing to wear tonight?

Perhaps because—even if you wouldn’t admit it—a part of you had already suspected the evening would end with his hands on you and that dangerously pleased look in his eyes.

“A lesser man might say you want to tempt him,” Aerion mused, tracing a slow finger along your cheek, his smile still unbearably wicked.

“So you are not tempted?” you questioned boldly, meeting his gaze, despite the furious heat blooming across your face.

“No.” He shook his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours, his voice smug and smooth as velvet. “I am, after all, a man blessed with extraordinary restraint.”

He said that, yet the way his sharp violet eyes focusing on your lips and the way his fingers drifted between your legs said otherwise.

Really, what man could resist the sight of his wife beneath him— soft, flushed, thoroughly marked as his with a babe in her belly while pretending innocence with those wide, coy eyes?

Your husband decided you were playing with fire, so you would get burned. Aerion suddenly slipped two fingers inside your underwear, before pushing one into your folds that made you wide-eyed and suck in a sharp breath—

“You just boasted about restraint!”

“And I possess it. I’m just choosing not to neglect my good wife,” he countered, his cruel grin returning as he inserted another finger, making you gasp in process.

Perfect. You were unraveling by the second, and he had barely even begun.

“There are, after all, many ways to pleasure an expecting wife like you... without compromising the babe.”

Such was your marital life now— with your prince bringing you pleasure nights after nights with the same greedy devotion he seemed to reserve only for you.

And somehow, this was merely the beginning of your happily ever after.

Ever since the word got out that you were with child, Aerion had become more protective of you.

Suddenly, servants were reprimanded for allowing sharp objects near your chambers, guards trailed several paces behind you whenever you wandered the gardens alone and healthy meals appeared at exact hours, prepared according to whichever elderly midwife had most recently filled Aerion’s head with warnings.

And once again, you noticed it most that afternoon when you merely tried to descend the stairs.

Your husband had been halfway through a conversation with his steward when he abruptly stopped speaking altogether, violet eyes narrowing upon you as you placed a hand against the railing.

“…What are you doing?”

You turned to him, blinking innocently. “Walking.”

Not that he would admit it or realize it himself though.

The steward wisely lowered his head, pretending sudden fascination with the floor tiles as Aerion strode towards you with an irritated frown.

“You nearly slipped yesterday,” he hissed, sliding an arm around your waist as he carefully guided you down the stairs.

You rolled your eyes, remembering how you stepped on a parchment the night before. “It was a harmless accident— and for the last time, no, I wasn’t slipping!”

Truthfully, beneath your outward annoyance, deep inside, you were sort of delighted. Because truly, who would have imagined that the arrogant dragon prince would express concern in ways that were somehow endearing?

Or more like, inconveniently endearing.

“Huzzah,” you declared with the flattest tone the moment your feet reached the bottom step, folding your arms dramatically as you turned to him. “I have survived the dreadful staircase, lord husband. Thanks to you.”

Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.

. . .

Soon, it was evident before the rest of Summerhall too.

You lifted your chin, eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “You dismissed a maid yesterday because she served me tea that was slightly too hot. Aerion, this has become ridiculous!”

The Bright Prince, however, remained unmoved, believing his actions were perfectly sensible. “She had one job yet failed to perform it properly. It could have scalded you.”

“You also confiscated my riding boots!”

“You are not riding, wife—”

Behind the half-open door of the solar across the hall, two spectators to your marital quarrel were your husband’s brothers. Daeron raised an eyebrow while young Aegon looked moments away from bursting into hysterical laughter.

“You are enjoying this far too much, Egg,” Daeron muttered dryly.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered back. “This is Aerion we are talking about. Aerion!” He gestured dramatically towards the door with both hands. “The same brother who once claimed affection was ‘a weakness designed by the gods to humiliate men’!”

Well, neither Daeron nor Egg had ever imagined they would witness their notorious middle brother reduced to hovering over his wife. This was indeed a sight.

“I have ridden since childhood!”

“And now you are carrying my child, woman—”

Daeron gave up at last, a chuckle escaping him too. “I never thought I would live long enough to see Aerion become a mother hen.”

“A dragon hen,” Egg corrected conspiratorially, as he strained his ears, thoroughly enjoying your marital dispute.

Another moon passed by, and the maester advised you to get more rest from now on as later moons will prove far more taxing on your body.

However, a royal summons arrived from King’s Landing not long after. The King himself intended to host a grand celebration tourney in honor of the birth of your first child—and both you and your husband were commanded to remain at court for the remainder of your confinement.

You were leaving Summerhall behind, but that was the least of your concerns.

Aerion would be entering the lists.

You had known he would before he even said it aloud. Aerion Brightflame would sooner stop breathing than ignore an opportunity to prove himself before the realm. Under ordinary circumstances, you would proudly bestow your favor upon him and watch him ride with your head held high, but—

Your labor pains could begin while he was in the field. He would be absent from the birthing chambers. Worse, he could get injured—

The thought should not have affected you as much as it did. Men rode in tourneys, princes fought for glory, and discomfort in childbed is how women served the realm.

And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—

“The shape sits high,” the midwife in King’s Landing had declared while measuring your belly, now heavier and more pronounced than ever in your seventh moon. “And my lady craves salted meats more than sweets. It should be a boy.”

Everyone seemed most pleased by the possibility. Aerion himself made it clear he favored a son. You, however, found yourself uncertain what to feel.

. . .

“Where is my lady wife?”

Contrary to what most might have assumed, Aerion was not particularly pleased to be back in King’s Landing.

The long journey from Summerhall had exhausted you so thoroughly that you had scarcely risen from bed for several days. Sure, the grand tourney stirred his excitement— his grandsire honoring the birth of his firstborn with such spectacle was a distinction not even his cousin Valarr had received.

But King’s Landing was still where rumors of another Blackfyre uprising drifted through like smoke, and with your confinement only weeks away, Aerion found himself increasingly ill at ease. These days, peace only came when you were somewhere within his sight.

“The Lady Lannister is bathing in the royal spring, my prince.”

The spring behind Aegon’s High Hill had long since become property of the royal family, secluded from common visitors and hidden behind walls of stone and tangled greenery. It was meant to be a place of relaxation— but still not somewhere his heavily pregnant wife should be wandering unattended.

His irritation simmered all the way through the winding path. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead as Aerion pushed past hanging branches with impatient steps. He had half a mind to rebuke you the moment he arrived—

But every thought dissolved into dust the instant he saw you.

You stood waist-deep within the pristine spring waters, your body half-submerged in the cool waters. A white shift covered your breasts, but the generous swell of your stomach was exposed under the sunlight. Layers of skirts floated around you like scattered clouds, preserving your modesty while doing very little to dull the breathtaking sight before him.

The sight of you beneath the open sky, drenched in sunlight and water was ethereal. He was rooted near the edge of the spring, spellbound.

At nights, he had worshipped that divine body of yours with greedy hands and wandering lips, had learned every sigh you tried to hide, had savored the softness of your thighs, and the sleepy way you clung to him.

But, in the light of day, the temptation of you felt almost cruel.

His gaze lowered shamelessly over the curve of your figure, lingering upon your barely concealed breasts first, before trailing lower. Pride unfurled hotly in his chest at the sight of your rounded belly, heavy and almost ripe. You carried his blood there.

Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to calm the sudden heat crawling beneath his skin.

You noticed him then.

Your eyes lifted towards to him, and the moment your face softened at the sight of him, whatever remained of his irritation died completely.

“Well?” you asked with a coy smile, tilting your head slightly. “Are you merely going to stare, husband… or are you going to join me?”

Like some bewitched mortal lured by a river nymph from old Valyrian tales, the Bright Prince descended the stone steps without hesitation. His boots scraped against damp stone as he shrugged off his doublet with careless impatience, dark eyes never once leaving you.

By the time he stepped into the spring, he was clad only in his dress shirt and breeches, the cool water curling around him as he crossed towards you and drew you effortlessly into his embrace from behind.

“Standing there as though the Maiden herself rose from the spring,” Aerion murmured against your ear, lips brushing the damp skin beneath it. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you intend to torment me in broad daylight?”

“I needed time to think,” you countered softly, though your breath caught when his wandering hands settled upon your chest beneath the wet fabric.

“To think? About what?”

You bit your lower lip as the waters lapped gently around the two of you. The way your face now marred with a frown made him click his tongue.

“Speak, wife. I dislike that look upon your face.”

“You are going to join the tourney,” you admitted at last, turning to face him. “While I may very well be laboring alone.”

“I shall return victorious,” he vowed, his violet irises blazing with conviction. “I shall place every honor I win before you and our child, just as it should be.”

Yet he could feel how you were unsatisfied with his answer. Aerion sighed quietly before lowering his mouth to your shoulder, brushing a kiss against your damp skin.

“You fret too much. The midwives will attend you day and night. You have nothing to fear— I will make certain of it.”

You pursed your lips, feeling foolish for being sullen knowing his presence would be demanded in the field regardless, but you just couldn’t help it.

Aerion fell silent for a moment, his hold around you tightening almost instinctively beneath the water.

“Look at me,” he commanded suddenly, and you did reluctantly, your lips still puckered in dissatisfaction.

Gods, how sweet could you be?

“Stop filling your little head with nonsense. I will return to you unscathed. Your task is to rest, eat whatever strange cravings seize you, and carry my child safely.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t stray from his gaze.

“Aerion—”

“I’m not finished.” His tone sharpened, though the hand cradling your face remained gentle. “I have ridden in tourneys since I was barely tall enough to hold a lance. I have been thrown from horses, split open, battered, and yet I remain standing before you now. And you think some hedge knight or a lordling’s second son could best me?”

A ghost of arrogance curved his lips. “I think not.”

His violet eyes swept over your face then. Gods, you looked painfully sweet like this— so soft with vulnerability.

“You carry blood of the dragon,” he murmured, his palm spreading over the curve of your belly beneath the water. “Do not insult either of us by imagining I would fail to return to you. And if your labor does begin while I am away...”

The thought seemed to sour his expression. “Then you will endure it exactly as I know you will. Know this, I will return to your side the moment I am able.”

You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”

Aerion snorted, his lips curling into a smirk. “You married the wrong man if you expected sweet comforts from me, wife.”

You let out a soft scoff despite yourself, some of your spirits finally lifting seeing his infuriating confidence.

“There,” he murmured smugly, poking your cheek when you broke into a little smile. “Are you done sulking now?”

“Perhaps not for long,” you countered lightly, throwing him a look. “If my husband fails to comfort me properly, perhaps I ought to find another man willing to do so.”

Aerion’s expression hardened at once, violet eyes narrowing as his grip around your waist tightened beneath the water.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

A dark look crossed his face, then—

He devoured your lips, one powerful arm locked securely around your waist while his other hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head. The cool spring water rippled sharply around you as he deepened the kiss with blatant possessiveness, as though determined to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

When he broke the kiss, you breathlessly clutched his body for support. Breathing heavily against your lips, his voice dropped to a fiercely low growl—

“I wouldn’t let another man touch you while I still draw breath... oh sweet wife of mine.”

“My lady, I trust you are well?”

House Targaryen hosted a grand luncheon several days later within the halls of the Red Keep, gathering notable lords and ladies from across the realm.

You had been navigating the crowd with practiced grace when a warm, familiar voice cut through the ambient noise. Turning, you found yourself facing your cousin-by-law, the Prince Valarr Targaryen.

“Your Grace,” you greeted with a bright smile and slight curtsy. “Yes, I have been well.”

The Young Prince had arrived from Dragonstone with his wife. From where you were, you could see the princess consort mingling with other guests with radiant smile and perfect decorum.

She truly is beautiful, you often thought to yourself. Delicate features, graceful bearings, eyes that seemed almost luminous beneath the candlelight— it was easy to understand why bards wrote songs about her beauty.

Valarr’s gaze dipped towards the unmistakable swell of your stomach, far too prominent now to be concealed beneath your dress.

“Good to see you, really. How far along are you now?”

A wistful smile came to your lips. “Near enough that everyone has begun hovering over me as though I might break apart at any moment.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him. “Still, you are in your most delicate state now. I imagine my cousin can’t stay still as well.”

“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”

You were still smiling when another voice suddenly joined the conversation. You turned to find Lord Manderly, stout and red-faced from the midday wine, waddled over with an easy grin, goblet in hand.

“With a wife as lovely as you, oh lady—” he slurred, “I imagine Prince Aerion guards you like a dragon atop treasure!”

“You flatter me, my lord,” you answered politely.

Lord Manderly waved a dismissive hand, laughing boisterously. “Not at all, not at all! Though I confess, recalling how the Prince Aerion making quite the spectacle of himself—” he turned to Valarr, “with you, my prince, years ago...”

Ah, that story you once heard in a passing too. The tourney in King’s Landing, in which Valarr and Aerion fought each other in a contest of arms, supposedly, over pride.

Valarr’s expression shifted almost immediately. “My lord—”

But Lord Manderly, either oblivious or too deep in wine to notice, continued on cheerfully enough—

“For a long time, everyone was talking about how the Bright Prince was quite captivated by Her Grace’s beauty! Enough to demand her favor and fight her husband!”

You blinked, realization settled over you with sudden, uncomfortable clarity.

“My lord, if I may.” Valarr cleared his throat, a restrained but cross look on his face. “Words are wind. A tourney floor is full of grand gestures and exaggerated flattery. I assure you, everyone would do well not to concern themselves with such baseless rumors.”

Lord Manderly’s red face drained of color all of a sudden as the weight of his social blunder finally registered.

“Oh Seven— forgive me, my lady!” he said quickly, turning towards you with genuine embarrassment. “A foolish old man’s rambling, is all! My deepest, most sincere apologies— I meant absolutely no disrespect to you, nor to Prince Aerion!”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Manderly,” you replied smoothly, your voice a perfectly crafted mask of composure. “The wine is indeed potent today.”

Relieved to be dismissed, Manderly excused himself with hasty bows, and Valarr quickly steered the conversation back to safer waters before he also excused himself from you.

You appeared to be smiling, but deep inside, you were perturbed.

Your eyes involuntarily scanned the crowded solarium, searching through the sea of silks and velvet until they landed on your husband standing amongst a cluster of knights and courtiers.

And right in that moment, you caught how his gaze followed not you, but the princess consort at the far corner of the hall.

Something inside your chest curled unpleasantly, but you decided not to dwell in it. Whatever might have existed between them once, they meant nothing now, you assured yourself.

So, to distract your wandering thoughts, you reached for the tea the server had offered to you, thinking to calm your nerves—

Until the citrus scent suddenly turned rancid in your senses, so putrid it made your stomach lurch violently that you spit it out and let go of the porcelain cup.

. . .

When a loud crash rang through the solarium, Aerion’s attention snapped instantly toward the disturbance.

And much to his surprise— in the middle of it stood you.

Standing amidst shattered porcelain, you had one hand covered your mouth while the other clutched at your abdomen, your face drained of all color as though you might collapse where you stood.

He immediately dashed towards where you were, nearly sending one poor lord stumbling aside in his haste. The crowd parted instinctively for him as he crossed the hall at frightening speed.

By the time he reached you, his hands were already on you.

“What happened?” he demanded immediately, gripping your arms as his eyes swept frantically over your form.

You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. “T-The tea…”

“What?”

You shook your head weakly, leaning into him. “It tastes so foul—”

His gaze snapped toward the shattered mess beside your feet. Without hesitation, Aerion crouched and snatched up what remained of the broken cup from the floor. The pungent scent hit almost immediately, and his expression darkened in realization.

Moon tea. He recognized it instantly—it had once been his most reliable safeguard during his years frequenting whorehouse before he wed you. He had forced it into those unkempt women after he was finished with them.

However, even a single sip could have made you miscarry. Someone has intended exactly that.

Aerion surged back to his feet at once, turning towards you so quickly with wild eyes.

“Did you drink any of it?” he demanded harshly. “Did you?”

You shook your head immediately. “No—”

Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.

Aerion closed his eyes briefly before gripping the back of your head, pulling you to his embrace. You breathed in his scent, your nausea receded somewhat.

Around the two of you, the solarium had begun to descend into chaos. Voices overlapped in alarm while guards moved swiftly through the hall. Servants looked petrified, several nobles already retreating from the tables entirely as whispers of poison spread like wildfire.

Moon tea. At a royal luncheon. You. When Aerion lifted his head again, the relief in his expression had vanished entirely, and in its place was pure fury.

“Seal the hall,” Aerion ordered sharply, but at first, no one moved quickly enough for his liking. “I said seal the fucking hall!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall.

Kingsguard immediately surged into motion. Doors slammed shut. Panic rippled through the gathered guests as guards began seizing servants and blocking every exit from the hall.

“No one leaves this place,” Aerion continued, drawing you protectively against his side while his vengeful gaze remained fixed upon the crowd.

“I want every servant, cook, and miserable soul here questioned. One step forward— and I will have your head severed and hung to rot in Flea Bottom for all to see.”

You could feel the hammering of his heart in your ears. His expression still murderous, it was only when he looked back down at you did some fragment of restraint finally return to his face.

“You are certain you swallowed none of it?” he asked again, quieter and softer this time.

You looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I am certain.”

Aerion searched your face carefully, as though trying to convince himself you truly stood unharmed before him.

And in that moment, you found yourself clinging to him instinctively—your steadfast protector amidst the chaos.

The entire castle remained in uproar long after you had been escorted back to your chambers. The server who had handed you that accursed tea was apprehended with ease, and Aerion had gone personally to beat the fear of the gods into him in the dungeons.

Yet another Blackfyre loyalist hidden amongst the castle’s walls like a serpent. No one told you exactly what became of him, but when your prince returned not long after, there had been blood across the cuffs of his tunic that certainly had not belonged to him.

By then, relief and exhaustion had finally overtaken you, dragging you into a light and restless sleep. You awoke sometime later in his arms, to the soft crackling of the fire.

His deep violet eyes were fixed on you, dark shadows under them as if he hadn’t been resting at all.

“You’re not sleeping...?”

“Was about to.”

Though he tried to conceal it, exhaustion lingered plainly across his face. It was rare to see Aerion so bare and vulnerable like this.

The memory came rushing back all at once then. The putrid stench, the panic in the hall, the horrifying realization that someone had wanted you and your child dead before they had even drawn breath—

A tremor ran through you before you could suppress it and your husband engulfed you in his embrace, holding you tightly.

“Cease this at once, wife,” he whispered in your ear, sounding almost irritated despite his obvious and clumsy attempt at comfort. “So long as I draw breath, no one will harm you.”

Your eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”

“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”

“No.” You shook your head against his chest, your voice small and bitter. “Make him suffer first, and only then do you give him a painful death.”

That actually managed to pull a dark smile from him. “No,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against you. “I will make him rot first. Death is a mercy he has to earn.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips when you pulled away from his hold, though worry still lingered beneath your ribs.

“There.” Aerion brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his violet eyes warmer than you had ever seen before. “Better already.”

How both of you reached this point astonished even you. The mad boy who had terrorized your childhood, your enemy who had become your destined husband— Aerion Brightflame was your greatest bane of existence too.

Yet here you were, trusting him more than anyone else alive in Westeros. You knew his cruelty, but you also knew his loyalty—and you knew, just as surely as he would make anyone who ever came close to harm you rue the day they ever did, he would guard you like a dragon atop treasure.

And because of that, the doubt in your voice was softer than it might have once been when you finally asked:

“…What if the babe is a girl?”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately, as though the question itself puzzled him.

“A princess,” you explained, fingers drifting protectively over your stomach. “You value a son and heir above all else. But who could have known the will of the gods?”

Aerion stared at you for a long, unreadable moment, as though carefully weighing your words before at last letting out a scoff.

“Mark my words now, wife, for I will not repeat them. I require that this child, boy or girl, survives.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. However, his expression hardened slightly afterwards.

“And the same goes for you. If you don’t, I will never, ever forgive you.”

In that moment, you thought you would willingly give everything of yourself to place this child safely into his arms. You would give him a son too, gods willing.

You reached for your husband then, pulling him down into the purest and sweetest of a kiss.

“Be welcome, noble knights and lords of the realm!”

Commoners and nobles alike buzzed with excitement for the grand tourney, their cheers echoing throughout the stands. High up on the royal dais, King Daeron stood, his voice amplified by the roaring acoustics of the arena as he opened the games with salutations.

“...and this glorious day has been made all the more blessed by joyful news,” the good king proclaimed proudly. “My beloved granddaughter has begun her labors! May the Seven grant fortune to every combatant this day!”

Down on the field, however, the King’s words brought no celebration to the man affected most.

Aerion sat atop his warhorse, motionless. Beneath his dark armor, his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. While other knights waved jovially at the crowd, his gaze was locked entirely on the opposing end of the lists.

Your pains had started since last night. Through the early hours of midnight, you had endured them in silence, determined to hold yourself together a little longer, yet occasionally curling into him for comfort. By dawn, however, you were in tears, and every hour after that became a new torment for you.

But when it came time to see him off this morning, you had refused to look weak. Sweat clung to your face, and your eyes were glistening, but a fierce light burned right through them. Gripping his armor, you had hissed a command through gritted teeth:

“Win that fucking tourney, and only then are you allowed come back to me, husband.”

“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”

A violent, dark impatience overtook him.

“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”

If he had to tear through every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to get back to your side, he would do it. And he would do it quickly.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”

Lowering his visor with a sharp, echoing snap, Aerion gripped his lance. He would come back as a victor, exalted and feared, and you would give him his child.

Your child too. He knew already they would be sweet, just like you.

“—will choose his first opponent!”

. . .

The air inside your birthing chambers was thick by midday, smelling heavily of copper, sweat, and the sharp scent of crushed lavender oil the maids used to soothe the air.

But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.

Another of your heartbreaking wails filled the air when another violent contraction hit, seizing your spine and twisting your abdomen with a malice that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

“Push, my lady! You must push!” the midwife urged, her hands busy prodding you beneath the heavy linens. “The child is close, but you cannot lose your strength now!”

Your body felt broken, torn apart from the inside out. Your eyes were rimmed with tears of pain and pure exhaustion, blurring the stone walls of your chambers into a hazy nightmare.

Your prince was out there tearing through the realm’s finest knights just to earn the right to return to your side. He was conquering the field for you. For this child.

And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.

“Again!” the midwife commanded when that familiar, iron grip curling and seizing your womb once more. “Now, my lady!”

But the next wave was the most terrible pain you had ever experienced, and your voice cracked into raw scream as you pushed with every last shred of strength left within your body.

You could feel the crushing pressure, the burning fire, the blinding and unforgiving sensation of your very body being split apart—

The midwife cried, her voice rising in triumph over the distant rumble of the arena:

“I see the head! One more, my lady! Give me everything you have!”

. . .

“The Prince Aerion wins!”

He had done it. The second he threw the other knight off his horse and he yielded, he had ridden his warhorse, torn his helmet off, and marched towards your chambers like a specter of death.

In his frantic rush to end his final foe, he had made one careless mistake though— leaving his guard down just enough for a lance to slice a deep gash down his forearm, and now crimson blood dripped steadily onto the pristine floors with every step towards your chambers.

He had been told that you had tethered between life and death—shivering before falling unconscious the moment the child was born.

“My prince! You cannot go in there!” a maid cried, stepping in front of the heavy oak doors, her hands raised in horror. “You are covered in filth! The lady must be kept clean, the babe—”

“Get a maester to dress my wound,” he spat viciously, making the poor girl recoil. “Now.”

The maester came soon, scrambling to pour a wine over the wound to cleanse it, hastily wrapping a fresh linen binding over the gash. It was a rushed job, done in mere seconds. The white linen instantly bloomed with a fresh patch of red. His attendant quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face and helped him out of his armor as fast he could.

Aerion shoved them away after they were done, turning back to the heavy doors, but the midwives still stood there, hesitant between duty and fear.

His arm burned, exhaustion and blood loss leaving him half-delirious, and they knew better than to deny him his right. Aerion stormed into the chambers, drawing gasps from the wet nurses and your maids. Instinctively, every gaze in the room flickered toward the small bundle wrapped in linen within the cradle beside the hearth.

They expected him to demand his heir. They expected him to look for the son he had so desperately coveted—

But to their surprise, he didn’t even spare a glance at the cradle. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and went straight to where you lay still.

“Wife,” he breathed hoarsely, reaching for you at once. “I am here.”

You were deathly pale. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, as if you were pulling yourself back from a long, deep sleep.

Then, you looked up and smiled at him— so beautiful and tender it nearly broke him.

He gathered you into his arms, engulfing you in a fierce, crushing hug— pressing a hard kiss to the crown of your head. You let out a watery laugh, clutching at him too.

“It is a son,” you told him with pride. “He looks just like you.”

Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle at that. In truth, the idea of a daughter didn’t seem terrible to him at all right now.

In fact, now that the thought had crossed his mind, he found himself wanting a pretty little girl too... one who had your eyes and your smile.

. . .

History would fondly remember the romance between the bitterest enemies who found the truest of love, for the realm had borne witness to that auspicious day—

The dragon prince has won his triumph, and so has his princess.

Those three days had been unbearable. The maester assured you he would wake, that his body was strong, that there was no cause for despair—but his words did little to quiet the worry inside your chest. You had cried anyway and never left his bedside.

So when his fingers twitched in your grasp, it startled you from your half-asleep state, your head snapping up.

“Aerion?” Your voice came out small, fragile with hope as you leaned forward, eyes searching his face as you clutched his hand. “Aerion, can you hear me?”

His lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before finally lifting to reveal the Targaryen violet eyes. For a heartbeat, you felt relief crash into you so fiercely it nearly hurt.

But the moment his gaze found you, something felt… wrong.

“You—” His voice came in a rasp, eyes narrowed in disgust, and his words struck harder than any blade. “Why are you here?”

“Of course I’m here, you blockhead—” The insult slipped out before you could stop it, but then your breath caught in your throat when he withdrew his hand from your grasp.

“Aren’t you supposed to be far and away in Casterly Rock?” he snapped, his gaze raking over you with open offense. “What are you doing in my chambers, wench?”

The color drained from your face so quickly it left you dizzy. Your erratic heartbeat slammed against your ribs until it was all you could hear. Panic clawed its way up your throat as your entire body shook and your breath came in choked gasps.

He... he doesn’t—

“Maester!” You stumbled back from the bedside, your vision swimming with tears as you threw open the doors and yelled at your handmaiden. “Call for the maester!”

“My princes, my lady, forgive me... It appears from the severity of his fall, His Grace has suffered memory loss.”

Prince Maekar Targaryen stood near the foot of the bed, rigid and expression sharp as iron. Beside him was Daeron, who looked like he couldn’t believe what had befallen his brother, and young Aegon, who tried—and failed—to mask his distaste with poorly hidden curiosity.

Meanwhile you stood next to Egg, still numb.

The center of it all was Aerion. He merely cocked his head to the side even as the maester declared his state. He looked fine, unsettlingly so. Rested against his pillows, still pale but very much alive, his violet eyes were clear, as though nothing had happened to him at all.

“Well,” he huffed, glancing between people in his chamber with visible impatience, “you all look as though I’ve risen from the dead. Do enlighten me—what terribly important events have I missed?” And then his gaze flicked to his sire.

“Father, why are we still in Summerhall? Are you not the crown prince?”

You could have sworn Prince Maekar was this close to curse at him by how his voice coming almost in a hiss. “What nonsense are you spouting, boy?”

“Was Baelor not slain in a Trial of Seven? With Aerys and Rhaegel dead that would make you heir to the throne, would it not?” he asked so easily, as though he hadn’t just spoken something that was blatant treason.

An unbearable silence passed in the room, before Maekar turned sharply towards the maester.

“Tell me, did that fall knock the wits clean out of his head— and left my son a complete cretin?”

Maester Melanquin stiffened at once, clearly caught between honesty and survival. “Y-Your Grace, head injuries of such severity can… disturb the memory in unpredictable ways. It is not uncommon for the afflicted to recall events incorrectly...”

“Fuck me,” Maekar finally cursed, running a hand on his face. “Fuck us all.”

On the bed, Aerion let out a scoff. “This seems more like a nightmare than whatever dream I’ve been pulled from.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly at your side as a dull ache began to throb at your temple. Your husband hit his head, had altered memories, and worst of all—

His gaze then landed on you, and just as quickly his expression soured. “Why is she still here?”

He doesn’t recognize you.

Prince Maekar glanced at you, barely holding on the last strands of his patience.

“She is your wife, Aerion.”

“My what?”

Aerion’s attention snapped back to you. His eyes reassessed you from head to toe, as if he found you deeply questionable.

“You’re telling me that I chose her, out of all people?”

“Enough, boy.” Maekar’s voice dropped a degree.

“Father, you must have forced my hand,” Aerion spat, unconvinced. “Because I refuse to believe I married this dullard willingly.”

You knew this was not the Aerion you had given your heart to—the one who had learned your smiles, who reached for your hand in private, who once looked at you as though you alone could soothe the fire in him.

But knowing that did little to soften the blow. Gods, it still hurts.

Prince Maekar closed his eyes, looking every bit like a man asking for the mercy of the Gods. Your good-brothers Daeron and Egg could only exchange weary sighs before turning toward you with quiet sympathy in their eyes.

Your father-in-law was right, fuck us all indeed.

. . .

You left his chambers before anyone could see your expression crack and falter and hadn’t made it far before Maester Melanquin caught up to you in the corridor.

“My lady, you mustn’t take his words to heart,” he began gently. Out of everyone in that room, you had taken the blow worst of all, even if Aerion himself seemed blind to it. “Memory loss of this sort can alter temperament. It is not uncommon for the patient to—”

“I understand,” you cut in softly.

“I would advise rest,” he continued after a moment. “You have endured quite a strain these past days. It is not good for—”

“That will be all, Maester Melanquin.”

You couldn’t hear this now. His eyes widened in realization.

“My lady, you have not informed anyone...?”

“No,” you firmly stressed. “No one else needs to know, yet.”

Even you had only discovered it three days ago—on the very day Aerion had taken his fall. How could you possibly overwhelm everyone with the news that you were with child now?

The maester inclined his head, deeply mournful for you. “As you wish, my lady.”

Aerion was certain this marriage with you was a dreadful one.

He had come to that conclusion within days of waking without half his memories, because every interaction between the two of you felt strained at best.

Yet, as he made his thoughts known to his dimwitted squire, telling him how he must have been a big patron to the most famous brothel in Street of Silk now with a wife like you, the poor lad shook his head vigorously—

“I wouldn’t believe it so, my prince! In fact, you hadn’t visited the brothels ever since your marriage!”

Aerion stared at him as though he had just confessed to treason, and the squire shrunk.

“And everyone knows...” the squire hesitated now, as though fearing for his life, “That you and Lady Lannister shared chambers often too...”

Whenever Aerion looked at you, you didn’t resemble the sort of woman who warmed a husband’s bed willingly. You were composed to the point of irritation, sharp-eyed too, carrying yourself with the dignity of someone fully trained to withstand him.

He was proven right very soon when he sat together with you for the afternoon tea.

. . .

The maester had insisted familiarity could help restore memory. And so, every afternoon for the past five days, you were seated beside him.

“It is still beyond me,” Aerion griped, casting you a distaste frown. “How did I ever end up with you?”

For five miserable days now, the two of you had been enduring each other’s intolerable company. Worse still, neither of you seemed remotely willing to surrender first.

You set your teacup down abruptly, with no grace whatsoever, letting out a sigh.

“Poor, poor you,” you mocked in a saccharine voice. “Here you are— bound to me by gods, law, and unfortunately, the entire realm. What a tragedy for us both.”

Aerion had discovered quickly that you possessed a talent of needling him in the gentlest tone imaginable, while you, in turn, had learned that memory loss did absolutely nothing to diminish his arrogance.

“Why did you even agree to this match?” he asked bluntly one afternoon, studying you with open suspicion. “You hardly seem delighted to be my wife either.”

“Do I seem like I was granted much choice in the matter of my own marriage?” you replied coolly. “I was thrown into this game of thrones just as much as you were. Frankly, had fate been kinder, I might have married some stableboy of my own choosing instead.”

That offended him, rather greatly. Aerion leaned back in his chair with a sharp scoff.

“Ah, I see now,” he drawled coldly, “House Lannister simply could not miss the chance to be a part of the royal family.” His silver-haired head tilted slightly. “And if the dreams plaguing me are any indication, you would have become fortunate enough to sit beside me as queen consort someday.”

Your face scrunched immediately at his sheer audacity.

“If I were a smallfolk living in King’s Landing, in the most unfortunate event that you ever became heir to the Iron Throne, like you said— I would spend every waking day in terror until I finally fled to Essos.”

“You!”

Gods, you are exhausting. He felt as though he were speaking to someone perpetually prepared for battle. Only that your weapon of choice wasn’t swords but words sharpened into tiny little knives.

“You have spent five days insulting me—”

“And you have spent five days asking how you married me,” you spat defiantly. “Surely we both deserve rewards for perseverance.”

You were aggravating, forever meeting his every remark with one of your own—you were every bit the same enemy he remembered from childhood, only now draped in his colors.

Yet somehow... the moment you went strangely pale, his irritation vanished somewhat. A napkin came up to your mouth while your other hand pressed against your abdomen, fingers curling there tightly as though trying to hold yourself together.

“You look dreadful,” he said bluntly.

You shot him a glare over the napkin. “I assure you, husband, I am perfectly—” You cut yourself off suddenly, swallowing, “—fine.”

No, he thought. For the first time in five days, you looked genuinely unwell. “You are not, wench—”

“If you will excuse me,” you cut him, keeping your composure together through sheer force as you rose from your seat, “I believe I should retire.”

And with that, you gathered your skirts and left the solar with dignity, though your pace was far quicker than usual.

Aerion remained seated even as you disappeared through the doorway, his annoyance giving way to an unfamiliar feeling, because for the first time since waking without his memories—

He found himself wanting to follow after you.

. . .

You knew you had not exactly taken the gentle approach with Aerion. He reminded you too much of the insufferable brat who had made your childhood miserable, and you just—for the life of you—could not take all his offensive remarks in silence.

You rushed towards the nearest privies, before dropping beside the close stool, one hand bracing against its rim as you threw up.

Now, you are carrying his child. At the end of the day, the cold truth hit you whenever you wanted to give up on him. You could never, because you had stupidly yearned for his affections, and bore his child.

Despite yourself, another wave rolled through you unpleasantly enough that you emptied your stomach again to the stool.

You are exhausted.

Exhausted from Aerion looking at you like a stranger wearing your husband’s face. Exhausted from fencing with him endlessly just to stop yourself from feeling how deeply wrong all of this truly was.

And worst of all— exhausted from pretending his sharp words did not affect you, because they did and they cut your heart into pieces.

With every fiber of your being, you wanted the man you had fallen in love with back. Stray tears fell from your eyes as you held back a sob, and as dizziness took over you and you staggered on your feet—

“You are fucking ill, woman.”

A strong pair of arms swept you clean off your feet, and you gasped, clutching on the first thing to steady yourself, which happened to be the fabric of his doublet.

Aerion stood tall, already striding towards your chambers, his violet eyes hardened as his lips twisted into a scowl. “You have been ill this entire time and said nothing? Just how foolish could you get?”

You shut your eyes. “Aerion, put me down—”

“You could have told me, you dumb—”

“Stop insulting me, you rat!”

Aerion shot you an angry glare immediately, yet, to your surprise, he fell quiet afterwards.

You didn’t know why he listened this time, and that tender corner of your heart wept with relief, because despite his missing memories, some part of him still recognized you when you were hurt.

Will he come back? You wanted to tell him everything already. You had imagined the moment countless times in your head—how Aerion’s expression would go utterly still at first, before he would go red in the face, hiding his own excitement by putting on a prideful air how you did a good job for bearing his child—

You buried your face against his chest, fingers still clutching weakly at him, and you could feel how he tightened his hold over you.

As though fate itself had finally decided to loosen its grip on the two of you, your relationship began to improve after that day—even if only slightly.

You had managed, through several concealed threats, to force Maester Melanquin into keeping the truth from Aerion. He had looked ready to fire the poor maester on the spot when he told him you only suffered from common cold.

Who would have known he would spare you more concern since then? And on good days too, sometimes, he acted exactly like the man you remembered.

“You used to do this,” you remarked when Aerion’s arm settled at your waist, drawing you closer as the two of you crossed the crowded hall together—the perfect image of a harmonious royal couple before the court. “I suppose old habits die hard.”

“Nearly every lord and lady in this hall does the same thing,” he gruffly retorted, dismissive. “It is called common etiquette, wife.”

You glanced up at him, gaze pure and clear.

“Yes, but I could have simply taken your arm too. Half of ladies in this hall do that.” Your gaze flickered briefly toward the hand resting at your waist. “You hold me out of habit.”

Aerion went quiet at that. Then he cleared his throat abruptly, pointedly refusing to dignify you with any further response as he continued guiding you through the hall.

. . .

You were right— he had done it by instinct.

Aerion had not thought before touching you. It just felt right to do it, but if asked why, he also couldn’t produce a nonchalant answer.

By all accounts, you should have been the wife he never wanted. Half his memories were missing, every surviving recollection of you involved glares, mutual irritation, and arguments in the corridors of the Red Keep, yet—

Ever since the two of you parted ways some time ago, his eyes had kept searching for you before he even consciously realized what he was doing.

Aerion concluded he just detested not having control. You irritated him endlessly, yes, but regardless, you were still his wife— so he ought to have a tight leash around you.

No sooner had he reached the lower end of the hall than he spotted his little brother’s absurdly tall knight nearly stumbling over his own feet trying to greet you.

“M-M’lady,” Ser Duncan stammered, bowing abruptly. “M-my apologies... I didn’t see—”

The poor fool turned visibly red beneath your gaze. You, meanwhile, smiled at him brightly.

“Good evening, Ser Duncan. Are you well? You seem nervous.”

“I—well—no, not nervous, m’lady, just—”

You laughed softly at that, and gods, the sound alone seemed enough to make the knight redder still.

“You look… ah… v-very lovely tonight, m’lady.” Ser Duncan visibly swallowed, meeting your eyes reluctantly.

You held back a grin. “Why, thank you, Ser Duncan. That was almost coherent.”

That buffoon of a knight looked utterly stricken, and Aerion clenched his jaw. How dare he stand there blushing at his wife like some moonstruck idiot?

Then Duncan, in all his bumbling idiocy, reached for your hand. The knight bent respectfully, pressing a courteous kiss against your knuckles in proper greeting. It was the sort of harmless gallantry performed a thousand times in court.

Aerion suddenly feel the urge to break the man’s hand. Something hot and ugly surged through him at once, so sharp that his mood soured instantly— but it was when your giggle reached his ears that the feeling worsened tenfold.

Had men always looked at you this way?

Had he always been forced to endure it?

Before either of you realized it, he had took big strides and placed himself next to you.

“Kneel lower, you oaf.”

You turned towards him in visible surprise.

Duncan looked utterly bewildered. “Your Grace...?”

“If you insist on embarrassing yourself before my wife,” Aerion drawled coldly, “you may as well commit to it properly.”

“Aerion!” You scolded with a frown, before turning to the knight before you. “Don’t mind him, Ser Duncan. You may rise.”

Meanwhile, Aerion’s hand had already settled possessively against the small of your back as he observed how the commoner got back to his feet—only for the prince to realize, with visible irritation, that Duncan stood a full head taller than him—before he continued with complete seriousness:

“Stop breathing directly in her direction. You are enormous.”

“Uh, should I... not breathe?”

“Seven hells, Aerion!” you hissed beneath your breath, mortified.

Aerion clicked his tongue, though the moment you leveled a sharp glare at him, he merely huffed like an irritated twat denied a fight.

Meanwhile, Duncan stood there looking genuinely troubled, seriously considering how his breathing had somehow become offensive. The knight also could not help but wonder how someone as sweet as you had ended up married to someone like him.

“No worries, m’lady. I... I can stand farther away to breathe, then.”

“...”

“I can... right?”

Days slipped by and still, Aerion had yet to regain his memories.

Before you fully realized it, two moons had passed since the accident, and your condition was becoming harder to conceal.

No matter how often you layered silks and draped cloaks around yourself, the slight swell of your abdomen had begun to show, and it wouldn’t be long before you could no longer cover it.

His child in you, the thought alone made your chest ache sometimes. As of now, the ones who were aware of this were the maester and your personal maids. Until when you should keep this from him and the others?

Aerion still made insufferable remarks with alarming consistency, and you still answered half of them with cutting sweetness. But the small blessing was, increasingly, there were moments where he behaved so much like his former self, and that gave you hope.

. . .

The more time he spent with you, the more Aerion found himself settling into your company.

Now he knew the exact expression you made whenever you were cross. He knew when you were genuinely irritated versus when you were merely pretending to be offended for the sake of argument. He knew the way your eyes brightened whenever something delighted you, and how that same light dimmed whenever you were unwell.

And lately...

“You look constantly ill these days,” Aerion remarked as the two of you walked through the gardens of Summerhall. “What precisely ails you? Why do you refuse to improve?”

You shot him a flat look. “You know, most husbands would say their wives look unwell and would find ways to help them get better.”

“Most husbands are compulsive liars. I am pious and honest,” he sneered, his violet eyes crinkling.

You rolled your eyes towards the heavens. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Aerion knew that for a fact that you were rather fond of him. After all, he wasn’t an inexperienced man— what he did not know was what that made him.

Had the man he used to be also been fond of you too? Enough for him to notice if you were feigning good health?

“You are avoiding the question,” he noted with a frown. “What are you hiding? Do you have some illness I don’t know about?”

“No,” you balked, turning to him. “Why are you being annoyingly observant lately? Have you found life dreadfully boring since losing your memories that you find joy in fussing over me?”

“Hah. The prissy little lady I spent half my life quarreling with happens to be my wife. I am obligated to look after her if I intend to play the role of husband properly, am I not?”

You let out an unimpressed, mocking hum. “How noble of you. Thank you for your service.”

“Besides,” he added dismissively, “if I seek excitement, I can find it elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“My whores, for instance.”

His words struck you so abruptly that your steps faltered. Aerion glanced down at you, seemingly satisfied to render you speechless. “Men whore, that’s a fact.”

He had meant it half as a jest, but something in your expression had changed.

“I suddenly feel rather tired,” you continued after a moment, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If you will excuse me, I believe I should retire early.”

Without waiting for permission, you stepped past him, but Aerion instinctively caught your wrist before you could move farther away.

“You haven’t answered me,” he hissed.

You met his eyes, unflinching, “You can’t make me do what I don’t want to, husband. Go and find one of your whores instead and make her do your bidding.”

With that, you wrenched yourself from his grasp and stalked towards your bedchambers, and for a moment, Aerion was still on his tracks.

He wanted to go after you, to demand more explanation because you couldn’t just brazenly leave him, but your words rang in his ears, as if he had heard if before—

Then go find one of your whores instead!

For days afterwards, you avoided him. Far from subtly.

You vanished from chambers moments before he entered them. Afternoon teas in the solar ceased entirely under excuses of exhaustion. Servants informed him you had already retired whenever he asked after you.

Aerion felt his irritation mounting with every passing day. It must be his comment about whores, but why did it offend you so? He hadn’t even planned to go through with it!

Not when whores look so dull compared than you. They don’t have your fiery charm, or the sweetness of your face. Something about you was as hard as an iron, but Aerion sometimes thought it was endearing.

Enough of this. He would have order. If you intended to avoid him like some offended little ghost haunting Summerhall, then he would simply drag answers out of you directly.

But before he reached the doors to your chambers, voices stopped him.

Three maids stood just beyond the corridor archway carrying folded linens, too occupied with their conversation to notice the prince approaching.

“…poor thing’s barely left bed these past days,” the older one whispered sympathetically.

“The lady looked so pale this morning,” another sighed. “I thought she might faint again.”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately.

“She only insisted on coming out today because she did not wish to raise suspicion,” the third maid murmured. “Though honestly, I pity her...”

The first maid nodded sadly. “The fourth moon already too… and His Grace still does not even know she is carrying his child.”

Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. The three women froze, and slowly, they turned—

Aerion stood behind them, towering and terrifyingly still, his expression drained of color.

“She is carrying... what?”

You cursed the fact that your body had always been of weak constitution. You never recovered from illness easily, and carrying a child only seemed to worsen every ache and every wave of exhaustion settling into your bones.

Which was why you had hidden yourself away in the library that afternoon, seeking silence and peace amongst dusty shelves and books. But somehow or another—

My whores, for instance.

You pressed a hand tiredly against your eyes. How did you manage to get your heart broken over your enemy-turned-husband again for the nth time?

The Aerion before the accident had once looked you dead in the eyes and promised he would never seek comfort in whores again, but this Aerion did not remember any of that. You should have understood he probably only said that to get a reaction out of you, but still, it wasn’t pleasant to hear at the slightest.

Before you could dwell on it further, the library doors suddenly burst open with enough force to slam loudly against the stone wall and you were startled.

Aerion strode inside at once, breathing raggedly as though he had searched half the castle for you.

“There you are—”

His violet eyes were wild, almost furious, and for one startled moment you could only stare at him in confusion as he crossed the room in long, determined strides.

“How could you?” he demanded, catching your arm in a tight hold. “Hells, you are a madwoman.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“How could you not tell me?” His voice cracked with something between anger and disbelief, though still low. “You are carrying my child and said nothing to me?”

Your stomach dropped instantly. “How did you—”

“Find out?” Aerion barked a sharp laugh. “Apparently the help in this castle knows and the child’s own father does not.”

You stared at him silently for a moment before your expression hardened.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When? After you birthed the damn babe?”

Despite yourself, irritation sparked hotly through your chest.

“Oh, forgive me for not rushing to share the news with the husband who so easily informed me he could return to his whores whenever he pleased,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Had you not been foolish enough to get yourself whacked in the head and lose half your memories, perhaps I would have told you sooner.”

Aerion looked almost stricken for half a heartbeat, and you took your chance to get away from him.

Unfortunately, your skirts caught beneath your heel.

Your breath caught sharply as your footing slid across the polished floor, the world tilting around you while your body lurched dangerously towards the stone fireplace nearby.

But Aerion moved before you could crash into it.

He lunged forward immediately, catching you firmly around the waist and hauling you hard against his chest. The force of it sent both of you stumbling sideways together. Your shoulder collided painfully against the edge of a bookshelf—

And Aerion’s head slammed hard against the heavy wooden corner.

For one terrible heartbeat, his grip around you tightened reflexively, as though making certain you were still safe against him, before his body sagged and the two of you tumbled to the floor.

“Aerion...?”

His eyes lost focus immediately— and before you could properly steady either of you, the prince collapsed against you, unconscious.

In the span of a single day, Summerhall descended into absolute chaos.

First came the panic of its most troublesome prince rendered unconscious after striking his head for the second time. Servants ran through corridors in terror, Maester Melanquin was nearly trampled in the confusion, and somewhere in the midst of it all, Prince Maekar had reportedly declared that if Aerion survived this only to lose his remaining memories, he would personally lock his son inside a tower.

Then came the second revelation— you were with child. The maids whispered excitedly through the halls, and Ser Duncan nearly choked on his beef stew after hearing the news.

Meanwhile, you remained seated beside Aerion’s bed, trying your best to keep it together. Guilt gnawed viciously at your chest, remembering how he shielded you from that fall.

Because even in anger—even confused and not fully himself—his first instinct had still been to save you.

The hours stretched unbearably. You must have prayed to every god known to man by the time the third hour passed, and you were almost asleep when a low groan broke the silence.

Aerion shifted faintly against the pillows, brows furrowing before his violet eyes slowly opened.

For one dreadful heartbeat, you could barely breathe when his gaze settled on you. “Aerion…?”

It took him several seconds, but you would never have expected... his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Missed me, wife?”

You stared at him in utter shock. Is he...? Has his—

After two and half moons, the familiar cruel glint finally appeared in your husband’s violet eyes that made him look more like gods rather than human. This expression belonged only to your Aerion.

The boy who had once been your greatest torment in childhood, but also the man who had grown fiercely fond of you despite himself. The same man who would spill blood without hesitation for anyone foolish enough to dishonor you.

Aerion blinked at your stunned expression before the corners of his eyes crinkled faintly with amusement.

“What?” he drawled lazily. “Yes, I’ve returned.”

A broken sound escaped your throat before you threw yourself towards him without another thought, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as relief crashed over you so violently it made your entire body tremble.

Aerion let out a quiet grunt from the force of it, but his arms immediately came around you in return, holding you just as tightly against him. And then, in his typical velvety voice, he murmured against your hair:

“And I shall continue making your life a little hell, wife.”

A watery laugh escaped you despite the tears burning your eyes. Gods, he is so, so, so incredibly and fucking insufferable.

As a child of five, you would say marrying Aerion Targaryen would ruin your life entirely, but now... as he held you against his heart—

You found yourself overwhelmingly grateful that it had been him.

He was mystified himself, how could he ever go through days and nights without you near?

Several nights after he regained his memories and you were well enough, his lips finally found yours within the privacy of your marital chambers.

“There you are,” he murmured roughly, sucking off your lips as he balanced you on his lap—his sweet wife who was enticingly dressed in sensual nightgown. “Gods, you looked at me these past months as though I had died.”

“You did,” you retorted, clutching his bare shoulder. “You forgot me.”

Aerion kissed you again before you could say another word, slower this time, but no less intense. His thumb brushed beneath your eye gently when a tear slipped free.

“I did not forget you entirely.” He eyed you like a predator to prey, his tone deliciously low. “Some part of me kept finding my way back to you.”

Your fingers curled into his skin as you pulled him into your ravenous kiss, brushing yourself against his crotch.

Aerion made a low sound against your mouth before breaking the kiss and pulling you closer still, carefully this time—as his cool palm settled instinctively against your abdomen, feeling the gentle swell of the child growing within you.

“…You are carrying my son,” he said quietly, as though the reality had only just struck him fully, meeting your eyes.

You huffed softly. “It could very well be a daughter.”

“A son.” Your husband frowned at you and you pursed your lips. “Foolish woman, you should have told me.”

He tilted your face and devoured your lips again, his hands wandering your skin, caressing you, making you sigh and moan—

You wrapped your legs around his waist and melted helplessly into his touch, into the familiar heat of his kisses that you had missed so desperately these past moons.

Before long, he eased you carefully onto the bed beneath him, one hand braced beside your head while the other tilted your chin upward so you could do nothing but look at him.

For a while, he simply stared at you. The candlelight softened the harsh edges of his face, though nothing could truly dull the intensity in those violet eyes as they traced every feature of yours like he was memorizing them anew.

“If I should ever forget you again,” Aerion murmured, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek, “then make me remember. Don’t hide from me and drag me with you if you must. Make me remember you.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the words, though you still lifted your chin at him with stubborn defiance.

“How about you learn not to forget me in the first place?”

Aerion huffed out a soft laugh beneath his breath.

“My poor wife,” he murmured against the curve of your neck, the teasing rasp of his voice sent heat blooming beneath your skin. “I suppose I shall spend tonight properly atoning for that offense.”

And fortunately for you, Aerion Brightfire was a man who took his words very seriously.

He was prideful beyond reason, occasionally nonsensical, and possessed the temperament of a dragon—but there was no swaying him once he set his mind upon something, which meant that, for the foreseeable future, he would watch over you with a keener eye than most until the day you birthed his child.

Though that, perhaps, was a story meant for another time.

For now, you were simply content savoring these quiet nights— nights where, at long last, your prince was back in your arms.

Your brow arched at that. “Since when have you been keeping count of my cycles?”

Aerion could feel heat rising to his cheeks by your question. Hell would freeze over before he admitted that he was anticipating your days.

Thankfully you only shrugged, and didn’t question further. “Bodies change, my prince. Perhaps yours does not, but mine does.”

You had already begun guiding him toward the door, your hands firm against his chest despite your gentle tone.

“That is not how—”

“Out,” you said sweetly, already pushing the door open. “Surely a man of your endurance can survive one night of restraint.”

The door had shut in his face before he could argue further.

The second time had been worse.

You had been furious.

Aerion had barely stepped into your chambers before you turned on him, eyes blazing, lips tight with anger.

“What have I done now?” he questioned, already bracing himself.

“You threw Aegon’s cat into the well, you brute!”

He blinked. “It was an accident—”

“An accident?” you echoed sharply, both hands on your hips. “Do cats fling themselves into wells at your command?”

“It scratched me!” he retaliated in defense, holding up his arm to show you the claw mark as if he was the more injured party. “That beast leapt at me and—!”

“You are cruel,” you snapped, turning away from him entirely. “Leave before I decide you belong in that well next.”

“Do not play with me, wife,” Aerion warned, his voice low. “Men are known to start wars when denied what they want.”

You scoffed. “Yes, I have heard all men are fools, all men are knights, and that one famous High Valyrian proverb says all men must die. Now, I am no man. But you, Aerion—”

You stepped closer, your gaze dragged over him, taking in everything from his tousled silver-gold hair to the faint scatter of freckles across his cheeks, sharp enough to cut.

He should be mad that this outrageous wife of his dared to even rebuke him— but for reasons he could not quite name, he found his pulse quickening and his throat tightening by the minute as he swallowed it down instead.

Gods, why do you look pretty when you are angry?

“You are a man, a knight, a fool… so tell me, does that mean you ought to die?”

Aerion forced himself to stand his ground, yet failing miserably. He was questioning himself and his sanity because how could he find you attractive while insulting him?

He had to leave that night too—more stunned than angered, though the frustration simmered all the same.

By the third day, Aerion was no longer certain what to make of it.

You were avoiding him. But why in the seven hells did you do so?!

The question needled at him, and so did his curiosity. Which was why he found himself before your chambers again. The door to your chambers had been carelessly left not fully shut, and he made mental note to rebuke your maid later.

Perhaps you were indeed bleeding just as you claimed you were. Although he was fairly certain you were not because he could recall that the last time you had been intimate was a day before your moon blood had come and that was not even one moon ago—

However, all his thoughts halted the moment his gaze caught you.

You stood before the long mirror, only in your lacy undergarments, still unaware of him. Your corset pressed tightly at your bosom, accentuating your figure—and the very said bosom. Your hair fell loose, and you were bereft of any rouge, just the way he liked it.

Gods, you were a sight to behold. Aerion found himself rooted where he stood, unable and unwilling to look away. He felt hot and disturbed already— imagining how soft your curves were and how pleasurable it was for him to shove himself inside you—

Your fingers traced your own form as though you were studying yourself. From the swell of your chest, down along the line of your waist, to the gentle curve of your lower belly— you seemed lost in your own quiet contemplation. Your fingers lingered there, pressing it slightly and you frowned.

You looked restless. What had troubled you? Whatever it was, he was certain he could fix it.

Aerion shifted slightly, ready at last to make his presence known, only to have the floor creak under him.

Your head snapped up and silence fell like a blade.

“…Aerion.” Your eyes had already narrowed to slits, putting both hands over your body. “Were you peeping?”

“What.” He straightened, gathering his dignity and put a show as if he intended all of it. “Is it so wrong to ogle my own wife?”

“From behind a half-open door like some skulking court fool?”

“I was ensuring your well-being.”

“With your eyes?” you shot back. “What a great pair of eyes you have.”

His violet eyes twitched. “You have been neglecting your wifely duties for long enough—”

“Consent,” you hissed, “requires two people, husband. And at present, you only have one. You have also thoroughly displeased me, so off with you.”

He barely had time to react before your hands were on him, pushing him back toward the threshold.

Aerion caught the door before it could shut, catching your gaze. “You cannot avoid me forever—”

A mocking smile touched your lips. “Watch me.”

And then the door slammed shut in his face. Aerion stared at it for a long moment, utterly still.

Three days already that he had been bested by this door!

The following day, Aerion had had enough.

He would have answers today, one way or another. This absurdity had to end now.

With that resolve, he made his way towards your chambers. But when he arrived, he found your maids gathered outside, all collectively looking at unease.

Then he heard it— soft and muffled, but it was clear that you were crying.

“Why is she in tears?” he snapped, turning to the servants, who flinched and cowered instantly, hands trembling where they clutched their skirts.

His jaw tightened when he received no answer, and without another word, he pushed past them and stepped inside. He quickly found you, and the sight that met him stilled him where he stood.

You were on the bed, shoulders shaking, your face buried in your hands as quiet sobs slipped through your fingers.

This was the first time he had seen you this mournful. Something twisted at his chest as he crossed the room in quick strides.

You were surprised with his presence, but before you could turn away, Aerion was already beside you—pulling you into him, one arm firm around your shoulders as his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head.

“Enough,” he murmured, far gentler than anything he had said these past days as he pressed you against him to offer comfort. “No more tears, wife.”

However, you seemed to have some tears to spare as you leaned into his chest. Bit by bit, your sobs softened, your breathing evening out against him until only faint sniffles remained.

“Shh,” he hushed, almost awkwardly, his palm patting your back in slow, steady motions. “That is enough.”

Aerion exhaled, glancing down at you as soon as you were calmer.

“…Alright,” he said after a moment, voice returning sharper. “Give me a name.”

You blinked, still dazed. “What?”

“A name,” he repeated, already sounding irritated on your behalf. “Who dares to make you cry? I will have him flayed and hung from the gates before sunset.”

Somehow, something in your chest warmed at his question. You knew him well enough to know that he meant every word, that he truly would rain fire and blood upon anyone who dared to wrong you—and somehow, it made your heart flutter.

“Aerion…” you murmured weakly, pulling away from him.

“Well? Who is it?”

You hesitated, then looked away, your voice quieter now. “No one has… done anything.”

His frown deepened. “Then why are you crying?”

You drew in a breath, fingers curling lightly into his sleeve.

“I thought…” you began, faltering, feeling your face heating. “I thought I was with child.”

That surprised him, his violet eyes widened by a fraction.

“I have been unwell these past few days. I thought perhaps—” You swallowed, fiddling with the hem of your dress. “So I waited out. But my moon blood came this morning, so...”

So he was right with his calculations after all!

Aerion’s hold on you did not loosen as he cleared his throat. “…I see.”

You shook your head quickly, as if to dismiss it. “It is nothing. Truly. I am likely just… taking things too personally.”

“It is not nothing,” he retorted at once.

You huffed faintly, wiping at your eyes. “It is. Everyone expects it, do they not? A royal babe—”

“So someone has said something to you. Who?”

Sometimes you cursed how sharp Aerion was regarding these things. You hesitated again, then forced it out.

“Prince Aerys made a comment.”

Aerion’s expression darkened instantly.

“He said… for all the... boldness that comes out of your mouth, it seems we cannot even manage to— well, since we haven’t conceived a child yet...”

He caught the implication almost instantly.

“He questioned my virility?” he repeated slowly, incredulity laced with offense. “Him? The man who has not managed to put a child in his own wife?”

You winced faintly, knowing this would be his reaction.

“Don’t mind me,” you murmured, looking down. “It was foolish of me to let his words affect me so. It’s just most ladies in the court always go on and on about either womanly pursuits or childrearing—”

“No.” He squinted his eyebrow. “He wouldn’t dare to question me again after tonight.”

Before you could react, he guided you back against the bed, his hands firm but not unkind as he pressed you into the mattress.

“Aerion—?”

“If it is a child you want,” he declared, his violet eyes glinted, hovering above you, “then that is what you will have.”

His hand came up, brushing stray tears from your cheek—surprisingly gentle for a man speaking of fire and punishment only moments ago.

Truthfully, he hadn’t put much thought about having children. Sure, he knew both of you would eventually, but there had never been urgency in it for him. Not when he still found himself wanting more of you.

Still, the very idea of you bearing his child enticed him now. His hand lingered at your cheek for a moment longer before drifting downwards. From the softness of your face, to the curve of your neck, until it came to rest at your waist.

The thought came unbidden— of you round, full and ripe with his child. The image settled into his mind with surprising clarity, and with it, something carnal in himself was awakened.

He surged forward, capturing your lips in a kiss.

“Mmph—” It was hunger, three days of restraint snapping all at once.

His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he meant to erase whatever distance had dared exist between you. His other hand found your jaw, tilting your face just enough for him to deepen the kiss.

Your hands pressed lightly against his chest, breath uneven. “My moon blood—”

“It has been too long,” he cut in with a hiss, before devouring your lips again.

Aerion intended to make good of his word. He took his time with you, reverent in a way that was different with his usual intensity— and you were like sitting duck, a little coaxing and string of kisses and you were like a puddle for him.

A quiet, satisfied hum left him at that.

“You—” he breathed in your scent, nibbling on the skin of your neck that made you squirm, “really want this, don’t you? Worry not— will do it… until you are so full that you couldn’t walk.”

You should never fall so easily... but how could you, when your husband worshipped you and made you feel this good?

His lips and fingers trailed everywhere— sucking your breasts first, fondling them, flicking one as he took the other in his mouth. He had mastered the art of pleasures, and he was determined to lay it all on you.

And his whispers when he finally claimed you, gods—

“I—” he rasped in your ear as he thrusted into you from behind, with you squealing and trembling underneath him. “will fuck this babe into you— and everyone in the Seven Kingdoms... would know to whom you belong to.”

Your husband was maddening, insensible, sometimes treacherous too, but still, the thought of being known across the realm as his was not an unpleasant one in the slightest.

But he could be gentle too—protective in a way, however warped it might seem. And when his voice dropped low against your ear, laced with that dark, tempting sweetness, any lingering doubt within you simply faded.

As you stood there among a cluster of nobles, dressed in the colors of House Targaryen, you were as you always were—composed in posture, attentive in expression as you listened to whatever drivel was being spoken to you.

Aerion watched you from across the hall, unmoving. You looked every bit the image of a royal consort. His royal consort.

“Aren’t you glad I chose her for you?”

His father, Prince Maekar, had slid beside him and regarded him with that knowing look, one that had unsettled him since childhood. “You fought me on it, if I recall. Loudly.”

Aerion let out a snort, trying to stand his ground. “You made a habit of forcing my hand.”

Maekar gave an amused hum. “And yet, here you are. You look as though you would burn the hall down if another man kept her attention a moment longer.”

The Bright Prince begrudgingly stayed silent, pursing his lips in thin line. No, his father was wrong. He was definitely not concerned about how you let Leo Tyrell, whom he had beaten in tourneys at least thrice in a row now, gave you a kiss on the back of your hand.

Yet his violet eyes twitched at his audacity.

Maekar let his gaze rest on you a heartbeat longer before turning back to his son. “You two are much alike, even as children—forever at war over lemon tarts. You knew not how to treat a lady, Aerion.”

Aerion bit back a hiss. “I know perfectly well how, Father.”

“I have six children, and you are the most fucking troublesome out all of them, boy.”

The Prince of Summerhall tilted his head slightly, studying his son as though he were a puzzle long since solved. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were never the most sought-after in the marriage mart. What lady could possibly endure you, if not her? Even while you insisted she was unbearable.”

“She was,” Aerion muttered, sullen.

“And now?”

“…she still is.”

“Good. A wife who yields too easily becomes dull— and you, boy, have always needed someone fucking sturdy enough not to.”

Aerion merely clicked his tongue. He didn’t need to be reminded of how everything came to be. You were a convenient match, and that was that.

In that moment, he also decided you had indulged the court long enough.

You barely had time to excuse yourself from Leo Tyrell before your husband was at your side, his presence cutting through the crowd like flame through parchment.

“Wife,” he gritted out with sour face, extending his hand to you with a veneer of courtly grace. “How gracious you have been with everyone.”

You took his hand, a curve of smile tugging at your lips. “Have I?”

The music had already begun to swell as he guided you towards the dance floor. Your hand rest in his, the other against his shoulder, you met his gaze with a faint, knowing smile.

“What has ruffled you, husband?”

The way you addressed him somehow made his body warm but he ignored it, staring you down. “We have a dance to perform.”

Your lips twitched. “I beg to differ... but if you say so.”

And yet, whatever passed between you in words did little to hinder the dance. Your bodies fell into step with an ease and fluidity that had not existed before as he spun you and you fell into his arms. Everyone in the hall would say that the Brightfire and his lady made a fine royal couple.

“Ah,” you murmured when the final note faded and he dipped his head in a shallow bow. “You’re almost pleasant to dance with.”

“High praise,” he returned, a dangerous smile already playing on his lips. Something flickered to life behind his violet eyes, like lightning just before it struck.

He was most certainly after something and you would know it soon when he led you away through corridors with a possessive arm around your waist, entering the first chamber you saw.

The chamber door closed behind you with a soft but decisive click.

You barely had time to turn before he pressed you against him, his hands on you tracing the curve of your spine, firm and as though reacquainting himself with your body. His gaze was hot on you, dark and intent, like a predatory on his prey.

You huffed softly, placing a hand against his chest—not quite pushing him away though.

“Do not use your bedroom eyes here, Aerion.”

“Why?” he asked with a wicked sneer, voice lowering yet taunting. “You’ve seemed to prefer my eyes on most nights.”

“At least pretend to have some restraint.”

He let out the driest chuckle as he turned your chin to him.

“And who are you... to order me so?”

Damn, you felt your whole body buzzing with excitement despite the his cruel words. And before you could think more, he claimed your lips with his.

His kisses were dizzying, the kind that made your thoughts scatter before you could even grasp them. He pressed you up against the wall, and his hot mouth trailed from your jaw to your shoulder, and then to the space between your breasts—

But you were in for the most thrilling seduction when suddenly he wrenched away from your skin without warning. In one go, he got down, slipped inside the skirts of your dress, and—

“Oh—!” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan as you staggered back and clutched the nearest desk, when you felt his tongue in your bud.

Madness. You could only think of this as pure madness as he pleasured you down there. You spread your legs wider by instinct, and fought to keep your noise, which was getting harder by the minute.

It didn’t take long to get you wet. Not when his tongue delved further into your depths, savoring your taste— while his thumb played with your clit in slow, deliberate circles. Your moans grew louder, your body tightening around his mouth as you approached your climax.

Finally, your climax crashed down on you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you writhed, failing to keep your cries. He didn’t stop, though, his tongue lapping up your sweet release as you rode out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Your husband emerged from your dress, a wicked grin on his face. Your eyes following the path of his tongue as he licked his lips, seemingly enjoying what he had just tasted.

“Divine,” he drawled in that velvety voice of his, which made your eyes wide at the sheer audacity.

“Aerion, you—”

“Shush, wife.” He immediately took advantage of the proximity, roughly pulling your dress up above your hips.

His hands came to your hips and flipped you over so that your back was turned to him. Then, he pushed on your lower back, silently instructing you to bend over for him, which you did.

“Hold on tight,” he grounded out in your ear, his voice low with lust. You looked for something to do so but only found a tall bookshelf in front of you. You still gripped the sides of it, knowing it wouldn’t help you that much.

Without a warning, he shoved himself inside you and you welcomed him just like you always had in your nightly ventures, your wetness allowing him to slide all the way in with his first thrust. You bite your lip to avoid letting out a moan, very aware of the noise and chatter coming from the hall.

“Come on, wife— let me hear the lovely sounds you can make—” Aerion demanded, mercilessly driving in and out of you.

“I can’t... they would hear us—!” you panted, a strangled moan catching in your throat when he hit deep, exactly where you needed him to.

His face darkened and twisted into the most sinister grin at the same time.

“Good, I want them to know I’m fucking my wife.”

You felt dizzy at his words. Or maybe it was from the intense pleasure building up at your core. Or maybe, because you wanted what he wanted too.

A few more of his rough thrusts and you came undone, loudly expressing your bliss as he released himself deep inside you.

. . .

Later, Aerion carried you to your marital chambers, decidedly retiring for the night and pulling the blankets around both of you. He was not much of a talker during or after sex, but he would keep you close in his arms as he pressed his eyes shut, and you found it comforting somehow. You fell asleep due to exhaustion soon after, and awoken sometime in the middle of the night.

You lay there in the quiet stillness, staring at nothing in particular as your thoughts began to wander.

You wondered, not for the first time, what you truly were to him now. You knew how easily the two of you became enemies when tempers flared. But there were more moments of you beginning to trust him.

Was it you he wanted... or were you merely a bedwarmer to return to when it suited him?

Your fingers curled slightly against the sheets. Beside you, the space had already begun to cool. You hadn’t even heard him leave.

And somehow, the silence weighed heavier than anything he had done before.

“Is that her…?”

“I must say… I pity her. They call him Aerion the Monstrous, do they not?”

Two weeks later, you and Aerion descended upon Casterly Rock—the seat of House Lannister and your homeland, where your brother’s wedding was to be held.

Tales had a way of growing with each telling, and your husband’s name was a frequent subject among ladies your age. While you were praised for marrying a prince of the dragon house, your husband’s cruelty was too infamous to be ignored.

And unsurprisingly, Aerion met every whisper with proud stride—as though he claimed each rumor as his own. He did not so much as spare the onlookers a glance, his hand only settled at the small of your back, as if to show them all that their lady was his.

Meanwhile, you fidgeted more, though still pulling on an air of indifference even as your former friends looked at you as if you were a monster of the same caliber as your husband.

But thankfully, your pretentiousness gave way to genuine smile when you spotted two familiar figures walking towards you.

“Brothers, I have missed you!”

Your eldest brother, the groom-to-be, Tybolt, approached first. Reserved and composed, his gaze softened as it settled on you. Gerold followed close behind, all easy confidence and uncontained energy, his grin already spreading wide.

“Sister,” Tybolt greeted with a smile. “I am glad to see you well.”

“Dearest sister!” Gerold cut in, far less restrained, as he engulfed you in a hug. “Gods, how long has it been? You’ve grown even lovelier—and here I thought that impossible.”

You huffed out a small laugh, the sound lighter than anything Aerion had heard from you all evening.

He simply watched the two men, recognizing both of them—he had seen your brothers before on the tourney grounds.

“Flattery so soon?” you teased.

“For you? Always,” Gerold replied without hesitation, before his gaze slid to your husband. There was a beat, then—

Tybolt inclined his head first, addressing him smoothly before his brother could say something far less diplomatic. “Prince Aerion.”

Gerold, however, only gave a low chuckle as he regarded him with open curiosity. “Well, so this is the dragon princeling.”

“Your Grace,” he corrected, almost in a hiss. He might be your brother, but even Aerion knew that he had meant to look down on him and get under his skin. “You would do well to remember it.”

Your other brother’s grin only widened. “Oh, of course. I remember etiquettes well enough, Your Grace. Just a slip of tongue. Hard not to, with all the tales that follow you.”

“Gerold,” Tybolt murmured, a quiet warning threaded through the single word.

“What? I only mean to greet our dear sister’s husband properly.”

Tybolt let out a sigh. “You will forgive my brother,” he said evenly to Aerion. “He speaks often without consideration.”

“On the contrary,” Gerold chimed, unabashed. “I consider things quite thoroughly. Especially when it concerns our sister.”

Tybolt, ignoring him, continued in a calmer tone, “We trust she has been treated well.”

Aerion’s violet eyes narrowed. “She has lacked for nothing.”

You winced at the exchange between your family and your husband. Gerold had always possessed a razor tongue when he chose to wield it, but thankfully Tybold was here to keep him at bay being every inch the heir of House Lannister he was.

Still, Aerion’s mood was already soiled for the evening.

. . .

“Your brother is tedious.”

That was the first thing your husband told you as soon as you were shown to your chambers. You had expected this unsavory remark sooner rather than later, and could only heave a sigh.

“Shall I apologize to you on his behalf, then?” You threw him a sardonic frown, your voice sharper than you intended. Perhaps it was the heat, or the long journey from King’s Landing—but truthfully, you did not feel well enough to entertain his temper. “Gerold can be like that sometimes... but you can’t murder him on that account.”

Aerion huffed. “Spoken like a devoted sister.”

“Yes, because unlike you, I still want to have a brother in the morning,” you retorted. “And a husband who don’t start a blood feud before supper.”

Aerion could not name the source of the sudden irritation that gripped him—only that it flared so sharply the moment your gaze lingered on the Lannister gold laid out upon the vanity.

You are wholly his. You should have taken his side, worn his colors, and not even entertain any thought otherwise.

“Don’t grow too comfortable, woman,” he said at last, voice low and eerily velvety. “And don’t forget your place.”

“My place?” you echoed, meeting his gaze through the mirror, visibly startled.

Aerion took a step closer, expression so cold that you were at a loss of words.

“You stand here because my father found you agreeable, is all.”

His words shattered something in your heart. You had thought you were past this with him. Foolish, certainly. Why were you expecting a storybook prince after you slept with him?

A flicker of hurt crossed your expression then—but it was gone just as quickly, smoothed over with your refined composure.

“How unfortunate for me, then,” you replied lightly, your eyes held his violet ones in the reflection, deciding to bury any hopes of him being decent. “That the Bright Prince required his father’s approval to secure a wife.”

You turned then, fully facing him, chin lifting defiantly.

“Or shall we speak plainly?” you continued, voice soft and taunting. “If you were not a Targaryen prince, my father would never have broken my betrothal to House Reyne either.”

You saw it how his face darkened, anger sparking behind those violet eyes. For a moment, it seemed he might say something but you found you no longer cared to hear it. You turned away first.

“See you at the dinner, husband,” you spat with venom, walking past him and swept out without so much as a backward glance.

From that moment on, you resolved not to hope for anything more.

If he were being honest, Aerion had not intended for it to end with you storming out.

And yet, there you were across the hall, flitting from one noble to another, clad not in the colors of the house you had married into— but in the burnished gold of House Lannister, a smile perfectly in place. Clearly you did it on purpose.

Aerion watched from afar, jaw set. Half of him simmered with irritation at you for daring to leave him mid-argument and for… recovering so quickly. The other half—

He exhaled sharply through his nose when you clutched at your bodice for the third time tonight. He didn’t know what this strain in his chest was, but watching the faint sway of your posture before you righted yourself, and your complexion… beneath candlelight, it was clear to him how you looked paler than before.

He could go to you. But just as quickly, the thought was dismissed. His pride still hadn’t allowed him to.

If you wished to make known of your indifference, then so be it. He would not be the one to follow after you like some—

“A word, Your Grace.”

Aerion turned, a sharp jab ready in his tongue, only to find himself face to face with the lord of the fortress.

Damon Lannister, the Grey Lion of Casterly Rock—your father—greeted him with a half smile and a courteous incline of his head.

Aerion restrained himself enough to return the gesture, though not deeply. In his mind, the man was no great knight—he had seen better with half the reputation. But as an overlord? Capable enough, he supposed.

Damon regarded him steadily for a moment, then spoke, voice measured. “I must offer my apologies for my daughter. Her attire this evening—it does not… properly honor the house she was wed to.”

Aerion remained silent, his gaze flicked, almost instinctively, back towards you. Now he was certain you were unwell as you took a seat near the refreshment.

“She has always been willful,” Damon continued, quieter now. “But she is my only daughter... All that remains of her mother. A father cannot bring himself to be as harsh with a daughter as he might with a son.”

That drew something in Aerion’s attention, as he turned back to him.

“As a child, she would cry after every visit to King’s Landing,” he added, almost absently. “She would come to me and ask if Your Grace hated her so much to make her feel so miserable… I believe children are harmless, of course, my prince.”

Unbidden, the memory resurfaced in his mind. A younger version of you, tearful, small hands clenched in the folds of your dress, eyes red as you demanded to know why he had shoved you. In the past, he had taken a certain satisfaction in that look.

But now? The mental image didn’t please him at the slightest.

The memory that brought him delight was, to his own surprise, the image of you asleep against his chest so unguardedly.

“Tybolt and Gerold have always been rather protective of her. If their words earlier caused offense, you have my apologies for that as well.”

“No offense taken,” Aerion affirmed in response.

Damon Lannister nodded with a smile, seemingly satisfied with his answer. Though a tactical man, there was something unmistakably paternal in the way he spoke. He understood alliances, yet still wished his daughter to fare well within them.

“Well then, I thank you, Your Grace.” Your father gave his shoulder a firm, almost companionable pat. “It is a comfort, knowing my daughter is in safe hands. Now, if you will excuse me—I find this wedding keeps me quite occupied, and my other son even more so.”

Aerion watched him go, his eyes lingering on him far longer than it ought to.

Safe hands. The words sat poorly with him somehow. His gaze drifted back across the hall, seeking you, yet found nothing.

The place where you had sat was empty.

The atmosphere in the hall had turned stifling. A faint wave of nausea curled in your stomach, and you figured you needed fresh air.

Slipping away from the crowd, you made your way through the corridors, your steps carrying you toward a place you had not realized you sought until you were already there— the balcony near your childhood chambers.

The doors creaked softly as you pushed them open, and at once, the cool night air greeted you. You exhaled, long and relieved, gripping the stone railing and idly looking at the vast Sunset Sea, as the time seemed to stand still.

Your lips pressed together, a dull sadness settled in your chest. You didn’t know what was worse— the notion that you had indeed fallen for Aerion Brightflame, or the fact that he didn’t see you more than a bedwarmer. You had thought he could be sweet despite being a menace, but it seemed like, ultimately, he regarded you as a woman he was forced to be with.

How pathetic. Foolish enough to feel something for him... Why did you let your heart fall for him this fast?

A sharp scream suddenly shattered the silence.

Your head snapped toward the sound, heart lurching. Without thinking, you gathered your skirts and hurried back inside, following the echo down the corridor.

“M–mmph—!”

You turned the corner and froze.

A maid lay sprawled upon the floor, eyes wide with terror as a man’s hand clamped around her throat, forcing the breath from her.

“What are you—!”

You did not finish.

Someone seized you from behind. A rough hand, a cloth pressed harshly over your mouth and nose— and the last thing you saw was the maid’s terrified gaze.

. . .

You woke up not long after.

Your head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind your eyes as awareness returned in fragments. Your wrists burned, bound tightly behind you. Your ankles too. And when you tried to speak, all that escaped was a muffled sound against the gag tied across your mouth.

“You damned fool! This woman is not her!”

“She matches the description well enough—”

“Does she?!” the other man snapped, suddenly tipping your chin and forcing you to look at your captors. “Look at her properly. Does she look like Lady Shiera to you?!”

Somehow the name rang a bell in your mind. You glared at the two men assessing you as if your pure hatred alone was enough to set you free.

The Blond, who was the one who caught you, looked at you as if realizing his mistake. “She looks like a Great Bastard to me though.”

Your mind raced and came to a dreadful conclusion. Shiera Seastar, one of the Great Bastard—

“In what world does this wench resemble a Targaryen!?” the Brunette snapped, far sharper in both tone and sense, gesturing at you with open disdain.

“Doesn’t matter who she is,” he added with a shrug. “Even if we don’t know her, our Lord Daemon will, no?”

Daemon the Pretender. They were the Blackfyre loyalists!

You trashed, even more determined to break free. The Blonde seemed to take a pity on you that he finally loosened the gag in your mouth.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your voice coming out strained but shrill. “You are the rebels... What is the meaning of this?”

“Bold, aren’t you?” the Brunette hissed.

“Release me at once—” you snapped, your voice gaining strength. “Or you will meet your deaths at the hands of the Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“Oh, so a paramour, perhaps?” the Blond laughed. “The Grey Lion or the second son are not known to deny themselves whores.”

Your rage flared, hot and immediate. When he reached for you again, your head snapping forward as your teeth sank hard into his hand.

“You little—!” he cursed, jerking back.

“Enough!” the Brunette snarled, his patience clearly worn thin, shooting his cohort a glare. “We have no need of whores. If she proves troublesome, then we toss her into the Sunset Sea and be done with it. No one will come looking for a nameless girl swallowed by the tide.”

For a fleeting moment, fear twisted in your chest. Bound, helpless, alone, dragged into darkness by men who could possibly drown you for good—

A flicker of defiance rose from somewhere deep within you. You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze despite the way your pulse thundered in your ears.

“Do that, and you will not live long enough to regret it.”

Both of them looked at you. You drew in a breath, forcing the tremor from your voice.

“If you do not release me... then it is Aerion Brightflame next who will be after your heads.”

You were certain someone would come. Your father. Your brothers. Even him. Hours had passed now, and someone was bound to realize you were missing.

Your two captors, Blackfyre loyalists who were supporting the son of the pretender, seemed to lack both senses and wit for not returning you. They even thought you were straight out lying:

“The Bright Prince? Bah! You truly expect us to believe that?”

“She spins tales now. Let her. No prince is coming for you, bitch.”

You swallowed, your strength waning, your body beginning to ache from the strain. The room felt smaller somehow, and while you were convinced you wouldn’t meet your end here, you had never gone through this before. You were a noble lady who only knew safety and a life of luxury— the more this dragged on, the more your certainly faltered.

You remembered how Aerion had chased you through the night in Storm’s End. He was desperate then, shouldn’t he be too now?

Or would he not bother? Somehow, you felt like he was not above it too.

Your head dipped, exhaustion beginning to pull at you, your breaths shallow—

Bang! —when the door suddenly burst open.

The noise thundered through the cramped space that you flinched. You drew your knees closer, making yourself smaller in the corner, as though that might shield you.

“Well... what wretches do we have here?”

Your head snapped up, and something bright surged in your chest at the sight of him. Your husband stood in the doorway, tall and imposing, silver hair catching what little light there was.

The dragon prince. You hated how he always referred himself as such, but he was really that in your eyes now. He didn’t look frantic or enraged. He looked eerily calm—

And you knew better than anyone... that Aerion was at his most dangerous when he was quiet.

He spared one look at you, before turning his fury on your captors.

“My wife,” he drawled, his voice quiet, almost conversational, “is a lady of House Targaryen… and a daughter of House Lannister. Do you imbeciles even know what that means?”

The Blonde and Brunette looked like they feared for their lives now. A pity, really. They had realized far too late that the woman they had taken was the Bright Prince’s wife.

“I shall show you how, then.”

It was too quick for your eyes to follow. One moment he stood still, his hand was at the hilt of his sword— and the next, it was across the man’s throat in clean, brutal slit.

The Brunette collapsed, choking on his own blood.

You stared, frozen, horror and relief tangling violently within you as the remaining man was hauled away— until even that faded into silence. Only then did Aerion turn to you fully.

. . .

The moment Aerion’s gaze found you again as you curled into yourself, bound, small in that corner, something in him burns.

Whenever he looked at you, it was always the same contradiction— he wanted to snap at you, but at the same time, he also wanted to drown you with his very being.

The bane of his very existence... and the object of all his desires. If he had to describe what you were to him, he realized, that would be it.

He crossed the distance to you in seconds.

His hands were on you, cutting the ropes that bound your hands and feet, pulling you up, gathering you against him with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs—

And then his lips crashed against yours.

“Mmm—” You melted into him almost at once. His violet eyes lingered on how you clung onto him—your face flushed, eyes shut.

Good. You should.

His hand came up to cradle your face, fingers firm against your jaw as he deepened the kiss, pressing you closer as if to prove that you were truly there.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was not by much. His breath still warm against your lips.

Your eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, lashes damp. There was a sheen to them, tears gathering at the corners. In the dim light, they caught just enough to glimmer—

Like pearls. He had always loved the pearls his mother used to wear.

For a fleeting moment, Aerion simply looked at you.

“Why is it,” he murmured, voice low, edged with something that almost resembled exasperation, “that I always have to find you in such distressing situations?”

Even you didn’t know seeing him would bring you this great of a relief. He was still sulky, still more like an evil prince rather than a charming one.

Yet, still your prince, regardless.

A soft, breathless sound left you as you broke into an almost disbelieving giggle. A tear slipped free despite yourself, trailing down your cheek, betraying the composure you tried to hold onto.

Instead of answering, you threw your arms around him.

Aerion’s arms tightened around you, pulling you close. As he breathed in your scent, he resolved he had no intention of letting you slip from his grasp again.

“When did you realize I was gone?”

The question came lightly, as you lay sprawled across Aerion’s bare chest. It was strange, you thought, how easily you strayed only to come back to each other in the end.

He glanced down at you lazily. His deft fingers moved slowly along your spine. His expression was still stern, but soft at the same time.

“The moment you were no longer within my sight.”

You huffed mockingly. “How poetic of you, ser.”

If you were honest, the best moments you shared with Aerion were often like this. When he was quieter, you could almost forget the sharpness of his tongue. And in the silence that followed, he spoke differently— with the weight of his touch, the press of his lips, the way he kept you close as though it were instinct.

“You have looked unwell since we arrived,” he said, cutting through the stillness.

You blinked. “I have not.”

Aerion’s brow arched. “You paled and swayed on your feet. I am not blind. You will see a maester.”

You frowned, visibly displeased by the command.

“For all I know, you might already be carrying my son.”

A loud snort escaped you. “Your confidence is astonishing.”

“Rarely misplaced.”

“If that were the case, then I fear for the child already.” You shot him a withering look. “I would have to teach him an abundance of precautions.”

“Oh?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

“I would have to take great care in raising him. Teach him restraint, for one. And also a measure of kindness— so he does not grow into someone unbearably insufferable.”

There was a time when such words would have earned you nothing but a sharp glare, but now, Aerion only looked at you, something almost indulgent settling in his gaze.

Then you felt it—his fingers curling at your waist, pressing you to him.

“Ridiculous woman,” he murmured.

“Detestable man,” you shot back.

“Mine.”

That stilled you. Stupid, stupid him.

Your lips parted slightly, but no retort came this time. Instead, you let out a soft huff, turning your face away to hide the warmth rising to your cheeks.

His hold over you tightened slightly, a wicked grin on his face— clearly noticing and winning.

The dragon prince and the lion princess would learn... that love, in all its glory, is not what they once thought it to be.

That it is not always found in a prince charming— but also in a dragon prince with a foul mouth and fire in his blood.

And in his own heart of hearts— when he would see the world burn for his princess.

It made no sense.

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

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

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

Gods, how it vexed him.

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

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

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

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

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

“He could be a menace…”

The words struck like flint to steel.

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When have I ever done—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is so infuriating!

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why did the silence grate?

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

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

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

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

The hunt would end in afternoon. And yet—

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

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

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

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

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

Seven hells, if I could just—

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

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

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

“Are you drunk, boy?”

The evening meal was quieter than usual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

And worse, you missed him.

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

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

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

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

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

A blade.

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

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

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

. . .

The wine tasted particularly good this late evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want to hear that from—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You—!”

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

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

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

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

Something cold and suffocating coiled around his chest.

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

Aerion felt a raw, undiluted fear for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aerion…”

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

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

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

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

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

There was no room for argument in his tone.

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

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

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

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

Something in Maekar’s expression softened, just barely.

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

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

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

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

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

“Twenty…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—his lips crashed against yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you replied quickly.

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

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

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

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

“And you are unexpectedly tolerable.”

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

“Do not flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

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

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

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

“—then I will have one condition.”

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

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

You hesitated, just briefly, before meeting his gaze.

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

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

But instead—

“Done.”

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

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

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

“Aerion, do you even—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then we are simply… well-matched.”

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

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

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

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

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

In the very picture of impropriety.

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

But of course, House Lannister accepted the proposal gladly. Your father even went as far as breaking your previous betrothal to House Reyne. No matter how wretched Aerion was, he was still a prince of House Targaryen—blood of the dragon, and your house had never been one to shy away from greed.

And so when your new, blasted betrothed, with his silver hair and evil violet eyes, let out a derisive snort and told you right in your face that:

“The proud Lady Lannister has fallen to my feet at last… How sad.”

Gods knew you had never lacked for sharp words—but for once, nothing came, because this was exactly what your house had thrust you into.

And nor were you comforted when you would-be goodbrother, Daeron, came to you in his drunken stupor, saying:

“At this point, he’s a lost cause. I doubt marriage could fix him… but you could at least fuck him, yeah?”

Your life would be an utter disaster, you were sure of it. Why? Why must it be Aerion fucking Targaryen? You could understand politically beneficial marriage, but still, there were other Targaryen princes besides Aerion!

There were Daeron (though he might rope you into his drinking habit), Matarys (who might be too young for you), Aerys (who was said to have little interest in women, and way too old for you besides), and even Maekar?

No, no. The thought of being Aerion’s stepmother just filled you with more grief.

Valarr would be the perfect choice. The Young Prince was everything a bride could want in a husband… alas, his princess consort was already living that fairy tale with him.

As the only daughter of House Lannister, you were the perfect piece to be played in this game of thrones—such was your fate.

And whether you liked it or not... your wedding with your worst enemy was fast approaching.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger...”

Your wedding was a grand event in King’s Landing. Held in the Great Sept of Baelor, three days of feasts and a wedding tourney would follow—festivities befitting a royal union between a prince of the realm and a lady from a powerful house.

You stood at the altar, every inch the perfect bride. Beside you, Aerion was draped in Targaryen prince regalia, the very image of arrogance as he recited the vows—

“I’m hers… and she is mine.”

“I’m his… and he is mine.”

The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but when you glanced at him, you caught the triumphant glint in his violet eyes.

“From this day... to the end of my days...”

You almost looked away in disgust, but the weight of a hundred watching eyes held you in place.

The High Septon then bound your hands together, silk wrapped tight, sealing a union that neither of you had ever wanted— and after a very awkward kiss, you became the Aerion Brightfire’s wife, and he your husband.

A union of a dragon and a lion. To the realm, it was a pretty spectacle, but to you, it was a veiled disaster.

. . .

The wedding, by all appearances, had been a resounding triumph. The feasts had been lavish, the tourney lively, the realm thoroughly entertained.

However, the real trial began when doors to your marital chamber closed behind you with a thud, when both of you shed the amicable masks you had worn all day.

At least your new husband had the sense to refuse the bedding ceremony outright. For that alone, you might have been almost grateful.

“I suppose with this, you could consider this the height of your ambitions fulfilled,” Aerion drawled, both hands on his hips, his voice dripping with that same unbearable arrogance you had come to loathe.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “If this is the height, then I should like to return it.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation breaking through his cool. “How ungrateful. Most women would kill to stand where you are.”

“You flatter yourself. Most women would weep to be wed to you.”

“Careful, my lady wife. You shouldn’t offend me too deeply, or I will be inclined to have your tongue.”

“I should hope to offend you thoroughly then. Feel free to get my tongue out of me, if you could.”

That was how it had always been between you—venom clashing like blades. From childhood to now, nothing had changed.

“Gods, what a delightful marriage this will be!”

Aerion scoffed, throwing his hands up in exaggerated delight before turning away. He began shrugging off his coat, then bending to pull at his boots. Another silence fell—sharper this time, brittle at the edges.

Your gaze flicked, unwillingly, to the bed... and realizing that as a man and wife, you would be sharing a bed together. Something in you snapped at the very thought.

“Oh, bloody hell,” you cursed. “If you intend to share my bed, I suggest you don’t.”

He looked back at you, brow lifting slightly. “Your bed? This is Red Keep, you dullard.”

“I refuse to be anywhere near you!”

“As if I would want—”

“Then go and find one of your whores instead!”

Oh no, maybe you had gone to far, but all you could see before you was the little monster who had made your childhood a misery whenever you visited King’s Landing—one who stole your tarts, shoved you aside, and screamed at you without cause.

For a heartbeat, the air seemed to turn icy, something dark flickering in your new husband’s gaze, sharp enough that it nearly made you recoil.

“Just so you wait until we go back to Summerhall.” Aerion’s piercing violet bore through you. “You won’t be so eager to test me then.”

“I shall try regardless,” you replied, still lifting your chin in defiance.

He held your gaze a moment longer, something unreadable passing behind it—before turning on his heel.

“Enjoy your solitude, wench.”

And with that, he strode from the chamber, the door slamming shut behind him. At last you were alone, safe and free from him and the dreadful notion of the first night.

…then, suddenly, you burst into dry, crisp laughter. The sound escaping you as you sank into the chair before your vanity, your limbs heavy with the weight of it all.

There you had it... the first night of your marriage, and your husband really went to the whorehouse.

. . .

“Impudent little wretch…”

Aerion stalked down the corridor, the words slipping through clenched teeth. His temper burned hot, as though the very walls of the Red Keep offended him.

You. Gods, how he hated you. It was not merely the defiance—though that alone would have been enough. It was the way you met every barb he threw with one of your own since you were children of five. You did not shrink, did not simper, did not bend.

And worse, you had been radiant throughout the day, as much as it pained him to admit. The way your eyes widened just so, the softness of your lips, the slim of your waist—

Gods, what cruel jest was this, that his sworn enemy—now inconveniently, his wife—should be so offensively comely?

A bitter scoff left him.

“Impudent little wretch,” he spat, quieter this time, though the words held no less venom.

As astounding a fact as it was, Aerion was no habitual whoremonger nor witless adulterer. He didn’t even frequent the brothels that often!

Which only made this all the more infuriating… because now he found himself striding towards the Street of Silk, driven not by want, but by seething spite.

If that was what you thought of him, then so be it! He would give you a tale worth choking on—he would be tangled in silks and perfumed arms, and by the morning, you would be known as the wife spurned on her very first night.

His lips curled faintly at the thought, satisfaction flickering beneath his irritation.

Aerion slowed at the entrance of a particularly well-appointed establishment. Music drifted faintly from within, low laughter following after it. For a moment, he simply stood there.

Not out of hesitation, but because the absurdity of it all suddenly pressed sharply at his pride. He, a prince of the blood, reduced to staging a petty display all because his own wife had refused him on his wedding night!

Still, his hand lifted—

“Your Grace.”

The voice cut cleanly. Aerion’s expression darkened at once, already recognizing it. Sure enough, when he turned, two figures cloaked in pure white stood just behind him.

Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Of the Kingsguard.

“Explain yourselves,” Aerion demanded coldly, his gaze flicking between them.

Ser Roland inclined his head, far too calmly for his liking. “We are under orders, Your Grace.”

“From whom?”

“Prince Maekar,” Ser Donnel answered with a tone of finality. “To keep you… in order, my prince.”

For a heartbeat, Aerion simply stared at them, utterly incredulous. That his father had foreseen him marching to a brothel from his wedding feast, and thought it necessary to hatch a contingency plan— how and where did the old man get such a wisdom from?

He moved to brush past Ser Donnel, intent on entering the brothel regardless, but Ser Roland stepped neatly before him and blocked the entrance.

“You insolent—”

“Forgive me, my prince. Our duty is to Prince Maekar, and he has made it clear that you are not to incite any scandal on your wedding day.”

And so the night ended not in scandal, but with a very fuming prince walking back to Red Keep, under the watchful eye of the Kingsguard.

When the news reached you that your husband (of a day, mind you) was unceremoniously escorted back from Street of Silk, you burst not into polite titter or a restrained chuckle befitting a princess—

But a fit of hearty laughter that rang through your chamber.

Gods. The image of insufferable, pride-swollen Aerion halted by his own father’s guards was too priceless in your mind that you wished you had seen it firsthand. This marriage might prove to be entertaining after all!

While you were thoroughly amused, this matter proved rather less amusing for Prince Maekar and Aerion on the breakfast table.

“Father, I fail to see—”

“You fail to see quite a great many things, boy,” Prince Maekar spat, not even granting him the courtesy of finishing. You folded your hands on your lap, trying to be the very image of a docile wife, desperately trying not to break into a smile at Aerion’s peril.

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “I was merely—”

“—making a fucking fool of yourself,” Maekar hissed. “On the night of your wedding, no less.”

“It was not—!”

“Do not insult me with excuses.” His father’s voice dropped, colder now. “I know you, boy. I knew precisely where your temper would carry you, but you are not a strapping boy of seven— you are a prince of the realm!”

Aerion stiffened, pointing a hand at you, which made you look at him scandalously. “She—!”

“Enough!”

The single word struck like a lash that you flinched.

Maekar stepped closer, his gaze hard as iron. “You will not shame this house over wounded pride, Aerion. Not now. Not ever. You are wed. You will act like it.”

Aerion’s hands curled at his sides. “And if I will not—”

“You will,” Maekar said flatly, cutting him off once more. “Because I will not have whispers spreading that my son cannot even command his own household.”

Even your hands were getting clammy at your father-in-law's warning tone. Was this how Aerion was always disciplined? Now you were feeling a bit sorry for him.

Then, quieter, but no less final, Prince Maekar left him with:

“Play your part, Aerion. Or you are no son of mine.”

It was a bit strange to see how Aerion took everything in silence as his father strode away from the hall. That was quite harsh, but unlike the fiery man who you knew, he just sat there, jaw clenched tight.

A part of you felt guilty because in a way, you were the one who drove him out last night, and you were not interested in drawing your father-in-law’s ire anytime soon, so you cleared your throat, having arrived at a decision.

“For what it is worth—” you began, but before you could finish, his head snapped towards you at once, violet eyes narrowing spitefully.

“Spare me.”

You crossed your arms. “I have no desire to be dragged into your father’s displeasure, Aerion.”

His gaze lingered, studying your face. You met it, chin lifting just slightly.

“For the sake of our self-preservation… let’s call for a truce,” you continued, voice measured, “I will play my part. In public, at least.”

“Damn it, wench. Don’t pretend to be generous now,” Aerion snarled at you, spitting each word.

But for all his sharp words, there was something almost resembling an understanding between you for the first time since you swore your vows in the sept.

And so, albeit begrudgingly, both of you became the image of blissful newlyweds ever since.

You would walk beside Aerion with demure smile and composed grace, your hand resting lightly upon his arm. He, in turn, played the decent husband well enough—standing close, sometimes a hand on the small of your back, his expression schooled into calmness befitting a royal prince.

“I have heard the two of you were inseparable as children,” Myriah Martell, the Queen of Seven Kingdoms, said with a pleased smile when you were presented to her. “You suit each other beautifully.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” you replied, dipping your head with practiced elegance, your fingers tightening slightly against your husband’s sleeve.

Aerion’s lips curved—or more like, twitched—just enough. “We are… well matched.”

The queen seemed to take your responses as a good sign, because she smiled so widely at the two of you.

“Good, good... May the Seven bless you with many children, dears.”

You grimaced for the briefest moment. Aerion coughed.

Little did the court know of what had transpired in your marital chamber.

. . .

Asking a separate room would make servants talk, and it would reach Prince Maekar in due course. You couldn’t have that, so you came up with an idea and requested a dozen of pillows.

It took three maids to carry them all in. You scarcely spared them a glance, too occupied with your task as you arranged yet another cushion upon the bed with precision.

By the time you were finished, a veritable fortress stood—two layers of embroidered silk dividing the marital bed cleanly in two.

Aerion returned from his bath not long after, about to retire to bed… and he was rendered speechless by the sight before him. He kept staring at it, then at you, then back at the barricade.

“You cannot be serious—”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with sweet, dangerous calm. “Cross it, and I will make certain you regret it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“An inevitability.”

A long, charged silence stretched between you. Then, with a scoff, Aerion threw himself onto his side of the bed, turning his back to you with pointed disdain.

“Ridiculous woman.”

“Detestable man.”

And so that was how you slept ever since— back to back, divided by a fortress of pillows the two of you swore to never breach.

. . .

At banquets, however, the performance continued and not a soul in court the wiser.

“My lady,” Aerion grounded out through clenched teeth, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?”

You smiled, sweet as honey and false as it was flawless, placing your hand in his. “Of course, my lord husband.”

However, the moment you stepped onto the floor, both of you pressed your lips thin in unison. You were each a fair dancer—well-trained, as any highborn ought to be—and the steps of waltz were second nature. Yet, where other couples moved with effortless grace, you and Aerion were rigid, like two tin men forcing each step into place.

Aerion’s grip tightened ever so slightly at your waist. “Watch your step.”

“I always do,” you hissed. Then a thought, sharp and petty, slipped into your mind.

You drove your heel neatly onto his foot, and he sucked in a sharp breath in response.

“My apologies...” you said, all syrup and innocence, even as he shot you a scowl.

Moments later, his foot came down on yours—too deliberate to be an accident! You forced yourself to swallow the shriek in your throat, and glared up at him.

“A misstep,” he returned with a taunting smile. “My deepest apologies...”

To all, the newly married prince and lady shared a dance of perfect decorum. Only the two of you knew it for the battlefield it truly was.

Your lips were always soft. The curve of your cheek felt even softer beneath his palm, the quiet of your breath too... but it was the way you had looked at him that did it—not sharp, not cutting, but so unguarded and trusting.

Closing the distance, his hand caught your wrist, pulled you toward him with a force that startled even you. Your breath hitched, your body pressing against his as he leaned in—

And his lips crashed against yours.

Not gentle. That was never him. It was hot, fierce, claiming— like everything else about him. As though he meant to silence you, to steal the very breath from your lungs, to corrupt you—

. . .

. . .

. . .

And then, Aerion jerked awake.

His breath came sharp, his whole body tense as though he had truly been there—truly done that, and damnably, that one specific part of his groin felt hard. For a long moment, he simply stared into the dimness and the pillow wall next to him, disbelief settling over him, while hearing your soft snores.

“What the fuck?” he cursed under his breath.

A dream. Just a dream. But for the life of him, it had felt far too fucking real!

Your first official appearance as a royal couple came three moons after the wedding— a grand tourney at Storm’s End, held in celebration of Lord and Lady Baratheon’s tenth wedding anniversary.

By now, you had fully mastered the art of needling him. Aerion often had half a mind to slip sweetsleep into your tea, if only to spare himself your insufferable remarks—but, to his credit, his restraint had held… thus far.

He could not name precisely what it was about you that set him off. Perhaps it is your stupid hair, or your stupid eyes, or that stupid smile you so freely bestow upon squires, yet so rarely upon him. Sometimes, he just wanted to lock you away from prying eyes and silence that sharp tongue of yours himself... with his.

What...? The scenes from his dream last night filled his mind’s eye, and Aerion shook his head once sharply, as though he could rid himself of it.

The journey to Storm’s End from Summerhall was not long. You rode the carriage, while he remained outside upon his prized stallion. Through the veil of the window, he knew you could hear him swearing at his squire.

For this, there had been no question—Aerion would compete in the said tourney. He had always reveled in the bloodlust and the clash of steel, and took no small pride in winning, even if it meant employing tactics others might deem less than honorable.

When his ever-eager squire asked if he would ask for your favor and name you Queen of Love and Beauty should he win, he only scoffed, saying, “No need, and I would sooner put the crown on the elderly Lady Baratheon’s head myself.”

“H-huh? Not Lady Lannister…? Why—”

“No. And stop asking useless question, you witless fool.”

He did not know what he hoped—invoking some reaction, perhaps—but none came from the carriage. What, had he really thought you might rise to it and argue with him?

Aerion clicked his tongue, then drove his heel into his horse’s flank, urging it forward with a sharp kick.

. . .

By the time you arrived, Storm’s End was already alive with celebration. Many highborn lords and ladies gathered for this grand event, and you and Aerion slipped seamlessly into your harmonious facade until the first opportunity arose for you to part ways.

Conversing with ladies your age never held your interest, so you only spared them a few words before excusing yourself. Soon, you decided you had no appetite left for feasting or courtesy, and that the air outside would do you better.

Your husband was an imbecile. Of course you had heard the provoking remarks he’d made earlier, but you left him to his own devices. He was aggravating—so much so that, at times, you had the impulse to give him a good shake to rattle the madness out of him.

You exhaled, kicking the stones in your feet as if they drew your ire. Cool night air brushed against your cheeks and for a moment, you felt better.

“My, why is a fine lady such as yourself out here all alone?”

—so much so that you failed to notice the presence that had crept up behind you.

You went rigid at the sound, whirling around at once. And the instant you caught the sight of a crimson lion, dread coiled low in your stomach.

“Oh, what a surprise... if it isn’t the Lady Lannister.”

Your former betrothed, Rogar of House Reyne, stood before you, tall and imposing, a thin, venomous smile curling his lips.

There was no mistaking the resentment of a man once promised your hand, only to have it torn from him.

You straightened despite yourself, masking the unease clawing at your spine. “Lord Rogar.”

“Look at you now,” he drawled, the sharp stink of wine clinging to him. His gaze dragged over your black gown. “A princess of the dragon’s brood. Tell me, does your prince dote on you as sweetly as they claim?”

House Reyne was a proud and ancient line, long at odds with House Lannister in one way or another. Throughout history, there were many matches made to tie the two lion houses together, and you were considered for it... until your father broke it to bind you to Aerion.

You said nothing, clenching your skirts.

Rogar huffed a quiet laugh. “Ah, silent. How unlike you.” His head tilted, studying your face as though searching for something. “Do you remember, I wonder, how it was meant to be? You, at my side. Our houses bound, our banners flying as one.”

“My father never agreed to such a match,” you replied evenly.

“Strange. I seem to recall him swearing it so. Until a dragon came calling. Until your family decided a title was worth more than honor and handed you off to warm Aerion Brightflame’s bed like a common whore.”

You had always detested this man’s boundless greed. And now, you found one thought almost laughable—Aerion, for all his faults, was still far more tolerable.

Rogar Reyne’s lips twitched, though there was no warmth in it.

“Didn’t they say Lannisters always pay their debts? I’m afraid you owe me a great one, little princess.”

“And didn’t you hear that a Lannister lion does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep?” you returned coldly, lifting your chin. “Lord Rogar, I fear you are not even a sheep... but a roach.”

The crack of his hand against your face came so swift that you hadn’t even realized it. Pain burst across your cheek as you were sent sprawling to the ground, the world spinning for a heartbeat. You tasted blood.

“You bitch,” he spat. “You and your house dare to dishonor mine!”

It was the first time in your life a man had ever struck you. In that instant, your survival instincts took over—driving you to your feet and run.

Your breath came sharp and ragged as you fled through the darkened paths, your skirts gathered in your fists. Behind you, the heavy thud of his boots struck against stone, far too close.

“Stop running, you bitch!”

Something snagged at your leg—thorn or splinter, you didn’t know. The fabric of your dress tore, and pain flared hot along your calf, but you did not stop.

You caught sight of a narrow passage leading to an old door half-hidden in the stables. You lunged for it, fingers fumbling against the handle before wrenching it open and slipping inside. The moment you crossed the threshold, you shoved the door shut with all your strength and slammed the lock into place.

You staggered back a step, pressing a trembling hand to your mouth as you tried to steady yourself. Your cheek still burned, your pulse still raced—but you were safe. For now. Then—

A violent rattling at the door.

You flinched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as the handle jerked sharply, once, twice—then again, harder, as if someone meant to break it down.

“Go away, you bastard!” you screamed, holding the wooden door with your bare hands.

“Open the door!”

“I said go bloody hell—!”

“It’s me!”

You froze. For a moment, you could only stare at the door, your hands trembling where they pressed against it. Then, with a shaking breath, you lifted the latch.

And found your silver-haired husband standing outside.

A vexation wrapped in the flawless guise of a lady. Too sharp, too free, and far too composed for his liking. At times, you tried his patience so thoroughly Aerion thought he might truly strangle the fuck out of you.

And yet... here he was, breathless before you now, having chased you through the night like some fool led more by instinct than reason.

Aerion had not meant to follow you, but when he saw his wife fleeing into the night as though someone was hunting her, how could he leave her to it?

“What happened to you?” Aerion demanded, his violet irises blazing, taking in the sight.

You stood before him trembling from head to toe, your eyes wide with something dangerously close to terror. There was a smear of blood at the corner of your lips, and—

Aerion’s hand came up, firm as he caught your chin and tilted your face toward the dim light. The swelling along your cheek was already rising beneath his touch.

Someone has laid a hand on his wife.

“Whose bastard did this to you?”

“Aerion, it’s not—”

“Who?”

You did hesitate, but in the end, you told him of Rogar Reyne, the broken betrothal, and the wroth he had turned upon you.

By the time you finished, Aerion had gone very still. His expression darkened, something cold and vicious settling over his features—so much so that even you nearly recoiled from it.

“I will have his head!” he snarled then with righteous fury, to your shock. “This is high treason. I will demand a trial—!”

“No!” You clutched his arm, horrified. “Don’t!”

Trial by combat—or any form of trials, really—would spell disaster for the royal family and others alike. You wouldn’t let him, and he glared at you, anger still burning hot in his eyes.

“If you must answer this, then do it in the tourney,” you insisted, holding his fiery gaze. “Redeem my honor on the morrow. Slay him if you must, but do it in the melee.”

Still holding his arm, silence stretched between you. You found yourself looking at him—truly looking—as if you just saw him for the first time.

Aerion was ready to demand blood and call for judgment to see your attacker punished. His jawline was sharp, clenched as his beautiful violet eyes gazed at you in return, internally deciding what the best course of action was.

In the end, he listened to you somehow... but that was also when his gaze dropped. There, beneath the torn edge of your dress, blood had begun to seep down your calf.

“Seven hells.” The fury did not leave him, and now shifting to your sorry state. “You are fucking bleeding.”

“It’s nothing—” you dismissed it, but he ignored you entirely. Instead, Aerion forcefully led you down to sit on the wooden planks before he crouched before you, his hands lifted the torn fabric to see the wound.

With a sharp motion, to your shock (again), he tore a strip from the edge of his own doublet.

“What are you—”

“Hold still, wench. I’m trying to stop it.”

He bound the cloth firmly around your calf, his fingers deft despite the dim light, tightening it to staunch the bleeding.

You watched him, something unfamiliar fluttering in your chest. Throughout all the years you had known Aerion, tenderness had never been something you would attribute to him. But now, not only was he furious for your sake, he tended to you with such focus you would never have expected from a man so proud.

“…Where did you learn to do that?” you asked quietly.

Aerion huffed under his breath, not looking up as he secured the knot. “Daeron used to patch me up whenever I took a fall.” A pause followed. “It will have to do for now. Can you walk?”

You shifted, testing your weight. The sting along your calf answered for you as you grimaced. “…Not well.”

He let out of a long exhale, as if exasperated, and you thought you would force yourself to walk regardless rather than risking his ire, but—

Before you could protest, Aerion bent and swept you up into his arms.

A startled breath left you, your hands instinctively clutching at his neck. “Aerion—!”

“Spare me,” he hissed, already striding towards the way back. “You are not limping back to the castle.”

Your heart hammered traitorously against your ribs. It was ridiculous—utterly ridiculous!

His arm was firm at your back, the other braced beneath your knees, and you could feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the strength he exuded in every step as though carrying you was the most natural thing in the world.

He did not set you down once—not even when the hall fell into a hush, nor when lords and ladies turned to stare, their gasps rippling softly in your wake.

A maester was summoned to tend to you the moment you returned. He worked in silence, cleaning and binding the cut in your calf far more thoroughly than Aerion’s efforts. By the time he finished, you were left sitting at the edge of the bed, exhaustion beginning to weigh on you.

You shared a chamber. That much could not be helped. And this was Storm’s End, where you couldn’t ask the maids for a heap of pillows, but the biggest concern was—

“It is a small bed,” you noted, casting him a sidelong glance.

Aerion gave a low snort, his gaze flicking to you. “You’ll survive.”

When you both finally lay down, it became more undeniable. There was scarcely any space between you. Your shoulder brushed his with the slightest movement, your legs threatening to tangle should either of you shift.

How were you supposed to rest like this...?

You let out a quiet breath, trying to lift the air. “If you so much as crush me in your sleep, I will see it counted as an assassination attempt.”

Aerion scowled beside you. “I would sooner have Rogar Reyne’s head before strangling my own wife in her sleep.”

“Must you sound so eager about it?”

“He dared to lay a hand on what is mine.” His voice sharpened, edged with a snarl. “If I had my way, his corpse would be hanging naked in the streets of King’s Landing. As it stands—he’ll beg for death before I’m through with him.”

His. You ignored the way your heart skipped a beat, and studied him in the dim light. “Why are you so upset about it, anyway?”

Aerion turned his head, fixing you with a look as though you had spoken pure nonsense. Why? Why indeed? Why had this searing anger taken hold of him the moment he realized some wretched cur had cornered you?

His indifferent, infuriating wife you might be, but still his all the same. That was enough reason.

“You are an enduring mystery,” you grumbled, saying this because you wasn’t aware of any of his thoughts, of course. “You told everyone and your squire you didn’t want my favor and all—”

The Bright Prince barked a quiet laugh. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“How—!”

“Because,” he snapped, “if I asked, you’d spend the night sewing like some overzealous seamstress just to meet the morning. Everyone knows your ribbons are the finest favor amongst the ladies.”

Your handmade favors had always been nothing more than a quiet pastime of yours. And yet, somehow, they had gained a reputation of their own because word got out that you always put so much care in the stitching.

“With your favor or not, I’ll beat the shit out of Reyne.” He shifted, settling in to his side and pressing his eyes shut. “Now stop prattling and go to sleep, wife. You ought to watch me on the morrow.”

You lay there for a moment, thoughts drifting. Aerion Brightflame who had become your husband— who made your life unbearable at times, and yet this same man whose touch had been careful, whose fury had flared at the sight of your injury, and who now swore vengeance upon who wronged you. You couldn’t fool yourself into feeling that you were not flattered in some strange, twisted way.

“Thank you,” you murmured almost shyly.

Aerion’s back remained to you, unmoving. Whether he had heard, you could not tell.

. . .

Aerion lay still, listening as your breathing gradually evened, growing slow and steady. When he finally turned his head, you were already asleep.

In sleep, you looked… different. All this time, that stupid pillow blockade had obstructed his view that it was the first time he saw you like this. The edge in your expression gone, your features eased into softness. Your lips were slightly chapped, and yet so bloody tempting to him he didn’t know why.

He still remembered the little lady with wide, doe-like eyes, clad in Lannister golden dress for her visits to the Red Keep. He remembered the way your face had pinched in irritation when he’d stolen your lemon tarts, clutching the empty plate as though it were a grave offense.

It had amused him then. It still did.

And no insolent fool dared to hurt you would be left alive.

Come the morrow, he would destroy the rat. But now, as he stared at you, his enemy-wife—

Aerion decided he would ride into the melee, crush every last opponent, and place the victor’s laurel in your hands after all.

The stands of Storm’s End were alive with color and noise, the roar of the crowd rolling like thunder beneath the gray skies as each knight lined in the arena.

Unlike most ladies, you did not shrink from bloodshed. You had always enjoyed tourneys—had cheered your brothers rather than fearing for them—and even now, with your husband among those in the field, you only felt a sense of calmness.

Or perhaps… you were simply distracted.

Your mind drifted back to this morning, and a flush of warmth rose to your cheeks.

Aerion’s face had been too close to yours when you woke, his arm draped loosely around your waist. His harsh features were nonexistent in sleep, and his expression almost… peaceful. With that silver-gold hair, he had looked less like terror and more like, you daresay, your protector.

“Good day, my lady.”

You blinked, dragging yourself back to the present as someone took the seat beside you. Prince Valarr’s smile was gentle, his mismatched gaze clear as he inclined his head in greeting.

“Your Grace,” you returned, offering a small smile.

He settled beside you, watching the field below. For a moment, the two of you simply observed the gathering knights.

“You are not competing today?” you asked, glancing at him.

“My lady wife is not fond of me in tourneys,” he replied, a note of fondness in his voice. “And she prefers the quiet of the castle with our son. I would have joined her, but I must stand in place of my father, you see.”

The tale of how besotted the Heir of Dragonstone was with his princess had all the makings of a storybook romance. At times, you found yourself envying them.

“Ah, and how does fatherhood treat you, Your Grace?”

His eyes softened then. “Better than any victory in the lists, I assure you.”

You smiled faintly at that, before your attention drifted once more to the field. It was a melee today—no tilting and just pure strength, steel and survival.

And there, striding into the fray in black and red armor, was Aerion of House Targaryen, the second son of the Prince of Summerhall, as the herald proclaimed.

With the shape of his helmet and spikes of his armor, he cut a menacing figure among the rest. Even at a distance, there was something in the way he held himself—like a blade drawn and waiting.

Valarr followed your gaze. “Are you excited, my lady? My cousin is a fine knight. I would not be surprised to see him emerge champion.”

Truthfully? Yes. You parted your lips to answer but the sharp blare of a trumpet split the air, signaling that the melee had begun.

Your husband drove his destrier forward with ruthless precision, scattering men before him. Steel rang, bodies fell, and in the chaos—he thrived. With that morningstar in hand, he was a force to be reckoned with.

At one point, he forced Lord Tully to the ground, looming over him like something out of a nightmare.

“Tell the Reyne bastard that Aerion Brightflame is after his head!”

Valarr’s lips twitched beside you. “Ah… so someone has offended him yet again. Poor him.”

You remembered an anecdote you had once heard, glancing at him. “I was told Aerion once asked for Her Grace’s favor, and you beat the shit out of him for it... is that true?”

From the meaningful smile he had on his face, it was clear there was more into the tale, but whatever it was, Valarr chose not to disclose it.

“To be honest, I have the Seven to thank for that. But fret not, my lady. Aerion will not lose this time.”

“And why are you so certain?”

The Young Prince’s gaze flicked to you, something knowing in his expression.

“Would you not be the one who knows best? He is the dragon. He ought never lose.”

If Valarr mirrored Prince Baelor’s impeccable duty and honor, then Aerion was the living image of Prince Maekar’s finest lance and fury—though sharper, fiercer, and far more unforgiving than his sire had ever been. His height might prove to be a challenge, but he more than compensated it with aggressive stances and lightning-fast strikes.

Below, as if to prove the point, the Bright Prince cut through another opponent with brutal efficiency, swinging his deadly mace mercilessly.

Soon enough, he cleared out all the combatants and found his target: Rogar Reyne.

Your former betrothed had barely time to react before Aerion’s destrier crashing forward with terrifying force. The swing of his morningstar came swift and brutal—striking so hard that sent Rogar flying from his saddle and into the dirt below.

The crowd roared, and Aerion did not stop. He had only just begun.

He dismounted in a breath, advancing like a man possessed. Lord Reyne scrambled to defend himself—but the Brightflame fought with something far worse than skill. Entitled fury.

The morningstar came down again and again, each blow denting armor, drawing blood. And when Rogar Reyne’s guard finally broke—

Aerion pulled out his sword. He drove the man back, slashing without mercy, carving through what little defense remained. Blood spilled freely, staining the ground, staining his hands— each strike was meant to answer for the wrong he did to you.

A gasp rippled through the stands. You also felt the shock and horror, but beyond that—

The sight of your husband, stained with blood of his own doing, and knowing that he did it because of you… it was not as repulsive as it ought to have been.

If anything, it felt gratifying.

Rogar was barely conscious when Aerion seized him by the collar, dragging him across the dirt like a carcass. The field fell into a stunned hush as he hauled him before the stands and forced him to his knees.

Your husband loomed over him, tearing off his skull-like helmet—his face unmarred by blood, yet no less fearsome. His presence overwhelming as his voice rang out across the arena:

“This cunt right here dared to dishonor my wife.”

A murmur swept through the crowd. You could feel the weight of eyes turning towards you but the crowd’s attention quickly snapped back to the broken man at Aerion’s feet.

“And now let it be known—”

His violet gaze burns anyone he laid eyes on—until it found yours. For a fleeting moment, you thought the corners of his lips curled ever so slightly.

“—any lowlife who dares the same will answer to me.”

With a single, vicious kick to his face, Aerion sent him sprawling into the dirt once more. The stands erupted at once, their roars rising for the champion they had found.

That day, Aerion Brightflame stood victorious… having claimed justice in the name of his wife.

Lord Corlys Velaryon once said that history remembers names. The fools of the Red Keep and Casterly Rock might argue over how it was that you and Aerion came to despise one another—but on this, both they and realm would agree:

When the Bright Prince dethroned Lady Baratheon to name you the queen of beauty in the grandest tourney in its time—

You paused your walk to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek, “I know, my love. And I adore them all.”

He smiled at you before deciding that a kiss on the cheek was not enough. Gently clasping your chin with his thumb and index finger, he too planted his own kiss, but on your lips- ensuring that it lingered for as long as possible. When you parted, he traced your lips with his thumb.

“My Prince, I-“

Aerion’s head snapped towards the direction of the high pitched voice.

“Not now boy, I am busy.” Your husband snapped at his young squire, not bothering to properly look at him- more focused on you, as he always was.

You pursed your lips slightly in sympathy as you watched the young boy. He stood there, forcing his body to remain upright, shoulders back. He looked at Aerion expectantly, despite his dismissiveness.

You weren’t sure how old your husband’s new squire was, roughly thirteen or fourteen, perhaps. Aerion had no want for a squire, yet unfortunately Prince Maekar had ordered it. As a consequence, since returning from the tourney, your husband had suffered being followed around by someone whom wished to aid him most of the day. His own personal idea of hell.

“Stop calling him that.” You scolded softly in a hushed voice to ensure that the child could not hear you.

“What is it, Edric?”

Aerion frowned, his eyes stayed glued to the side of your face, waiting for you to look upon him once again. Yet, you did not. Accepting defeat, he too turned towards his squire.

Edric now did not know who to look at, or speak to. He wanted to direct his attentions to the beautiful princess whom had shown him nothing but kindness and care since his arrival. Yet he forced himself to look upon the man he served- the man that terrified him to his core. The young boy felt grateful for your existence, daily, hourly even.

When his own father had told him where he would be going and whom he would be serving, he had cried himself to sleep.

You saw his fear, and had explained it to your husband. Unfortunately, your husband didn’t share the same empathy in which you did.

He stuttered, his body sinking lower to the ground as each moment passed. Almost as if a candle had been lit in his head, he propped himself back up, pushing his shoulders all the way back. You had to stop the giggle that wanted to escape your lips and Aerion just groaned.

“Gods, Edric what is it.” Despite the respect of using his name this time, his words were forced through gritted teeth.

“I erm, I just wanted to erm let you know that you,” the boy peered down at Aerion’s boots, “it appears that you have stepped in horse dung, I will clean them immediately.”

Your hand raised to your mouth with haste in a desperate attempt to keep your laughter at bay. Aerion cursed, and you prayed that he wouldn’t take it out on the child.

You knew your husband better than anyone in the realm, and you could feel the heat rising from his chest. You knew a Brightflame tantrum was about to take place.

“The world shan’t crash and burn over it, love.” Your soft words brought him back down to reality, your soft giggles warming his heart. He didn’t even care that you were laughing at him, he just loved seeing you smile. It was the only thing in this dreadful world that brought him happiness.

Aerion rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, scraping his shoe against a small patch of originally green grass, that now had strokes of brown throughout it.

The young boy grinned at you whilst the Prince dug his boot into the ground.

“Don’t just stand there boy, come and-“

A nearby horse whinnied loudly, causing everyone in the yard to snap their heads towards the commotion.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see much, neither could Aerion. From what you could see, though was a group of men that you barely recognised, laughing so hard that they cried. You wondered why the horse’s noise would cause such delight. You stood on a tiptoe, nearly slipping as you did so in the mud below- Aerion caught your waist and held you as you steadied yourself.

“Oh dear.” You commented, now having gained a better view of the scene.

“What is it, Princess?” Aerion asked, despite not caring much. He inspected the nails on his free hand- dirt stuck inside one of them.

“There is a boy who cannot control that horse! Not one of those men are helping him.” You paused, watching the scene unfold. “Horses can be very dangerous you know, when they are not cared for and handled properly.”

You peered at your husband, who remained digging into his fingernails, his tongue between his teeth in concentration.

“Just like you.” You spoke again, a teasing smile.

Aerion peered up and rolled his eyes playfully at you. You felt a swift hand hit your bottom, and then felt the same hand grip it tightly.

“I would say I am far more dangerous when not cared for properly.”

A voice in the distance called for him, and he begrudgingly followed it. Now, alone, Aerion’s squire stared at you awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself.

Suddenly, a loud rip rang through the air, and you heard the horse squeal once more. This time differed to the last, however, as this time you heard the panicked call of men, rather than laughter.

Your attention was drawn toward the commotion just as the horse veered sharply. It ran faster than you could ever have imagined a beast could move.

Straight towards you.

Aerion moved instantly, the man that he was in conversation with now on the floor due to Aerion’s own panic- he had thrown him.

He sprinted towards you, and as he moved closer a hand shot out for your arm.

But the horse was much faster than he had judged.

For the first time since knowing you, since loving you, Prince Aerion Targaryen realised he would not reach you in time. He would never live with himself if he allowed his sweet lady wife to be caused harm.

You braced, yet the impact did not come.

Instead, the boy lunged his whole body towards you, in front of the horse.

“My Princess!” He squeaked, his voice breaking.

A hard shove struck your shoulder causing you to stumble backwards, yet Aerion caught you before you landed on the cold earth. Harshly, he swiped the loose hair from your face and grabbed your cheeks inspecting your face and then body for any harm.

The huge horse thundered past. There was a sickening impact, and then the boy was on the ground.

You were fine, yet you knew the boy wouldn’t be. A wave of guilt flood through your bones.

Aerion, pleased that you were fine, picked you up and propped you on your feet. He pressed a loving kiss to your forehead and then whipped his body around.

His jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened- scanning the area for any of the men. All whom had witnessed the scene stood with their mouths open, knowing what would come next.

The man whom had lost control of the horse- more so whom had never had control of the horse, had been flung off in the process, now lying on the floor cradling his arm with his eyes closed.

“You!” Aerion shouted. His hand found his sword instinctively, forming a solidified grip on the hilt.

As he neared the injured idiot, he withdrew it forcefully from its sheath. He held it to his throat.

“Open your eyes you fucking imbecile.” He ordered.

The man’s eyes tore open, his mouth opening with the intention of speaking yet no words came.

“You nearly killed my wife.” Aerion pressed the sharp blade into his neck ever so slightly, the man let out a small gasp as the ice cold metal nipped his neck.

“Your princess.” He pressed the blade harder, causing a yelp. Crimson began to trickle from the small incision that Aerion had caused. You knew that you should have stopped him, but admittedly, part of you couldn’t have cared less. Despite your usually forgiving nature, you too were annoyed that you were nearly gravely hurt. And you were sure as hell annoyed about the sweet, young boy that now lay unconscious in the cold mud.

Aerion swiftly withdrew his blade, and the man’s hand immediately raised in order to clasp the small slit.

“Speak!” He roared. Even you were slightly taken aback- usually Aerion carried himself calmly when angry or upset, which was one of the reasons that people were so terrified of him. He was not calm now, though- the spit flying from his mouth as he shouted gave that away greatly.

“I didn’t mean too! My friends were taunting the horse and I don’t know how to ride properly and-“

Aerion silenced him with a hard kick to the stomach. While still clasping his neck, the man hurled over in pain.

Aerion’s body swivelled in your direction, “where are you hurt, my love?” His face softened as he saw you hunched over Edric, stroking his hair, ensuring that he was still breathing.

“My ankle hurts,” you gestured to the floor below you, “yet I am more worried about Edric. What will happen?” You didn’t seek an answer to the question- it was more of an inquiry to the gods.

Without a second thought, Aerion swung his sword as hard as he could onto the man’s ankle- chopping it clean off. The man squealed louder than anyone you had ever heard.

He leaned down, and spoke to the man in a quiet voice, “you hurt my princess’ ankle, so I have taken yours. If that boy,” he pointed, “dies, you will also.” His words were simple. Despite his agony, the man mustered a nod.

Aerion ordered his guard to take him away, and to find the other men who had all coincidentally dispersed.

Your husband walked back to you, his eyes as soft as they always were when he looked at you. You attempted to stand, but your ankle gave in as soon as you had put weight on it.

Aerion lunged forward, catching you once more.

“Thank you.” Your words came out shyer and quieter than you had intended.

He tutted at your thanks, still not understanding why, after five whole winters of being completely and utterly obsessed with you, you still felt the need to thank him.

He knew the answer though, it was because you were the kindest person whom he had ever met.

Placing his right arm on your back, and his left under your legs, he smoothed your skirt down first just in case anyone would dare peep at his lady wife. He began to lift you when you protested.

His brows furrowed, and his face scrunched.

“Leave me here and take him first please. Find him the best maester.” Your tone light but your meaning completely serious.

He let out a long sigh and peered down at the boy who still lay unconscious- his chest heaving up and down.

Aerion’s eyes rolled into the back of his head- he knew what he had to do now; carry the both of them. He couldn’t have given less of a fuck about the boy that had been pestering him constantly, always behind him, infuriating him with his very presence.

But what his princess wanted, she got. He knew you cared for him with your pure heart, and that was enough a reason for him.

He placed you back down gently, once again ensuring that your gown stay down, ironically now wishing it did touch the mud now.

He picked you up over his shoulder on the right side of his body, and then clicked at a nearby guard to help him with the boy. He could have commanded the guard to carry him, of course. That wouldn’t impress you as much though. He wanted to show you the true strength of the dragon that you had married.

The guard did as commanded and propped the boy up, aerion dipped his left side downwards slightly, and allowed the boy to claim his other shoulder. Aerion thanked the gods that he was light.

Weeks passed, and Edric lived. Thankfully. You had sat with him daily, he had woken up a night or so after his collision. You had been there when he awoke, as had your husband, unwillingly.

The boy thought he had died; your beautiful face lingering above him and smiling persuaded the boy quickly that he must be dead, or dreaming. Reality crashed down upon him when he moved his head slightly and saw Aerion’s harsh face also staring down at him. He had jumped, you had giggled, and Aerion had scrunched his face in offence.

Aerion found it adorable that you cared so much, but he was conflicted by the fact that he felt so neglected. Usually, you pandered to his every need- you fed him cake, you sat upon his lap, you kissed him tenderly, you stroked his hair- even in times of fume, you were there while he bathed. You did everything together.

Since the boy had been harmed, although you still pandered to every need, there were many times in the day that you instead sat with Edric. Aerion dreaded what it would be like when you conceived a babe. He had spent the entire time pouting, and sulking like a baby. He thought that you hadn't notice. Of course you had, there was no possible way of not noticing. He had been more loving than usual, and he usually poured his entire heart into yours. You quite liked this version of him, though. One morning he even got down on his knees and begged you not to leave the bed. You didn't.

After the third week (which had felt like an eternity), despite you spending less time with the injured child due to his recovery, he still begged for your attention.

While on his way to find you, one evening, Aerion caught wind of what his squire had been vocalising throughout the castle.

Passing through the kitchens one afternoon, he heard a roar of laughter- more so a cackle.

“Seven save us, please! The boy’s at it again.”

Aerion paid it no mind until another voice answered.

“Her smile is more beautiful than all the stars above Ashford.” The woman put on a dramatised voice, causing Aerion to stop in his tracks.

The kitchen erupted into more cackles. A third voice chimed in.

“No, no. My favourite was yesterday,” the woman cleared her voice, “the Maiden herself could not rival her grace, and beauty and gentleness.”

He’s only a boy, Aerion told himself, chewing the inside of his cheek as he internalised the words he had heard.

“Poor lad’s hopeless.”

“Can you blame him? The prince’s lady sat at his bedside every day for three weeks.”

“Still. If Prince Aerion ever hears half of what the boy says…”

The laughter died abruptly as the women noticed who was standing in the doorway.

A heavy thud of silence descended upon the room.

Aerion stared at them, eyebrows raised and his tongue touching his top lip.

The women immediately bowed their heads, a chiming of “My Prince” annoying his ears. He tutted at them, and flicked a finger upwards, signalling them to stand.

“My squire had developed a fondness for my princess?” He asked them.

They nodded.

Much to their surprise, he laughed. Loudly, while clapping his hands together. Without another word, he walked away, leaving the women to stand there, completely and utterly confused.

He was not surprised, though. Of course the pubescent boy had developed a fondness for you- you were the most beautiful girl in all of the seven kingdoms, and he thanked the gods that he barely believed in daily to have you as his own.

He searched for you everywhere, but could not find you anywhere. He even went to the room that the boy had been recovering in, yet it was empty.

The only place in which he hadn’t searched, were yours and his chambers. He walked swiftly, and completely ignored the large man that guarded the room. Pushing open the grand, mahogany doors to your chambers, he was delighted to see you laying there, your nose in a book.

You looked up at him, your eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

“There you are.” You propped yourself up, and laid your book down carefully. “I have been waiting for you.”

He smirked, kicking his boots off and forcefully laying next to you on the warm, fur covered bed. Instinctively, you lay your head on his lap. Also instinctively, Aerion’s fingers attached themselves to your hair, gently raking through it.

“I heard something amusing today.” He said simply. You made a noise in response, silently asking him to continue.

“Edric has been telling anyone that will listen about how much he adores you. I believe he may be in love with you.”

Horror flashed in your mind, Aerion was an extremely jealous and obsessive person, especially when it came to you, even if the subject of the matter was a harmless child.

“Oh dear, bless him.” You said cautiously.

Aerion bent all the way down and planted a lingering kiss to your forehead, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

“I cannot blame the boy, though I do want to kill him.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“Though I won’t.”

A sigh of relief escaped you. You sat up, scooting upwards so you lay next to him, allowing one leg to sprawl over his lap comfortably.

“Please do not, he is a child.”

He leant down and kissed you again, on the lips this time.

“I know my darling, and that is why I shan’t kill him.”

He smiled at you, and you smiled back. He raised a finger, as he had a thought.

Aerion laughed at the last point made.

“She is apparently quite attractive.” He repeated, now, himself, shaking his head while simultaneously laughing. “And what source have you gathered this information from, father?” He asked, though it was clear that his question was more so a throw away than one that he craved an actual answer for.

Maekar, in a desperate attempt to refrain from slapping his son in the face, decided to ignore the question and instead tutted quietly, raising his own cup to his lips.

Aerion did not want a wife. He saw these political matters as ridiculously boring; he hated attending events and weddings, and now he would have to be the forefront of the celebrations. He could not think of anything worse. He dreaded meeting this woman, and highly doubted that she would carry any of the traits that his father had named.

The noise within the hall quietened suddenly, signalling the arrival of someone. Although not eager to meet her, Aerion could not deny his intrigue. He was, in fact, curious to see his future wife.

Then he heard the words, “Lady Y/N of House Celtigar, born of the old blood of Valyria, promised bride to Prince Aerion Targaryen.”

The large doors of the Red Keep swung open, creating an awkwardly loud sound as they did so. It felt like an eternity before someone entered.

She entered the Keep at an even pace, neither hesitant nor performative. Despite the large amount of people whom stared at her, she refused to gaze at them even once. Aerion wasn't sure if this was out of lack of care or fear.

Her hair was dark cherry red, long and intricately styled, worn down so it fell in ordered sections over her shoulders and back. It caught the light as she walked, consequently meaning that the red turned into a burning fire at moments.

Aerion sat up in his seat, his face still holding the same anguish, despite the delight he felt.

Her eyes were a bright green, which were made sharper by dark charcoal at the lids. Something that Aerion had never seen on a woman. They stay forward, steady, taking in the hall without obvious reaction.

Silver, emerald and ruby jewels sat upon her brow, throat, and hands, arranged with care rather than excess, reflecting the torchlight in brief flashes as she shifted.

Her dress was a deep black, fitted and structured, with emerald detailing worked into it in clean lines. It moved with her rather than against her, keeping its shape as she walked.

She came to a halt before Daeron, the King, who sat surrounded by his family- Baelor on one side and Maekar on his other. She bowed gently and gracefully before standing up straight once more.

“Your Grace.” She nodded politely, “I express my many thanks and gratitude for inviting me here, today, and presenting me with this great honour.”

The King responded appropriately, though Aerion did not bother to listen. He had had enough of bumbling small talk and conversations that in his opinion, wasted both time and energy.

He, instead, nudged his father on the arm.

“I thought you said that she was quite attractive.” He whispered. His father looked at him dumbfounded.

“You do not agree?”

Aerion screwed up his face and rubbed his hands together, “she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He said simply. Not happily, or fondly, just simply. His father did not know what he was supposed to say to that. He instead, wondered, how he had created a human as strange as him.

Only the gods could answer that question.

Aerion was having an awful time, yes, but he did not realise that his future wife was also wishing that the ground beneath them would open up completely so that she could escape. This was her furthest idea of a good time.

Aerion felt displeased; Y/N had not looked at him once- not even a glance. Although not blatant, he viewed it as an obvious sign of disrespect, which did not bode well for the future.

“Prince Aerion, meet Lady Y/N.” His father’s voiced pulled him from his thoughts. Begrudgingly, he stood- only because he knew that if he did not, he would never hear the end of it.

She curtseyed politely before him, “my prince.”

He eyed her, she was much more beautiful from a closer view.

He nodded, “my lady.”

The seat next to Aerion was pulled, and so she sat comfortably beside him. The hall resumed entertaining one another, in turn levitating the pressure of their meeting.

“I have long anticipated our meeting, my prince.” He heard her say.

“Have you?” He replied sarcastically, glancing at her briefly before eyeing a servant and clicking. Y/N noticed the panic that flashed within the servants eye before he ran over with the flank of wine, and carefully yet hurriedly poured it into the princes cup.

“I have indeed,” she coated her own words with the same venom, “because all a girl dreams of is being torn away from her home to marry a random man whom she has never encountered.”

Aerion’s head jolted slightly, taken aback with her blunt words.

“Being here is an honour.” He said matter of factly, refraining from looking at her once more and sipping his wine to help him with his refrain.

“Is it?”

He could not believe her attitude. He turned to her, now facing her fully, looking into her eyes. Without meaning to, he balled his hand into a fist.

“How dare you!”

She smirked, her green eyes glimmering as she did so. “How dare I, what?”

“How dare you show such an ugly attitude upon our first meeting.”

She smiled at him, now needing to use the same refrain that he had.

“My apologies my Prince, I am truly sorry that you find me…ugly.”

Aerion’s brows furrowed in confusion, “I did not say that you are ugly I said that your attitude is ugly.”

She smirked again, “hmm, but you see, if one’s attitude and demeanour is referred to as ugly then surely that person, in turn, is also seen as ugly.”

Aerion, losing patience, responded quickly. “You are very much not ugly you are extremely beautiful, I am saying that…” he stopped his words when he saw her lips curve upwards into a smile. “You are doing this on purpose.”

“I am.” She hummed, “and since you did not offer me anything to quench my thirst, I shall have to relieve myself.” With that, she pushed out her chair, got up, walked to retrieve the jug, and then walked back. He watched as she kindly protested help from the servants. He did not understand why, that is what they were there for.

She took a large swig from her cup and then shrivelled her face in disgust, “well, it is not Dornish wine. It’ll do.” And with those words, came another large sip.

She turned to Aerion, “so, my prince, do you care to tell me why you are so unbelievably displeased to meet me?”

He tilted his head at her question, he did not know how to answer. How can he articulate something that he doesn’t know himself?

He chose to do what he did best- deflect and offend.

“Because my lady, I am someone who does not care for stupid politics with stupid women.”

He saw a shift within her once he spoke those words, her bright eyes seemed to dull in an instant, and it was clear to him that she would much rather be accused of being ugly rather than unintelligent.

He waited for her sarcastic reply, but it never came.

Her words never came at all, for the entire remainder of the evening.

He didn’t care though. Good, he thought, now I don’t have to speak to you.

She thought of many things that she could have said, thousands of words that would cut through him like a blade. Yet, if she wanted to keep up her appearances, and please her own father’s wishes by marrying a Targaryen, then she needed to quiet herself. And so, that is exactly what she did.

She refused to utter a single word to Aerion. She quite honestly had planned to stay silent for the rest of her life, her stubbornness would definitely allow it.

After one whole month after her arrival at kings landing, Y/N had not spoken a word to her husband to be. She, of course, made small chatter with his family and people whom she needed to however when it came to him, she refused to utter a word. She was angry at him. She had heard stories of his unpleasant ways, but she could not quite believe his rudeness.

She had become very lonely during this time, however, she had expected this. Surprisingly, she found some people quite pleasant actually. His father was quite stern but all the while fine to converse with. His brothers were fine, too. She was told many stories of a Prince Aegon, whom they called “egg” but she was yet to meet him, as he had been “misplaced”. She found it bizarre that no one seemed overly concerned about him, but placed that thought in the back of her mind- it was no concern of hers. His two sisters were apparently at Summerhall, although she was unsure as to why and desperately craved being in the company of women.

She decided that of all the Targaryens whom she had come into contact with, Maekar’s brother, the hand of the King, Baelor was definitely the kindest.

She couldn’t believe that the one she had to marry was the worst of them all.

Aerion, spent the first week of his wife to be’s silence quite pleased with himself. He thought it a good choice of hers that she did not want to bother him with her talking.

However, during the second week, it began to annoy him. The awkwardness and apprehension between the two of them became very obvious when six suppers had occurred and not one word had been spoken by either of them. Baelor had made a key observation that she was only silenced when Aerion was in her company; when he was not there, she was confident, humorous, and willing to partake in many different conversations.

Baelor had thought many times, since Aerion’s birth, about smacking him in the head firmly. In this instance, he wanted to shake him with both of his hands in the attempt to make his nephew see sense.

The conversations at the table this night were meaningless, they usually were. Baelor decided that something had to be done to ensure that the two of them at least try to communicate.

“Y/N,” his voice boomed across the table, “who taught you how to use a sword?”

Aerion abruptly stopped scraping his fork against his plate and tuned into the conversation.

“My father.” Y/N smiled, Baelor returned the kind smile.

“A fine swordsman! I would be happy to watch you sparr one day, as I am sure Aerion would.”

Aerion rolled his eyes. “Tell me uncle.” He placed his fork down and clasped his hands together, “why would I want to watch a woman fail in a fight.”

Maekar shifted uncomfortably. Baelor laughed and parted his lips to speak, but Y/N got there first.

“Although I do not appreciate the way the words were formed,” she paused, nodding towards him, “I appreciate that ladies in Kings Landing do not partake in such activities.”

“She finally speaks sense!” He exclaimed, laughing at himself.

“She barely speaks at all in your company, nephew. It is not something to celebrate.”

Y/N looked down at her dinner plate when he said that, unsure of a response.

Aerion, too, did not like that response either. It made him uncomfortable. He had grown quite fond of her, in all truth. He liked the way she spoke- rambled. He liked how many of her ways were coated in sarcasm. He liked her funniness. He liked her kindness. He liked that she threw his disrespect back at him.

He also hated many things; he hated that she wouldn't talk to him. He hated the way that he fucked up their first meeting. He hated she seemed to like his insufferable family more than himself, and he very much hated the thought of her with a sword in her hand. He despised the idea of someone hurting her.

"It is worth noting, that Lady Y/N is excellent with a sword. I have seen it myself." Baelor added after what felt like hours of silence, yet in reality, was ten seconds.

Aerion let out a huff and shoved a piece of carrot in his mouth. Y/N smiled and thanked the hand.

"In four days you shall be wed." Maekar spoke for the first time in the evening. All heads turned towards him, all reactions differing slightly.

Y/N did not want to respond, she wanted to wait and see what Aerion would say. She knew whatever it was, it would hurt her feelings one way or another, and so she tried to mentally prepare herself.

Aerion set his fork down once more and looked at everyone, a monotone expression on his face. He flung his hand as a gesture of boredom, to encourage his father to speak further. And so, he did.

"Aerion, I am losing my patience with you." He took a breath, using his right hand to hold his beard for a moment, almost to comfort himself.

"You lost your patience with me long ago, father. What would you have me do? Jump upon the table and dance? The wedding will happen, and then we can all go back to living our lives as normal." Aerion responded, holding onto the eye contact that he had with his father.

Y/N felt a pang in her chest- is this truly what the rest of her existence would be like? She wished that she could go back to the night that they had met to tell the past version of her to escape the first moment she could. She would tell herself that his looks did not matter, his attractiveness did not matter- his heart is black. She held back a tear. Usually, she was good at keeping a brave face; after all, she had pretended to be happy for the duration of her stay thus far. This time though, felt different. She struggled to keep her upset at bay.

Without thinking, she pushed her chair out abruptly.

"Please excuse me, my princes." She choked out before standing up and walking swiftly out of the room. Aerion stared at her dumbfounded, he hadn't meant it, he just didn't know how to fix the already awful relationship that they had- if you can even call it that. They were still strangers.

Maekar waited for her to leave the room and turned to his son, he raised his hand and slapped him hard on the back of his head. Aerion yelped in pain and surprise, raising his own hand to caress the area.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you know what I had to do to solidify this match. I chose her specifically because I knew that she would be good for you and you have made her miserable in a month." Maekar seethed.

"She has not spoken to me for a month!" Aerion retorted.

"You insulted her on your first meeting." Baelor added, calmly, his face showing it's usual happy and relaxed stature.

"I insult many people, they do not refuse to speak to me for it." Aerion sounded like a child, and he knew that. Yet, he was too stubborn for his own good.

"She is not many people. She is to be your wife. Take it as a lesson, a true, worthy woman will not pander to your needs. She will give consequences for your sharp tongue. You said that she was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen, so act like it." He paused and took a breath. "Equally, if you expect the realm to respect her, then you must too."

Aerion did not respond, because he agreed. He was not willing, however, to admit that to his father and uncle. He tutted to himself, knowing what he wanted to do now, regardless of how much it would sting his pride.

He went after her, deciding that the first place to look should be her chambers. He knew where they were despite not having been there. He had considered it for a number of days, but could never quite bring himself to walk there.

The long walk felt as though it had taken only a few seconds. He had no idea what he would say, or do. He approached the guards at her door and signalled them to leave, no words needed.

He knocked lightly.

"One moment." She called out in a tone that he had not heard her speak before. He heard a fumbling of papers, and then a draw close.

"Enter." With her permission, he pushed the door open. She had already changed into her bed attire, and had to stop his eyes from roaming her body.

"My lady." He nodded curtly, stepping inside the room and closing the door softly behind him.

She was surprised that he was there, she hadn't expected him to come at all. She did however, know for certain that it was the first time where he had shown her respect. Even if it was with only two words.

He could see that she had been crying, quite a lot. Her usually kohl coated eyes were now red and puffy, and her cheeks wet. Her appearance made him completely forget what he had planned to say.

"Why are you weeping?" He asked, concern entangled within his voice, He stepped closer to her.

"My Prince, I-"

"Call me Aerion, I cannot stand you calling me prince." He admitted, his last words seeming rude.

"Why do you hate me so much?" She asked, tears appearing at her eyes once more. Aerion did not know what to do. He wanted her to stop crying, yet he did not know how.

"I do not hate you."

"Yes you do."

"I hate when my family make decisions for me."

She looked up at him from where she was perched on her bed, furs surrounding her.

"That is literally all families do. It isn't just you, you are aware? I had to leave everyone that I have ever known, to come to a strange place where a man that I first thought I would fall in love with, hates me." She spoke quickly, and it became quite clear to Aerion that she seemed to speak to herself, more than him. "I entered the hall that day and saw the most handsome man I had ever laid my eyes on, and fed myself a delusion." Her head snapped up, realising what she had admitted. Soon after, she shrugged, accepting her fate. She looked him in the eyes, "Then when you called me stupid, my delusion ended and I realised the reality of my situation."

Aerion felt overwhelmed. He hadn't thought of how she saw things, he wasn't the most empathetic person. He was known for it. He, in that moment, felt a guilt that he had never felt before.

He sat next to her, not asking permission. He sat closer than he probably should have, but she did not seem to mind.

"I am sorry." He said, it was all he could produce. More awkwardly than intended, he placed a hand on hers.

"I have been quite awful." He admitted. "And then you refused to speak to me, and I did not like that."

"I will not stand for-"

"You will not stand for me being an ass." He finished her sentence.

A small smile played on her lips, "exactly that."

He returned her smile. She felt like he had been given milk of the poppy. She did not know he had the ability to smile.

"I must be honest." He spoke, "I assumed that it would not be a love marriage, I assumed that it would be purely political."

He felt like a bumbling idiot, and cursed himself for never showing an ounce of emotional vulnerability- it turned out to be harder than he had assumed.

She stared at him expectantly, so, he continued,

"I didn't expect to like you as a person." His words came out blunter than expected, so to save himself, "I see myself falling in love with you." His words were equally as blunt, but they made her happy nonetheless.

She smirked slightly, he let out a breath of relief- he had been waiting to see that expression since the night that they had met.

"You will very much need to prove that to me, Prince Aerion."

He nodded with a small smile, and used the pad of his thumb to trail along her hand.

The next few nights consisted of Aerion visiting his wife-to-be's room, where they spent hours talking about their lives. They opened up to each other about major events, minor events, likes, dislikes, and anything else that they could think of. Within those chats, came moments of disagreements, yet the pair worked out that they were able to handle their qualms with flirting. They discovered this when they realised this when Aerion had said something that annoyed her slightly, about women fighting.

"That may be the most arrogant thing you've said to me so far." She complained.

Aerion, to his credit, looked delighted rather than threatened.

"I said slightly arrogant things before?"

"You breathe slightly arrogant things."

A laugh escaped him then, low and unrepentant. Instead of retreating, he leaned closer across the space between them.

"And here I was trying to impress you."

"You fail magnificently."

"Still speaking to me, though."

She shot him a daggered look, and used her hand to cup his chin harshly, "careful," she warned, "because I may decide to choose silence instead." She whispered, now a breath away from his face.

He licked his lips, his eyes darting from her eyes to her lips. He, then, used his own hand to grab her neck lightly.

"Would that be before," he asked quietly, voice roughened at the edges, "or after you stop looking at me like that?"

Her breath caught. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

Her eyes darkened, pleased with the feeling of his hands around her neck.

"I have a feeling that I will never stop looking at you like this." She matched his lowered tone.

He almost growled at her words, the sound low in his throat and stripped of every ounce of composure he had clung to moments before. Then restraint abandoned him entirely.

His lips crashed against hers with enough force to steal the breath from her lungs.

The kiss was hot, immediate, hungry. Her hand tightened instinctively against his jaw as Aerion pulled her closer by the neck. Weeks of teasing glances, sharpened banter, and estrained tension finally broke apart.

He kissed her as though he had been imagining it for far too long- which he had been.

She answered with equal fervour, refusing to be overwhelmed by him even now. The prince who always carried himself with practiced arrogance suddenly seemed undone beneath her hands.

Aerion drew back only slightly, just enough for air, his forehead pressing against hers. His breathing had turned uneven, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them.

"I want you." He grumbled. She swallowed.

"We must wait until tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes, planting a hard few kisses on her lips once more, "I have been imagining it since the first night I saw you."

"You have not!" She laughed, hitting him slightly.

"You know that I have." He said without smiling, ensuring she understood his seriousness.

The lovely London rain sloshes brisk from your hair and ruined clothes. Hours spent wasted in wait of a thoughtfully planned out planted lead that never did show. 

Owen no longer even announces your arrival as you burst through the front doors of the Mother House in search of the release you crave. And by god, have you earned it. That damn omniscient tablet and a wolflike nose for risen blood… He’ll know you’re coming anyway, heels clacking down over tile, barely contained cracks of thunder in every step; a sound that still makes you feel pretty damn powerful on the rare occasion you dig them out of your closet for work. Even more so with heat in your gait. 

“We had a deal,” you bite, shutting the door of his quarters behind you with a move just shy of a slam. It has already proven capable of withstanding much worse. “New York expects that intel by end of day today, and your man never showed. They're watching me closer than ever now… What the fuck, Jasper?” 

The asshole is lounged in decadence, a black clad stain spread across red velvet, entirely unperturbed by your drowned-dog entrance. A single boot kicked up against the coffee table. Knuckles supporting that passive sort of amusement on his lips that he wears like a shield, centuries worth of secrets and blood contained by deceitful lines of dusted rose; razor sharp ambition sheathed in handsome false features of humanity. 

You clear your throat and his eyes don't even lift from the screen he's watching. Nothing more than a gnat along the far outer rings of his radar. A shade of scarlet creeps in behind your eyes that is a near match for his choice of interior design. 

It's all bait, you know well. A game he seems to enjoy in equal. Playing with his food. Riling you up when your skin already sings and your pulse already thunders. The man carries an enlightened sort of passion beneath that haughty exterior that would make Caravaggio blush. It simply requires a bit of coaxing in turn on occasion. A lash of tongue and tempting pound of flesh dangled out before a predator in slumber. 

The power in his mere presence alone is sweet wine addictive, mingling warm with your frustration and already making your cheeks go hot…

“Guess I’ll just let Helen know I'm off the case.” 

It's a low blow, but it works. 

Steel blue eyes snap up like livewires. Two icy points of charge that send a current burning from the arches of your heels to prickle sharp at the back of your neck. The first layered frost of a winter you are ill dressed for. He leans forward to prop his tablet up on the table before him. Rests back again into the corner to drape an arm long across the cushions. It's the open show of calm that lets you know you are in trouble. 

“You are shaking and dripping all over my carpet,” he informs flat, though that white hot undercurrent of disdain never fails to remind of exactly the type of creature you are pressing. “Care to try that again?”

He is all edged cheekbones and curved mouth. Easy confidence and hard eyes; and fuck, does his scrutiny make you feel weak in more than just the knees. 

You are never one to yield so easily. 

“They’re getting suspicious, you know. I got the whole spiel this morning about wasted resources and dead end leads… and now you’re lying to me too…”

It is just accusing enough to drag down the corner of that lip; a snarl should he decide to drop his teeth. Just wounding enough that he wears his detestation in the lines of his face, so naturally that you almost miss the way he tenses below it. The way his back draws an inch from plush upholstery to lean forward in chase of your ire instead. 

“Come here.” The command is sent an octave lower, and at the beckoning curl of clawed fingers you have always been so easily swayed by his coveting; that eldritch sort of power he holds over any space you share, vampirism aside. 

Your steps are those of a newborn foal, damp lace and traitorous heels joining force to rob you of that same fire they’d carried you in on. You kick them off toward the door in bold liberation, hopeful for some pretense of stable footing. 

“Shame.”

It is his last snide remark, always the last word, before you are being tugged down by the wrist and melting willfully into his lap with all the grace of the day you’ve had. Cinnamon whiskey and black cardamom dance in the small stir of air. Your knees come up to cage his hips and searching hands find a home over the wide sprawl of solid shoulders. Your blouse and pants cling damp and sticky against the backs of your bent legs, the rise of your quickening chest; and if Jasper has any real concerns about sharing in your plight, he does not make them known, instead only drawing you closer, hands full of hips and bastille eyed, until you are ensnared entirely and there is simply nowhere left to go. 

Jasper kisses like the rain. He always has. A cleansing tenderness in the early press of lips, a testing build of pressure, deeper, rougher, until you’re buckling and gasping beneath a flood and he is diving lower to swallow your every little sound of surrender. At their calling, the bottom crashes down from the sky and with a matching sort of urgency you are drowning. 

Your hands slip up the guiding lines of his neck, anchoring yourself with both fists tangled deep in unruly locks of fine aged sterling. He rolls the rest of your body flush against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, in chase of your waning mouth as you try to gently tug and urge him away just a fraction, just enough for merciful air. Wicked lips warmed by your own body heat reward your effort by trailing open-mouthed bites down your throat instead; soft growls of satisfaction building into full on groans as you curl savage fingers down harder, deeper to press him right where you want him. 

There was a purpose for your visit that should have prevented this whole exchange. It is difficult to recall as a devil’s tongue and human canines toy over your carotid. 

But oh, that devil’s tongue…

“I. don’t. lie.” Jasper pants each syllable, bedrock deep, into the hollow of your clavicle like the words should carry some sort of foundation. His forehead falls to rest low against your cheek as he catches air he doesn't need and the condemning turn of your thoughts. A stony wall battered down and breached so long ago now that you’re not sure you could keep him out anymore even if you wanted to. “I had every intention of sending him right fucking along to meet up with you. Let me show you why I didn’t...” 

You are turned whole bodily around in a way that makes you feel trivial. A squirming mouse long trapped within the lion's jaws. A wild stone’s throw against a cage of welded steel. 

You are spread open indecently across his thighs, bare feet dangling to brush against the outside of coiled calves, planted and set to spring. Your back meets the buttons that line his bulk and your eyes freeze on your own reflection staring back at the juxtaposed pair you make. 

There are two of you there, in actuality, you realize after a drawn, dizzying moment...

In the top left corner of the screen is your ID photo. The same one every Talamasca agent is made to sit for, before it's promptly stored away in a dusty filing cabinet somewhere for only the highest security eyes to see. A quick updo and a professional grin for the flash.

The other you gapes back, wide eyed and wild from the full-screened front facing camera. Not recording, you verify abso-fucking-lutely to your turbulent stomach’s content, but it’s definitely on…

“You really think that low of me?” Jasper’s mouth moves honey thick near your ear and you watch compulsively as the words are mirrored right back at you, a quarter-second delay, gooseflesh rising across delicate skin at the very thought of how a few pokes of a finger could ruin your entire life. “Oh baby girl, if that had ever been in the cards, I wouldn’t have dealt them out like this, trust me,” he purrs, and it is unmistakably a thinly veiled threat, but it is almost too easy to want to believe in him with the way his hands caress heavy up your thighs, drawing them an inch farther apart. They press up deeper, near painful, into the sloped curves of your ribs. Silver crested fingers spread open wider, covetous over either of your breasts, kneading as if to tear flesh asunder but you are already putting on quite the show of trust, spine arching pretty against his middle and head falling back over his shoulder. Neck wide open and on full display…

“Nu uh,” he corrects, cupping your chin, squeezing cheeks against teeth with a hold that bars no misunderstanding. He forces your eyes back down to the screen in time to watch how your body reacts to his bare minimum. Chest straining taut against the valiantly enduring snaps of your blouse. A growing stain darkening the last bit of dry cotton at the very apex of your thighs. 

You roll your hips down for some sort of friction. Any kind of absolution or relief from the hawklike focus of Jasper's eyes. He is hardening steadily against your rear but there is nothing quite right where you need him. Purposeful, beyond a doubt, in its maddening intent. “I believe I owe you some answers first. I wasn’t sure you’d believe me until you saw for yourself. Call me whatever else you like, but a liar?... No.” A sharp nail pops open the top snap of your shirt, repeating the pattern in crawling descent. “He was some new hot shit errand boy from Amsterdam. Didn't know anything we hadn't already figured out anyway. No manners either, truth be told…” Jasper nods forward over your shoulder. “That photo right there was the last fucking straw.” 

Your attention is already torn between the well put-together facade of a refined woman he’s gestured to and your current, very real, crumbling state of being. One fake and prim and perfectly constructed. The other coming alive and falling apart into lacey trimmed strips of skin at the tainted, talented hands of a beast of olde… and with the heated way he watches himself work… 

“You killed him.”

“Damn right I did.” A breathy chuckle from the base of his throat to the crux of yours, no true humor amongst airy pride. “You know how these new-age agents can be. Disrespectful. Sloppy. The things he said don’t bear repeating and I wouldn’t dare anyway because I'm such a gentleman.” He chooses that moment to cup your cunt with the hand not actively disrobing you. A gasp of shock leaves you torn between the pure relief found in that upturned pressure and the sheer fucking audacity. “But, really, it’s more of a read-the-room kinda thing.” 

The heavy pet of that hand. The soft release of your waistband button. The hissing glide of a zipper… 

“What a waste. I don’t like gentle men.” An attempt at petulance betrayed almost immediately by the breathiness beneath your masterful undoing. 

“Oh and don't I fuckin’ know it,” Jasper noses into the damp locks of your hair, a hound bid unleashed by the warm slick that coats his palm. “He can be found all across Soho if you still care to brave the weather. I'm sure your desperate dogs would appreciate a thrown bone or two.” 

Sharp nails skim light over the bare skin beneath your navel and you're helping shimmy your pants down your thighs and off before even fully coming to terms with signing a man's death sentence over nothing more than a half rate, pre-coffee photo shoot. Jasper slides the ruined gusset of your panties aside with the pad of his thick pointer finger and the tablet camera exposes to the light just exactly how it all affects the darkest parts of you. Already sticky and glistening across lust swollen lips. A new level of fucked up you haven't fallen to since signing on the dotted line…

“Self deprecation will get you nowhere in this business,” Jasper whispers, blooming dewy petals open wide before your own eyes, “I could smell it on you from the moment you walked in. All that righteous anger and wounded pride…poor little thing... but look at you now. This is why I have no desire to lie to you. Ever.” 

His hands have always been your biggest weakness, those husky, vascular roadmaps lining all the decades of experience and suffering that have somehow led him directly to his cushioned perch beneath you. How that pain has shaped him into a stone pillar of rough callouses and sharp teeth, and yet somehow you've burrowed in and thrive beneath the cold torment of both. 

A middle and ring finger dip straight in, ado of naught, and gather your essence to swirl it higher around your swollen bud. That white hot heat mixes in with care, that quarter centimeter of air between his nails and your most sensitive spot, and you are sent back groaning against his shoulder. Hands fist in velvet and the silken hair round the base of his neck. 

“Jasper…” 

Honed fingertips stir up an even crueler rhythm between your thighs. “Mm, that's more like it. Jasper what?” 

And there is not an inch of fight left within your useless bones. 

“Jasper please…” 

He groans out a wrecked sound into the space behind your ear. Soothes your hair back to fill in the gap. “Fuck, you see how easy that was? How civilized we can be? Now keep your eyes on that fucking screen.” 

Those two fingers fill you with an easy glide but a rude stretch that punches the air straight out from your lungs. Your body is a writhing, mewling mess at the intrusion and he only uses the opportunity to fill your mouth with matching technique, old salted earth tinged with iron pressing down, rich and dense, against your tongue. They are curled and worked so expertly deep that both sets of lips are set to drooling down over precious metal in a matter of minutes.

There's no looking away even if he wanted you to, jaw hooked and pussy claimed, and the pleasure that unfurls in your stomach and burns down your thighs has you locked dead-on to the way your muscles tremble for him. A puppet dancing in flames for its master. Strings once cut, now tighter tied…

You are already prepared at the sight of fangs, chin bowed in wait and pressure building, and it's all you can do not to beg around cool flesh for some sort of forced release from your torture. A few more condemning pumps of his hands and lethal teeth are burrowing home in the side of your neck. That delicious mix of pleasure-pain sets your nerves to fraying, too much too fast, too much too fast... He is everywhere and everything and with his growl of primal satiation vibrating through your every vein, you are coming in his arms, savage and painful, spasms of heat and muscle roiling down your spine in blinding waves of saccharine white. You watch your own orgasm milk his fingers as if your body wants nothing more than to drag him in only deeper. 

The change in him is visceral when he gets you like this, all facades of softness peeling away beneath the needs of a beast set to bloodlust, pawing and shoving as if he seeks to match you in your frenzy. 

Your back meets the cushions hard, head bouncing over the curve of a velvet arm. A boot hits the coffee table in his haste and that cursed tablet drops flat, face down. The loose hems of your blouse fall open around your ribs like waterlogged wings. A swash of silver hair is all you have time to see before he is hooking your leg over the back of the lounge and eating you proper, the immediate overstimulation twitching your core and straining your neck back in an arch of shuttering pleasure. 

“Jasper it's too much… s’too much…” he has always been too much, and yet you keep finding yourself right back here, heeling at his side for more...

So your words go unheard, drowned out by your own cries, thick laps of that devilish tongue, and the obscene sounds your spasming cunt makes against his siege. He attacks like he means to devour you whole, that aristocrat’s nose doing the lion’s share while he steadily laves away at the trophy of your lust. 

“Christ, I'm not sure which tastes better.” 

The claim is guttural, spat between fangs. They sink into the meat of your raised thigh without warning, a downturned thumb the only kindness he'll allow, keeping quick, circling pressure right where you need it. This orgasm strikes like the drop of a brick, gut punching and eye rolling; four fingers spreading wide low across your stomach to keep you grounded from orbit while the onslaught continues, on and on and on.

You tug sharp at his hair, claw desperately at the back of his hand; attacks that would render any human maimed, though he barely flinches at your feeble distractions. “Jasper,” you whine, and he finally, finally relents, unlatching his jaw and lapping lazily at the mingled mess he’s spread across your leg and hip. Across his own glistening mouth. His tongue darts out along them as he straightens to a knee. 

“What was that you said earlier about quitting?”  

He is all dark snarl and blown out pupils when his eyes meet yours again. A disappointed look down his nose that makes you wonder just exactly what the fuck is wrong with you on an evolutionary level. Why you would willingly bare yourself like this, an open feast in wait of desecration, to a creature cursed forever insatiable. Bloodstained lips and heaving chest... Just shy of foaming at the maw. 

For a moment you have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, your mind swimming hazy with endorphins and blood loss. Then it hits you all at once like the punishment it was…

“I said I'd be ‘off the case’, not quitting. Without any progress, they’ll reassign me anyway…”

Cold hands lock around your ankles before you can even get the full explanation out, a short slide and a quick stop down to right where he wants you. You watch unbreathing as his belt buckle clinks open, a quick flick of his hand. It is drawn with measured intent from its snares. Crystalline eyes, and just as hardened, never leave yours as leather is dropped forgotten to the ground and he frees himself from his straining confines. He has never, not once, pushed you beyond your limits and yet the sight still sends your heartrate up every time, hummingbird quick in your chest, equal parts anticipation and that prey-like fear that you've come to find shamefully addicting. Swollen painful and dripping angry, he will surely be your end whether Helen pulls you away or not…

“You're not going anywhere. I'll tear them all to pieces myself if I have to, book be damned. Fruitless information anyway if there's no one left to use it against me.” 

He doesn't mean it. He can't. A rage induced hail Mary in the throws of passion. Nothing more. It has always been and will always be about that book… 

“Try me,” he growls through scarlet lined teeth and with an anchoring palm against your hip, he is pushing pitilessly inside. Steady thrusts that he's prepared you well enough for, though the sheer spread and depth of him fully seated is always something dangerously close to all you can handle. When he does bottom out, it’s with a great sigh of relief, a quelling sound that brings him down to you, hip to hip, chest to chest, and then you are tasting your own essences from hungry lips. Sugar sweet metallic transgressions. A cocktail that is innately him though vigorously pilfered from your very core. 

He fucks into you like he knows you can take it, a pent up frenzy of waning patience and primitive desire, but you can still feel that delicate prod of your mind, a warm coat draped across your shoulders, feeding from your pleasure in every way possible while still ensuring that is all there is left of you. No doubts or unwelcomed pains. No signs of disloyalty. Nothing apart from yes and please and more Jasper, more…

And at your urging he is set free, wild hands and torn open lace. Blunt nails digging in his back. Cool lips drag down your collar bone to bare breast and he plants his fangs deep again atop the rising swell, a singing pain that jolts straight down to where he’s buried deep in your thighs. You watch half lidded as he knicks his own tongue, licks his blood across your wound, and at the unholy communion it feels as if the sun fights to free itself from weary bones. He repeats the ritual at the side of your neck, healing the old and tearing anew and you are robbed of the ability to make any sound beneath the onslaught, the ability to think aside from a single greedy chant; the one on my thigh… leave it, leave it, leave it…

A big hand collars your throat, constricting higher beneath your chin, as if you’ve screamed your demands aloud. He fights for breath against your neck, a possessed homage to humanity, but still a man nonetheless. “Is that what you want, huh baby doll? A little prize to take home to mommy? A reminder of who you really belong to?” 

Jasper’s thrusts grow punishing with the claim and at the forceful waves of pleasure renewed, at the yes, yes, yes your mind hums out, you fear you may actually meet your maker. Gasps of air that won't quite satisfy, mewls of terror at the idea of coming again so soon. He is in your mind and ravaging your body down to the smallest platelets that make up your being, more possessive in nature than even the hand round your neck… The marks on your skin... His own blood still burns bright behind your eyes as he inches you whole bodily higher up the upholstery with every forward stroke. You are leaking and staining everywhere you touch and you can only feel psychotically grateful for his affinity toward deep reds.

“I don’t care if we break the goddamn thing, you’re going to come again.”

In your already fucked-out state, you can’t be entirely sure if he means you or the lounge. 

Regardless, Jasper plants a boot down to carpet and makes good on his promise, force bruising and fingers dipping low into the pooling gore on your thigh. He rises himself just enough to reach your clit, returns to those tight, masterful circles that have you seeing stars. You are struck from all angles, forced full to bursting, and without warning you do, again, nerves splitting and mouth gaping. He swallows the sounds of your cresting pleasure with smug lips and a soothing tongue, a prideful sweetness to him as contrary as the man himself. 

The clenching of your silken walls turns him sloppy, desperate, movements tense and growing woefully urgent with each tight pulse of your dripping heat. In a moment of sheer insanity you draw away, replacing your kiss with a single finger, light against lips swollen in vitriol and dripping crimson. Fangs rear in a hiss at the sudden loss, jaw muscles flexing as if he means to rid you of the extremity. But it is with a steady hand that you ghost your touch across the most complex weapon of nature, chilled and pointed deadly against gossamer flesh. A magnificent thing to bear witness to. And, in being allowed to, you have never felt such power...

“Come to me, Jasper…please.”

He is reduced to throaty groan at your wet-eyed beckoning, disbelief and sparks of awe reflecting back in stony blues; one, two, three more pumps before he is trapping your finger in blunted teeth and going ridged with shuttering force against your hips. Filling every inch of you with molten hot heat, from the pit of your belly to the waves of ecstasy that punch from his mind into the very heart of yours, a splintered mirror of the way he makes you feel every single time he gets his hands on you.

You extract yourself just in time for his impending collapse, a shoulder burrowing into cushion so that you don't take the full brunt of his weight. His refraction time is short, you know all too well, as is his fall. But for now, he is a heavy, boneless bundle where he sprawls out sated across you and it is your favorite way to spend an evening. Regardless of how you got here.

"Hand me my tablet," he says after a while, muffled in luxury and the side of your neck, and instead you continue to card the fingers of your free hand through his hair, holding on to the spell of calm that silences your thoughts and the space around you for as long as he'll allow it... "We had a deal, remember?" You can hear the bastard's smirk in satisfied baritone. "I owe you some information."

Ah yes, the original reason you came. Fuck.

“I do not care if you have to search for him in every inn in Flea Bottom or if you have to scour the entirety of the Street of Silk, find him, for fuck’s sake”. 

The prince storms through the never-ending halls, yelling commands to the knights of the Kingsguard to find his son at once. Of course he had to be missing today of all days, mere hours away from their departure from King’s Landing to Storm's End. 

In Daeron's defense, he had not failed to communicate his wishes beforehand — to stay at the keep and drink his nights away, that is. The young prince was nowhere to be found in the keep, the guards told Prince Maekar once they were sent to fetch him, only to find his chambers devoid of life, with three empty bottles of Dornish red lying carelessly by his unmade bed.

These are not my usual dreams. 

Daeron thinks to himself as he lies unconscious on the wooden table of an inn he frequents, confused once again by the contents of his usually tortured mind. There is no fire now. In its place, pouring rain and thick fog. He feels his cloak weighed down by the rainwater he’s currently drenched in. He does not know where he is, though the place is familiar, and he finds himself looking around for something. Anything. 

Everywhere he looks seems the same: black rock, covering anything and everything. Focused on the bleak landscape, the prince fails to notice the rainwater beginning to turn blood red, and by the time he does, it seems to be entirely too late. The water continues to rise at an alarming pace, surrounding him completely. There’s nowhere to go. Daeron knows that looking around for a way out, will once again prove fruitless, but he does so anyways and —

Was that here before?

He wakes up with a gasp.

A stag. A dark brown stag with fierce eyes, covered in blood. Pretty, Daeron thinks. It makes its way over to him through the fog, and the prince squints to see it better, shielding his face with his hands from the blood rain. It’s coming closer and as it opens its mouth–

“My prince”.

“My prince, your father is calling for you. We are to take you to the Keep at once”. He looks around in a daze as he spots the two kingsguard, then he notices his wet strands of hair and his now completely drenched cloak. 

“Did you throw water on me?” He asks as he sits up and his mouth hanging slightly opened in offense, entirely baffled at the new situation he finds himself in. The kingsguard share a look, though they do not answer. He goes with them anyways. He’ll get an earful from his father either way— probably more than an earful. 

Traveling along the Kingsroad does not make a trip that takes nearly half a moon’s turn any easier, especially when it’s on horseback. His father and his uncle, Prince Baelor, insisted that no wheelhouses were needed for such a short journey, as the princes were old and experienced enough to travel on their own horses, even his youngest brother, Prince Aegon. 

It did not stop them from complaining, though. Aerion had grown increasingly more irritated as the days passed and they had yet to reach the Stormlands, while Daeron was barely keeping himself upright on horseback, the wine leaving him uncoordinated but pliant enough to not enrage their father further. Egg’s excitement for adventure had faded after the first three days or so, as he now pestered their father every few hours, asking if they were there yet. 

“You will know we are there when you are able to see the castle, boy. ¿Do you see the castle?” Prince Maekar answered with a deep scowl on his face. 

“No”, said the young prince. 

“Then we are not there yet”, Maekar answered, raising his voice slightly as his patience withered. He would need to replenish his energies somehow, he had the feeling he would need it. Especially during the entirety of their stay at Storm’s End, and everything that entailed.

King Daeron II thought wise for the royal family to further strengthen its alliance to House Baratheon, as Lord Lyonel Baratheon celebrated his nameday with a feast large enough to feed the entire realm and a hunting trip to the Rainwood that would last for days, it seemed the perfect occasion for the dragon family to show a united front to all of the noble houses in Westeros. Prince Baelor, ever the dutiful heir, had accepted immediately thinking it would be a good idea to take Valarr in order to polish his diplomatic abilities as the next heir to the Iron Throne. It had also been so long ago since he had last seen Lyonel, a man he had come to consider his friend. 

They fared well on the travels, of course they did. Father and son conducted themselves with their usual composure and grace, much to Maekar’s dismay— Do they have to be so perfect all the fucking time? Maekar looked back at his own sons, and sighed. 

You opened your eyes as the sun shone brightly though the windows of Storm's End. Your fortress. It was the very place you called home. The place that rarely, if ever, remained quiet. Today was no exception, especially considering your father’s nameday celebrations were taking place.

“It is not only a day, my darling. It will last the whole fucking moon’s turn if I can help it!” he told you once, as you conjured the memory of his spirited face and bright smile from a few namedays ago in your mind. He seemed convinced by the idea that he would be a failure to himself and your house if he were unable to improve and upscale the celebrations year after year. Which resulted in you being woken by his shouting, which seemed to bounce off of every brick in the fortress. 

“No, no, no! You are doing it completely wrong! Again!” He yelled at the musicians, who had apparently been practicing your father’s favourite songs repeatedly and had yet to reach perfection, according to Lyonel.

You climb out of the comfortable silks of your bed and do not bother to call your maids to help with your dress. It was a particularly humid day in the summertime, so a light dress made with fresh fabrics would have to do. Hair still unkept and barely awake from your slumber, you march into the great hall determined to yell at your father for ruining a perfectly good morning’s sleep. As you make your way through the halls and reach your destination you see your father’s tense back and the musician’s tired faces. 

“Are you aware of the time, you absolute madman?” You yell at Lyonel, though no real anger is present in your voice, only slight amusement at his usual antics – and vague irritation. He turns around to face you with a big, stupid grin. 

“My darling girl! You are awake at last!” 

“The sun isn’t even up-” 

“Here, come. Tell these buffoons that this subpar so-called music has no place in my nameday celebrations-” 

“The songs sounded completely fine.” 

“-that their mediocrity will not be tolerated.” A small laugh escapes you. 

“I will tell them no such thing,” you say. Your father turns to face you, as if you had stabbed him in the back with your own dagger. He frowns down at you, as you fail to remain serious in the face of his dramatics. 

Halfway through the day, guests begin to arrive and you are forced to wear more appropriate clothing to greet the lords and ladies from different houses of the realm. Not that your father minds which dresses you wear, but someone has to be the face of House Baratheon while your father parties day and night. Someone who remains sober, at least. Or someone who keeps their clothes on. As the night approached, you noticed a certain dragon family had yet to make an appearance. Perhaps they enjoy being fashionably late, you thought. You were seemingly wrong, though. 

“You wound me, my girl.”

You laugh.

Truth be told, he could have escaped the guards once again and hidden long enough for his family to be forced to leave the Red Keep without him, but something about his dreams at the inn kept him curious enough not to resist wholeheartedly. Daeron had long since given up trying to understand his dreams, all of them horrid in nature, always featuring great fires, the putrid sight of black blood beneath the moonlight, and burning dragons. 

House Targaryen would not arrive on Storm’s End for yet another day, as they experienced a slight setback during their journey from King’s Landing. As in, the food from the night before had not settled well in Egg’s stomach, and caused the young prince to throw up all over his horse. And so, they had to stop for a few hours to clean Egg’s horse and wait until he felt well enough to ride again.

Daeron had thrown up as well, though for… different reasons. 

He tried with all his might to recall whether he had ever dreamt of stags before, but it proved fruitless. If he had ever dreamt of stags and lakes of blood before, then either the dream had been completely inconsequential, or the wine had managed to erase all memory of it. It was probably the latter.

As they arrive a heir destination, Storm's End's surrounding walls stand tall and intimidating as the royal family approaches. While Baelor and Maekar remain indifferent to the sight, having visited the black fortress on political matters when they were boys themselves, the younger princes gape at the sheer sturdiness of its walls. All save Aerion, who is rarely impressed by anything at all—though even he has to admit that the stronghold looks more formidable than the Red Keep. 

The Targaryens follow behind, with knights surrounding them on all sides. The farther they move into the fortress, the more the sounds of laughter and music envelop them, and the younger princes exchange glances, instinctively looking toward their fathers, who already seem to know exactly what is about to happen.

"Baelor!"

Lyonel's booming voice carries across the courtyard as he emerges through the castle doors, with you trailing behind him while he practically runs to greet the royal family without any semblance of propriety whatsoever. As the princes dismount their horses, Baelor braces himself for the incoming assault, and Maekar sighs.

Lyonel laughs loudly, the sound echoing throughout Storm's End as he closes the distance between them and throws his arms around the heir to the Iron Throne in a crushing embrace.

Baelor, for his part, takes it in stride. He returns the embrace with the composure only a man raised in a den of vipers, where kindness is so often mistaken for weakness, could possess. He pats Lyonel's back before offering him a warm smile.

Valarr remains rooted to the spot.

Of course, his father had told him stories of the Laughing Storm during their campaign against the Blackfyres, of how fiercely the Storm Lord had fought beside both him and his uncle Maekar. Still, hearing those stories was one thing. Witnessing Lord Baratheon all but tackle the heir to the Iron Throne before the horses had even come to a full stop was quite another.

"Lord Baratheon. It has been too long."

Still laughing, Lyonel waves a dismissive hand. "What's with the formalities, dragon? As if I haven't seen your bare arse covered in rebel blood before."

Daeron has to fight the urge to laugh at the remark, while Valarr, Aerion, and Egg can only stare in bafflement. They had never seen anyone speak to their uncle with a familiarity usually reserved for, well, family. Lyonel's attention then shifts to Maekar, causing the prince to close his eyes in anticipation.

"Gods, you look even more brooding than the last time I saw you."

Maekar groans.

You watch the interactions unfold, thoroughly amused by your father's antics and Prince Maekar’s barely concealed irritation at the theatrics for which the Storm Lord was so well known. The young princes, meanwhile, seem absolutely bewildered by the spectacle, clearly unaccustomed to seeing their fathers interact in such a manner and not yet knowing what to make of it. 

Then, they glance at you. 

They had never met you before. Their fathers had always considered them too young to accompany them on the few visits they paid to Storm's End. As the years passed, the family had been struck by tragedy not once but twice, as both princes lost their wives, and the children their mothers. 

Your own mother had died in the birthing bed as well. Not that your father had ever allowed you to fully feel her absence, as he had made certain you lacked for nothing— be it love, friendship, or a shoulder to cry on. As you look upon the young princes, you become aware for the first time that they had not been afforded the same fortune. 

You set your eyes on Prince Valarr first. He is a difficult man to overlook, with his mismatched eyes and a striking white streak of hair on the side of his head. He looks perfect. Perhaps a bit too perfect. 

His posture is so impeccably straight to the point where you question if it pains him to maintain it  for a long time. His smile is equally flawless, not too warm yet not vain. His hands rest neatly behind his back as he inclines his head in greeting. Everything about him looks utterly exhausting. 

“Ah, yes!” Lyonel claps a hand against his own head, as if he had only now remembered that several people need to be introduced and especially, that the particular task is his duty. “Your Graces, this is my lovely daughter” Your father introduces you by name to the family, as you fought the overwhelming urge to glare at him for his complete lack of propriety. 

“Father”

“What?” He grins. “You are lovely.”

Deciding that glaring at your father—or pinching the bridge of your nose as you desperately wished to do —would only make matters worse, you dip into a curtsy before the princes of House Targaryen. 

“Your Graces, it is an honour to welcome you to Storm's End.”

Prince Baelor steps forward first, there is little about the heir to the Iron Thone that comes as a surprise to you; everything you had ever heard of him proves true at first glance. He carries himself with effortless confidence, his eyes filled with quiet wisdom, every movement experienced and measured without ever appearing rehearsed. His smile is warm and genuine, though restrained, a concept that strikes you as entirely foreign. 

“Lady Baratheon. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

As the introductions carry on, you properly greet the rest of the princes. Prince Valarr greets you in the practised manner of a chivalrous prince, one that must’ve taken ages to fully master. 

Prince Maekar appears to be a man of actions rather than a man of words, as he voiced nothing more than a simple, “My Lady” before fixing you with a steady stare. Right. 

Prince Aegon seems excited enough for the entire family, tummy ache completely forgotten, as he greets you without truly looking at you, his attention instead fixed upon the towering castle walls with open fascination. 

Prince Aerion neither smiles nor bows particularly deeply, he merely offers a curt Lady Baratheon as his gaze sets upon you. There is something restless about him. Something unnerving. It almost makes you want to look away first, but something tells you that doing so would read as a retreat of sorts, and you decide almost immediately that you would do nothing before him that could be perceived as weak. And so, you simply nod at him. You could swear he seems almost pleased by the gesture. 

Only one prince remains now. Curiously, he has not moved. And so, you look. 

He is already looking at you.

Lavender eyes find yours with an intensity that gives you pause. He stares unabashedly at you, his expression carrying something akin to recognition. As though, somewhere deep down, this is a meeting he had expected and was only now realizing so. The silence stretches a fraction too long, you are not the only one that seems to be aware that something deep stirs behind the heir of Summerhall's eyes.

“...My prince?” You whisper to him. Unsure on how to proceed, you find you do not wish to startle him. 

He blinks. “Oh.” he speaks, his voice softer than you would’ve imagined. Softer than all the others’. “...Daeron.” Nothing more. Not Prince Daeron. Not a proper greeting, not even a Lady Baratheon. Simply his name, as though he had forgotten the rest. Prince Maekar clears his throat. Daeron tears his gaze away from you, and his eyes find the floor. “...My Lady.”

You incline your head. “My Prince.”

Daeron’s eyes snap back at yours.

Gods, you think, he’s an odd one. 

"It was wonderful. Very productive." You beam at him. "On behalf of House Hightower, I pledged five thousand gold dragons to be sent monthly to aid the poor. The Septons were so pleased!"

Gwayne’s mouth hangs open, rendered speechless.

"And I met some of the orphans that directly benefit from our donations. Such little angels!" You set your prayer book down on your desk, and prompt him, “You did say I was allowed to pledge five thousand, husband?" You raise your eyebrows expectantly waiting his answer.

He sputters. "I said five hundred."

An airy laugh escapes you. "Oh, I must have misheard you. But it’s no consequence to House Hightower, being one of the wealthiest in the realm." You shrug innocently. "Right?"

Your husband’s eyes bulge in shock. How he is going to explain to his Master of Coin the tenfold influx of charitable giving leaving the Hightower coffers? That his wife cares too much for orphans and he could never tell her no? That's the truth of it, as pathetic as it sounds, but the Master of Coin would understand if he saw her.

You sit on the chair next to the fire, and begin to unlace your boots. This pulls Gwayne from his self pitying stupor. His wife must be assisted, doted on, even now. He eases onto one knee in front of you, batting your hands away from your muddy boots. "Here, let me." Reverently, he pulls your skirt up over your knees, taking care to linger his palms over your calves. Then, he works the laces, gently loosening them so your boot can slide off your foot. He switches to the left boot, repeating the actions dutifully.

"You don't seem angry at me." You comment. Like earlier, you rake your fingers through his auburn hair to fix it, moving it away from his face, pulling ever so slightly at the scruff of his neck.

His head hangs, lulled by your ministrations. He presses a soft kiss to your bare knee. "I can't imagine ever being angry with you." His large hands knead into your calf muscles, easing the strain you felt from walking around the Oldtown today.

"Never?" you challenge, smile tugging at your lips.

"Could I ever be angry at those huge doe eyes looking at me?" He muses, hands moving higher slightly to massage into your knee, savoring each second you allow him to kneel before you "No, I don't believe it is possible."

You hum in approval. "Gwayne?"

His gaze flies up to meet yours, and you can see him holding his breath, hanging on to your every word. Blue eyes widened expectantly at the sound of his name from your lips.

"Would you help me with something?"

"Anything" he breathes.

"Will you help me undress? I walked through the mud earlier, so I need to change."

Gwayne nods his head harder than he ever has in his life. Lost for words, he leans back on his heels, to give you space to stand and step away from the chair. You turn your back to him, so he can access the ties down the length of your spine. Like the boots, he works the knots patiently, savoring every contact that his fingers make with your back. He feels like he is opening a gift that he has been waiting his whole life for, and doesn't intend to rush the precious packaging.

Once the laces are loosened down your back, you turn, lifting slightly on tip toe to peck the side of his mouth. "Thank you, husband. That would have taken me twice as long to wrestle with by myself! Now I need change and prepare for dinner with my ladies."

Gwayne feels as if he has been wounded, slapped, or perhaps stabbed. Pain shoots through his chest, but all he can do is whimper, "No." His head hangs against your shoulder. "No, you cannot leave again. You just can't." The blood has rushed to his cock, leaving nothing for his reeling brain. Gwayne is at the end of his rope, tormented by your smell of sweet rose soap and wide eyes. Every time he believes he has you, you manage to dart out of his grasp at the last possible second. It’s not eloquent, or particularly convincing, but he must do something to slow you down. He kisses your neck, pressing fast, open mouth kisses. Grabbing blindly at your backside, he paws at your body without the restraint usually possessed by a knight of the realm. "Dove, I will die if I have to wait any longer."

You can't help but laugh at his dramatic claim. And the jerky way that his hands, callused from the sword, clumsily pull at your dress and every handle of your body tickles. Coordination, and his sense, have been tossed out the window. The poor man looks ready to be put out of his misery, you decide. Also, the pulsing in your center is getting hard to ignore, likely spurred by the way his pretty eyes twist in agony. So your slender fingers begin to work the buttons of his shirt. "Husband, there's no need for tears." You tease. "If you wanted me, why didn't you just say so"

He laughs, but it sounds more like a choked sob. Were you a deer in the forest, luring him blindly on a hunt he was never meant to complete? Or maybe he had been the prey all along? It was starting to feel that way. But if this position he finds himself in leaves no cause for complaints, as you tenderly open the fastenings of his shirt. You lift on tip toe to kiss him, to soothe the torture of your honorable husband. He groans in approaval, stepping forward so your backside bumps against your desk. He tastes like salty tears, and cloves, which you've noticed he ocassionally chews to sweeten his breath. Gwayne kisses you hungrily, nothing like your lips meeting for the first time in the Starry Sept, tongue scraping against your teeth, claiming your mouth as his own. When you finish the last button of his shirt, you run your fingers up and down his bare chest. Your touch sends shudders down his spine, causing him to involuntarily buck his hips towards yours. Desperately, he undresses you next. His hands work the chemise up your torso, and only breaks away the kiss to lift it over your head, before meeting your lips once more.

His hands hold your lower back, pulling your form into him as close as possible. One callused palm holds your arse, allowing him to roll his hips against your cunt. It's impossible not to feel his erection straining against his pants, brushing against your center again and again. The fabric grows damp, the combination of both your arousals mixing, filling the space. Gwayne shudders a shaky breath into your neck, mouthing at the underside of your jaw, mummering "Oh my sweet girl, thank you." You chase his motions, locking your ankles to hold him flush against you. Something strange, a new feeling, hooks behind your belly, as he snakes a hand in between the tight space between you. "Let me, please dove." His fingers fumble, then find his target to circle your clit. The feeling sends a jolt through you, a small suprised hiccup leaves you.

The sound encourages him to pet into your bundle of nerves, his callused fingers dutifully slipping over your slick folds. The pressure to your sensitive cunt, and the friction of his cock against your center swirls into an intoxicating combination. His fingers are coasted with slick, and his pants are beyond soiled now, the dampness spreading with each passing drip from his leaking cock.

"Inside." you choke, voice coming out hoarse, wrecked, and totally surprising to your usual composure.

"Inside? Have you ever-?" he asks.

"No" you confess. "But it doesn't matter. I want you." Your fingers fumble at his pants, tented by his cock.

Never had three words ever brought him so much relief. Gwayne nods dumbly, convinced by nothing other than your hands loosening the ties of his pants- a sight he feared might only exist in his own imagination "Inside, yeah.” He confirms, and hastily shucks them down, only enough to let his cock spring free. He sighs as it finally hits the cool air, soothing the angry heat that builds at the head. He pulls your arse closer, angling your hips better for him to meet them.

His cock slaps against his bare stomach, smearing the skin with precome, and you press against it. The feeling of your sensitive folds brushing the hardness pulls the string even tighter in your belly.

"I won't let it hurt, I promise" He mumbles against your neck, guiding you to grind up against the velvet skin of his erection. His cock slides easily against your folds, pressing against your entrance. When Gwyane finally presses in, a choked groan rumbles through his core. He chases the feeling, swallowing your mewls, and letting your wet heat envelop him inch by inch. Slowly rocking his hips, not pulling out too much, just letting your bodies stay connected.

"Is that good, dove?" He kisses your ear tenderly.

"Yeah" you squeak, fullness leaving you lost for words. You hook your chin onto his shoulder, threading your fingers into his long hair, pulling your husband even closer into you.

As your fist tightens in his hair, he cannot help his eyes rolling back in his head. "Gods, you're so perfect." As Gawyne's rutting quickens, he once again presses his fingers to your clit, drawing quick figure eights. His pelvis knocks against yours clumsily, chasing the quickly approaching orgasm threatening to spill. He is so deep inside you, the head of his cock knocking repeatedly into your tender walls, sending shivers down to your toes. "Come for me, sweet girl. Please come.” He begs, and a final press against your clit brings your peak crashing over you. Your legs tremble around him, as heat floods your veins. The thought crosses your hazy mind to question why you were so insistent to run from him, to torment him? The answer was so obvious before, but now it escapes you.

Your stomach muscles clench and spasm, tightening the vice-like clutch your body holds over his cock. "Huh-uh- thank you-fuck" his dampened forehead leans against your neck as Gwayne spills. You feel his cock jerking deep inside you, flooding warm heat nearly up into your ribs. His fingers hold you, almost tight enough to bruise, to stay sheathed on him as his cock sputters, threatening to fill you past the point of overflow. He pants, as his breath slowly comes back to a normal pace. Tenderly, he kisses your jaw and corner of your mouth, nudging your face up to look at him, instead of at his cock leaving you, and come leaking onto the desk. "My perfect wife."

You roll your eyes at his fawning compliment, but still wrap your arms around his shoulders. Gwayne's cock gives another twitch at the sight of you blinking your huge eyes up at him. Your eyes are glassy, blissed out from your peak and exertion, and framed by doe-like lashes.

"Must you leave for dinner now?" He pleads, blue eyes widening in hope that you stay.

Whatever plans arranged with your ladies could be easily rescheduled, but you wrinkle your nose as if deep in deliberation.

Gwayne's mind is already hastily planning his next move, for when you reply that you must leave. He will offer to help you clean up, bathe, as any doting husband would. He will touch you, eat your cunt, draw peak after peak out of you. Keep you in this pliant, placated state so you lose track of time and forget about every obligation you committed to and-

"I can reschedule" You chirp, swinging your legs from where you perch on the desk.

He corresponded with you via raven weeks before your wedding day. In your letters, he found you were friendly, a little erratic in your sentence structure, but prompt in your replies. He wrote to assure you that he intended to give you a good life as Lady Hightower. You would be well cared for in Oldtown; the Reach would offer a climate that you would find very enjoyable. He promised that he would not rush you into marriage consummation, or sharing a marital bed, since you were only meeting for the first time on your wedding day. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable in your new life, as he could hardly imagine being in your shoes. He hoped you were pretty, or at least kind, but did not let himself hope for much. Marriage was duty, nothing more.

Standing at the alter in the Starry Sept, Gwayne mentally cursed and kicked himself a thousand times over. When he lifted your veil, he was met with the most dazzling girl he'd ever seen. Your bright eyes shone under the candlelight, the air around you seemed to sparkle, aided by the twinkling jewels pinned in your hair. Your mouth quipped into a half, nervous smile, that made is knees turn to jelly. He could tell you were accessing him back, brow furrowed in concentration. The crinkle that formed between your eyebrows was downright adorable. And with your wide eyes blinking up at him, you reminded him of a deer wandering a forest. When the Septon asked Gwayne to repeat the sacred words And I take you for my lady and wife, his mouth felt impossibly dry and disconnected from his body. He tore his eyes away from you, to look at the Septon instead, so he could concentrate. "And I t-take you for my lady and w-wife" Maybe he had been wrong about marriage before.

Honor? Duty? Where did it get him? Now, it seemed like those things, once upheld in his family's name, had doomed him. Gwayne had already put you at an arm's length by telling you that he did not expect you to share his bed. So all he could do was be a kind, doting husband, hoping that eventually you would feel comfortable enough to desire him the way he already did.

Gwayne observed you and helped you as you settled into life at the Oldtown. You were acclimating well, greeting everyone you met with a warm smile. You made an effort to learn each servant's name, offering genuine compliments on their work. Gwayne decided that he adored your smile, and you were as beautiful as the Mother, herself. Before he met you, he had faintly hoped that you were beautiful. But now, he wasn't sure if your beauty was a blessing to his eyes, or a curse that he had suffer to look upon you at a respectful distance. You were practically skipping through the corridors. Gwyane noticed you always moved so quickly, never simply walking, always seeming to be in a hurry to get to the next place. Suddenly, the ribbon tying your hair back slipped free and onto the floor. You bent down to pick up the ribbon, the fabric of your dress straining against the swell of your breasts. He’d always thought that a woman’s thighs were the asset he favored the most. But when he noticed the curve of your breasts, he wanted nothing more than to squeeze them, knead them, commit the softness to memory. Your nimble fingers twirled the ribbon, hands so petite and pretty. Perhaps one day they would intertwine with his? He could hold your hand and guide it along his cock, showing you how to stroke it and-

Then you were gone. Scurrying away and out of sight. Only the aroma of your rose scented soap was left for him to bask in, and replay over and over the time he had written that you were not expected to share his bed, and hate himself for it.

The day you came into his solar to show him your new dress, a part of him died inside. He was scribbling a letter to his father when you entered. When he looked up at the disturbance and saw it was you, he stood up so fast he almost sent his chair falling backwards. "My dear wife. What do I owe this pleasure?"

"So formal" you tease, your twinkling laugh lighting up the dim room "I just came to show you this!" You hold out your arms to display your attire, causing Gwayne's breath to hitch in his throat. You were wearing a rich green gown, with gold beading and embroidery all down the length. The design curled around your hips and torso, clinging to all your curves. The candlelight reflected off the gold shimmer, making you look like an angel dripping in Hightower colors.

"Do you like it?" You step closer to Gwayne, always on tip toe, and quickly, like a graceful doe. “Do I look comely?”

Your husband chokes on the words, watching you move closer to him- closer to his grasp. You are so near, he can count each if your eyelashes. “Come-? Comely?” Gwayne’s ears burn red at his misunderstanding. A feeble cough, then he manages to speak. “Yes. Very.”

"The seamstresses fastened the dress itself, but I did most of the embroidery work. See?"

Tentatively, he reaches out to graze his fingers over your hard work. He brushes the gold embroidery at your hip. You're babbling about the time that it look, and the technique you practiced, but Gwayne is zoning out. Only focusing on the warmth of your skin he can feel under the velvet. Your backside, that he had admittedly gawked at whenever you walked in front of him, was under his hand, splayed over your hip.

Your voice fades into the background as his hand, on it's own accord, moves up to your elbow, your shoulder, then brushes against the ends of your hair ever so slightly. It was so much softer than he thought possible. And when he brushes the tips of your hair, the smell of your rose soap wafts up to his nostrils. He watches in anticipation as his hand, seemingly pulled by an invisible force, moves to rest on the small of your back. You do not falter or pull away. In fact, you don't react at all. You just continue smiling, talking about your dress. Then you hold up the fabric of your skirt.

"Here, feel." You instruct, and Gwayne tentatively runs his hand over the gold beads. "I stayed up half the night to finish it. But I think it's worth the trouble." You laugh softly. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful." He swallows, and meets your eye. "Like you."

Playfully, you roll your huge, doe eyes and there it is again - that laugh that makes his heart flip inside his chest cavity. Your lips brush his cheek so quickly, he thought he might have imagined it. But it was real. You kissed him. The dampness of your lips leave the irrefutable proof on his skin. Just as soon as you entered, you are moving away, towards the door, and out of his reach. "I think I will lay down to rest now. I am weary after staying up so late."

Gwayne must be unwell. He must see a maester. He feels unsteady on his feet and his heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. Because after you leave his solar, his legs jerkily pull his body towards the door. You're fast. Much more agile than a young lady should be. Because you're leagues ahead of him, already out of sight down the castle corridors. He walks in a trance, following the trail of rose, stumbling after you. His cock jerks in his pants, half hard simply from touching you and the green fabric of your damned dress. Feverishly, his skin burns hot under his clothes. You're ill, you're reverting back to being a green boy, he tells himself. He wills himself to gain some sense, and stop following you like a lunatic, but his legs still carry him the way to your bed chambers.

When he arrives at your chambers, he enters without ceremony. He falls against the door and stumbles inside. It looks like you are getting ready to leave, having changed into a simple grey dress, and clutching your prayer book with a startled look on your face.

“Gwayne? Are you alright?” You ask, concerned for your husband’s current state- looking dazed in the middle of your bedchambers.

He does not answer your question. “I thought you were going to lie down and rest.” He blurts.

You were supposed to be getting ready to rest, he thinks, wearing your soft nightgown that I know you own because I've seen the servants filling your closet with clothes before you moved here. And you're supposed to be rubbing your eyes, sleepy and soft. I know you get like that when you're tired because once we dined together early in the morning. And I adored how you looked, one foot still in slumber, the other in wakefulness.

You smile, helpful, but so infuriatingly oblivious to his torment. “I was, yes, but then I remembered I am meeting the Septons this afternoon. We are discussing aid for the poor.” A pause. “Are you alright?” you ask again.

A broken sound emanates from your husband. A mixture of a groan and whine. He falls to his knees in front of you, hands clambering, pulling at your skirt. Gwayne knows he is a knight of the realm, but in this moment he does not care. He is a beggar at your feet. “Sweet girl. My sweet wife, please. Please do not leave.” His fingers fist tighter on your skirt.

Oof. You grunt, tugged off balance by your imploring husband. “I must go. I am new to my duties as Lady Hightower. And I can’t be seen shirking them so soon.” You rake your fingers through his auburn hair, as he presses his face firmly into the junction of your thighs. Gwayne’s hands have lost all restraint, pawing at your arse, tugging your cunt even closer into his face. With every trace of your fingers through his hair, his cock grows stiffer, straining uncomfortably into his pants. This surprises him, the reaction to your touch in his hair. All these new discoveries, particularly the unlimited bounds of his yearning, has his mind reeling.

You sigh. "By the seven, I really am late." You thread your fingers at the top of his head, and pull his gaze up to meet yours. "Oh Gwayne, what am I going to do with you?"

He strains, gazing up at you with watery eyes, "Oh dove, I-"