Ivy

See, the Prince was not the only one who was obsessive. From the first moment you had seen him, a foreign emotion flooded through your veins. Your heart quickening, your skin flushing, the thought of him unable to leave your mind.

You had never felt this way before.

Loathing; deep, ugly loathing.

This was more severe than hatred — you could ignore hatred. Hatred was simple, hatred was brief. Hatred did not compel you. This emotion interfered with your life; it was all-consuming, addictive.

Your Lady Mother often remarked that you were a gentle child, that despite the fact that you were raised with four brothers, despite your Lord Father raising you as a son also, ensuring that all his children were skilled in swordcraft and combat, you would never resort to violence the way they often would. Unless you were pushed too far.

And Aerion seemed determined to test your resolve.

"Tully." The Prince spat out, sparing a glance to your brothers as he approached your tent. He did not even bother looking at you, presuming that you were simply some fawning lady, and decided his efforts were better used for taunting your brothers.

"Your Grace." Delmar greeted, ever the conciliator. He was the second oldest, the Spare, and unlike your eldest brother, Melgar, he possessed patience and grace. Two components it seemed the Prince was sorely lacking also.

Your other two brothers, identical twins, Brynden and Mervyn, simply observed with apt interest, watching as their older brother dealt with the temperamental dragon. The twins were a few years younger than you, yet despite this they had already reached your height and were certain to surpass it soon.

Aerion continued, either wilfully ignorant of the tension that followed him like thick smoke, forcing everyone around him to choke on its intensity, or just plain stupid. "I will enjoy unhorsing you once the tourney commences, ensure the mare is not a favourite."

You scowled at his words, scoffing slightly as you turned away, trying to find something else to entertain you. You had heard of his brutish behaviour, of how ignobly he acted, harming animals in the pursuit of victory. It was embarrassing.

How pathetic must he be to have to go to such lengths just to secure a win? Either he is a poor jouster, or simply a weak man. You could not decide which was more appropriate.

If you were allowed to publicly engage in such tournaments, you would never resort to such cheap tricks and crookidness — it was behaviour beneath you. No, you were certain that your skill would be able to carry you; you were as accomplished as your older brothers, the only advantage they held over you pertaining to their height and strength. But you were quicker, in both body and mind, able to adapt, treating the sparring matched like a game of cyvasse, always thinking three steps ahead.

But despite the fact that your Father may have raised you as a son, you could never forget that you were still a daughter. You would never be allowed to join the lists of the tourneys, regardless of how skilled you were, regardless of how worthy you were.

His head snapped towards you, sourcing the soft sound, only to find you scowling as you sat so prettily. Sharp violet eyes narrowing, finally addressing you. "Do my words amuse you?"

"I am not so easily entertained, Your Grace." You drawled, your words dripping with vexation as your gaze languidly dragged back to the Prince, only to find him already glaring at you.

The corner of his lips twitched, jaw clenching as you refused to give him the reaction he had anticipated. He had expected swift apologies, stuttering words, fearful glances as many often reacted when he would address them. Instead he received you.

He mimicked your tone, ensuring to speak with equal vitriol. "Well you will certainly be entertained once your brother loses. I will have to dedicate my win to you, My Lady."

The honorific was purred in such a manner it sounded more like a threat rather than a courteous address. You offered a tight smile as a reply, glaring at the Prince who seemed to finally realise that you too were a person; certainly a shocking discovery.

He would hover for a moment, taunting your brothers with spiteful slights despite the fact that his eyes seemed to unknowingly drag back to you, trying to gauge your response. You were not generous however, and steeled your features, not providing him the gratification of your disdain any longer. However, you had done this far too late. Aerion had seen your true colours once, and desperately wished to witness them again.

You appeared like a docile creature at first glance, but you had mistakenly bared your teeth at him, and now he wanted to get bit.

—

There were many times you wished to strike the Prince, but you had more sense than that. You would rather keep all your limbs.

Instead you waited; you were patient. All you had to do is wait for the tourney to complete, and the chances of you interacting with the Prince again were slim.

You had to be patient.

You would not condescend yourself by acting so lowly, by allowing the Prince to cause you to become so volatile — it was not in your nature, you reminded yourself. You were a Lady, and you would act as such.

So even now, when you were in the middle of a cyvasse match with a Ser Knight of Some Small House you had not paid much attention to, you forced yourself not to notice the prowling dragon who watched the game with apt interest, instead claiming the knight's onyx rabble with one of your own ivory pieces.

The knight, whose name had escaped you the moment he had uttered it, responded quickly, far too quickly. A mistake. He claimed the rabble you had left vulnerable.

The knight's knee continued to bounce, impatience possessing him as he waited for your next move, his gaze flickering up to watch you. You appeared to just be analysing the board, fingers busy with twisting your golden rings, the garnet glinting each time it turned around the digit.

You suppressed the grin that threatened to unveil your glee, instead forcing it down. He did not realise he had fallen straight into your trap.

But Aerion noticed the shift that occurred within you. You may have looked as if you were carved from marble, the perfect statue of the Maiden reborn, yet there was a glimmer within your eyes.

"You have lost." Aerion proclaimed, his eyes travelling across the board to decipher how the knight had lost, yet he could not find it. What was the source of your eyes softening? Certainly not the knight… His eyes narrowed as he failed to see your victory. Surely not, it could not be the knight who had caused the smile in your eyes, for your irises to brighten. Yet the knight was not exactly ugly, and perhaps you were as simple as he had initially assumed.

He was so focused on discovering the reason for your sudden joy, he did not realise that it quickly diminished at the sound of his voice, shooting him a glare once he had exposed you.

"Pardon, Your Grace?" The knight managed out, his eyes widening once he realised the Prince was addressing him. Aerion did not bother answering him, only leaning over you to see the board from your perspective. It was beginning to irritate him, what could you see that he could not?

"I am afraid His Grace is correct, Ser." You finally spoke, your skin flushing as the Prince crowded you against your chair, seemingly not caring at the proximity he had forced upon you. You cleared your throat, your pulse racing unsteadily as his arm rested against the back of your chair, lithe fingers brushing against your shoulder causing you to sit up straight to avoid his touch. "Your king will be trapped, defeat in five moves."

Aerion smirked at your confirmation, glad to know that the only thing about the knight that caused you joy was his defeat, and not his stupid face.

"But how?" Aerion demanded, not allowing the knight to react to your words, continuing to lean forward until his head was beside yours. He stilled for a moment, eyes screwing shut as he inhaled from his nose, the subtle scent of lavender and chamomile hitting him.

The knight simply observed, riveted by the scene that was unfolding before him. Perhaps the princeling was drunk, he concluded. It was not strange to see members of the royal house of Targaryen to be publicly intoxicated, the Prince's brother Daeron had long ago normalised such behaviour, even earning the moniker 'The Drunken'. Intoxication was the only reasonable explanation for why Aerion was conducting himself in such a manner.

You stood up suddenly, becoming far too aware of how the knight was watching you, desperate to desert the situation. "My catapult would claim his dragon, leaving his king defenceless."

"But could I not—" The knight began, trying to get you to sit back down, to complete the game. You were leaving so soon, and the knight felt disappointed at losing the opportunity to speak to you longer.

"It is called laying a trap." You quickly interjected, jewelled hands smoothing your skirt as you tried to pardon yourself as smoothly as possible. Yet your pride — the disastrous, fragile thing it was — compelled you to explain how you had won, how you had bested the men before you. "I had baited you through a technique referred to as the 'Ruined Rabble', and through sacrificing one rabble, you were defeated. Now you must excuse me—"

Your voice was quickly interrupted by Aerion placing his hands roughly onto your shoulders, harshly guiding you to seat yourself once more.

"Move." He demanded. The knight quickly obeyed, abandoning you with such swift ease. What a knight he was, you thought bitterly. Leaving you with the dragon.

And the Dragon continued to watch you, scrutinising the prey that refused to flinch under his narrowed gaze. You did not utter a word, simply collecting your pieces with unnecessary detail, purposefully trying to waste his time.

And it worked. Like the knight minutes prior, Aerion could only watch you with a clenched jaw, getting irritated by the amount of time it took you to retrieve your pieces. For Seven's sake, they were all laying before you, it should not take that long!

His index finger drummed a frantic beat against the table, his own pieces already gathered in a cluttered pile (although you quickly noted that he had arranged his dragons in a neat line, as if they were cavalry awaiting for his next command).

"Will you hasten your movements?" He sharply interrogated, his tone mocking as if your actions were motivated by incapability rather than deliberation. You refused to look at him while he addressed you, keeping your attention captivated on your ivory pieces, only furthering his irritation. Why he wanted your sole focus, he was unsure, the sensation foreign as he tried digging it deep, hoping that if he ignored it long enough, it would not haunt him any longer.

"I will try." You replied, your tone light, laced with sincerity despite your movements slowing further. He simply huffed in response, slouching in his seat as his impatient nature demanded for something else to entertain him while he waited. His head swiveled, neck straining as violet eyes travelled along the perimeter of the tent, only to observe the knights that had gathered at another table, his dear cousin in the centre of them. He scowled, the sight of the flock that seemed to gather around Valarr served to irritate him further. They only trailed behind him because he was the Heir's Heir, nothing more. If he did not possess that title, they would flock around Aerion instead, because he was certainly far more interesting than his cousin. Or so he comforted himself.

A smirk threatened to break onto your face as you noticed his distracted demeanor, your hand reached across the board into his territory, selecting your ivory rabble. And while you were certain that he was not paying attention, you grabbed one of his dragons in one swift movement, concealing it in your palm as your hand retreated, allowing it to fall within your sleeve.

"Shall we arrange our boards, My Prince?" You questioned, drawing his attention back to you as you slid the opaque inklike screen into its place, obscuring your vision of his half of the board. Your hands were already moving before he could respond, routinely placing tiles in a sequence your older brother Malger would often use.

Malger was far more skilled in cyvasse than you were, and he was the most skilled jouster in your family; it was a shame he was not attending the tourney, you were certain he would put the temperamental princeling in his place. Your good sister was in the later stages of her pregnancy, and despite your fathers insistence, Malger refused to join the travelling party, meaning that your other brother Delmar would take his place in the tourneys.

Your Lord Father Medgar Tully, also a proficient jouster and swordman, skills hardened through the battlefield, would have participated in the tourney if it were not for the arm injury he had sustained during a hunt. As a result of his inability to participate, he commanded that one of his sons must. You did not bother requesting if you could join, already knowing the answer would be a resolute refusal.

At times you could not help but wonder why your Father had raised you in such a manner, why put a sword in the hand of a child and be surprised once they were accustomed to the weight, the blade becoming an extension of one's self.

Aerion grumbled a halfhearted reply, his attention continuously being drawn to the knights fawning over his cousin, haphazardly placing the tiles. What was so great about Valarr anyways? He hardly possessed the Valyrian features, and he was not that skilled in combat either.

He began to position his pieces, only to still. There was one missing. One of the most important pieces was missing.

His dragon was gone.

"Where is my dragon?" He demanded, his voice rising as he frantically looked around, finding one of his dragons missing from the position he had carefully placed it in.

"Pardon?" You questioned, feigning ignorance as you tilted your head at him, watching with great amusement as he quickly lost his remaining composure. You kept your hands on your lap, the inky dragon's wing digging into your forearm as it remained veiled from his sight. He swiftly stood up, looking over the board to find your pieces attentively placed into their correct positions. "My Prince, you cannot—"

"Do not inform me of what I can and cannot do." He hissed, leaning over the screen to search for his piece. Yet despite his meticulous search, he could not find it. "You have stolen my dragon, return it this instance."

"My Prince, I did no such thing." You lied blatantly, and it simply infuriated him further as he could tell. Your eyes were smiling once more, and they never did that when you were looking at him. Your movements were subtle, your arm dragging forward just an inch, the dragon tumbling onto the floor, released from your sleeve. Your foot found it quickly, gently kicking it forward. You quickly added another remark, unable to stop yourself. "Perhaps your dragon flew away?"

His hands clenched, teeth grinding as he desperately tried to not curse you. He was finally getting the attention of the knights, but not in the way he had wanted.

"Stand. Up." He demanded, his words slow as they gritted out of his mouth. You obeyed, once more moving languidly as you raised your palms in mock surrender. He was making a fool out of himself, and you had orchestrated it perfectly. However you had to admit that you did not expect it to happen so perfectly. And it simply got better, the scene being witnessed by multiple bystanders.

"Is that not your dragon by your feet, cousin?" Valarr called out, feeling an indescribable embarrassment for his cousin and the poor Lady he was harassing. He wished he could rescue the pretty Lady, but it appeared that you were able to handle the situation, offering Valarr a bashful smile.

Aerion looked down, the dragon pathetically laying on the floor. It was certainly not there before… right? His jaw clenched as he nodded, biting his tongue, a subtle metallic taste emerging as he refused to speak.

He grabbed it quickly, suppressing the urge to hurl it across the room, preferably hitting Valarr. Of course, out of every individual within the tent, it was his cousin who had found his dragon. Great Valarr, perfect Valarr. How utterly infuriating.

Aerion sunk back into his seat, huffing like a petulant child as he forcefully placed the dragon into its place. He shot a glare at you, gesturing for you to sit down. This was your fault, he decided. It had to be.

"Witch." He muttered under his breath, his tone accusing as he shot you a glare, and you could only roll your eyes at him.

You pulled the screen, placing it gently on the table, frowning as you took in his board. What in the Seven Hells did he do? There was no rhyme or reason to the position of his tiles and you struggled to decipher what technique he may have used. Another mistake you had made, assuming that he even knew cyvasse techniques.

And it quickly became apparent as you played with him — he barely moved his rabbles, used his catapults when it truly was not necessary, and allowed his dragon pieces to dominate the board. Which, unfortunately for him, led to the death of all his dragons. Truly a reenactment of the Dance of the Dragons, and how fitting that it simply led to the defeat of a Targaryen.

Yet despite how amusing it was to mess with the Prince, the game was a terrible bore. It felt as if you were playing with a child rather than a man grown. You were certain your younger brothers were more skilled than him, all his moves were seemingly motivated by an undeserving arrogance rather than an understanding of the game. He was truly unworthy of your time, you concluded — you had spent more time playing with your rings than actually playing the game, absentmindedly removing and rewearing them, twisting them as you felt your brain ache.

"Defeat in four." You stated, tone bored as your head rested against your fist, suppressing a yawn. You had expected more, but clearly your greatest mistake was just having expectations for the Prince. You had heard the whispers that followed him, of his cruelty and anger — such behaviour was surely sourced by a lack of intelligence, perhaps he would not act so rashly if he simply thought. Advice that was applicable to both the game before you and his life. But you had more sense than to voice such an opinion, so you would simply apply it yourself. It would be for your betterment to avoid the Prince, as each encounter with him only served to increase the urge to strike him.

And you were certain to oblige to such desires.

You could almost forgive the cruelty, it was a common fact that Targaryens were mad — his lineage cursed by the gods for their unnatural practices. But his arrogance, his self-conceited nature was unforgiveable. How blind must a man be to not understand that his birthright could only carry him so far? What did it matter that he were a Targaryen Prince if his character failed in every other aspect?

He remained silent, his hand pressed into his jaw as he leaned towards the board, his head inching closer to yours as he tried to see where his defeat laid. It took its time to register in his mind, but, eventually, defeat was processed. And you stood up as soon as it did, hands smoothing over your silk skirts, the opulent fabric whispering as you moved.

Aerion had never lost before. And he was not entirely sure of how he felt — bitter at the loss, yet it was the addictive sort. He would not mind experiencing it once more if it came from you.

"There are pieces other than the dragon, My Prince." Your tone mocking as you smiled at him sweetly, your eyelashes fluttering as you perfected the facade of innocence. He glared back at you, scowling at his loss.

"The dragon ought never lose." He seethed, his voice low as he leaned over the board, his forearms barracading the game that demonstrated his defeat. Then why are they all dead, you thought sardonically, forcing yourself not to utter your true thoughts. They would certainly get you executed, despite being the truth.

"Certainly, Your Grace." You responded, rolling your eyes deeply the moment your back was turned from him.

Your first victory against Aerion.

It was only afterwards in the silence of your own tent did you realise that your garnet ring was missing.

—

"Lady Tully." A voice called out, forcefully dragging your attention away from the ladies you had were seated amongst.

The tourney was being held in honour of the daughter of Lord Leo Tyrell, Aster Tyrell. It was clear that Leo Longthorn was trying to recreate the famed Tourney of the Field Roses, wanting the beginning of his daughter's marriage to be embroidered with success and greatness. She was to be wed to Karlon Stark, the only son of Lord Barthogan Stark. It was rumoured that Barthogan was not in favour of the tourney, believing it was a waste of time and resources, claiming that war was not a game, but his son managed to persuade his father, hoping that his Winter Rose would be pleased.

Yet Aster did not speak one word of her good father's dislike of the event, instead distracting the ladies around her with the Myrish silks her betrothed had commissioned for her. Not that she would have much use for such luxuries in the North, the Lady would have to sacrifice her low necklines and thin silks for furs and wools.

But you ignored that thought, instead fussing over the beauty of her gifts, fawning and cooing in all the right moments, until a silver-streaked Targaryen had distracted you.

Prince Valarr Targaryen, the very definition of beauty and grace, stood before you, directing a smile so gentle and charming that it had caught you off-guard. Your gaze flickered between his bi-coloured irises; warm amber and soft lavender. It was only until Aster nudged you slightly did you realise that the pleasantness of his smile was intended for you, the Tyrell Lady ushering you to follow the Targaryen Prince.

He shared pleasantries with the other ladies who were seated among you, congratulating Aster so sweetly that she blushed as if she was not to be wed within the moon.

"My Lady, I must apologise for my cousins behaviour earlier." He began, offering his arm as he began to guide you further through the famed courtyards of Highgarden, the ambrosial scent of roses and grapes wafting through the air. "Aerion is quick to temper at times, but he means well."

Valarr did not dare look you in the eyes as he spoke those words, as if recognising the lie he recited so often to excuse his cousin's behaviour. But you simply smiled, fingers curling around the soft velvet of his sleeve as you offered your appreciation, making liars of the two of you.

"There is no need to apologise, My Prince. I have many brothers and am accustomed to such behaviour. I was not offended." You responded, offering false sympathy with ease, watching as his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally, as if you had released a weight he was shouldering stoically.

But your heart dropped, unable to truly experience the satisfaction of getting away with such a small lie, as you noticed something strange.

From your peripheral you saw the glint of silver-gold — platinum glimmering under the harsh sunrays, motionless. A shiver travelled down your spine as you finally registered his unwavering attention, like a prey noticing a predator far too late. You were unable to escape, to return to the refuge of the ladies, to hide behind propriety and decorum. Your smile faltered slightly, yet Valarr did not notice, instead he continued to speak, his attention flittering between your enticing eyes and the flowers before you, finding it difficult to look at you for too long.

Valarr was uncertain as to why he felt this way, why his heart seemed to skip each time your attention was solely on him. So instead he forced his efforts back to his initial intentions — to apologise for Aerion. But why was he so determined to receive your forgiveness, to ensure that you would be pleased? He did not have an answer for that either, and imstead tried to silence the mocking voice in his head.

"You are very kind, My Lady." He responded, stopping briefly before a bed of golden roses, plucking one from its place. He withdrew a small dagger, allowing the blade to glide along the stem, removing the thorns, before returning the blade to its place. "Yet I still feel indebted to you, I should have intervened earlier—"

The silver-streaked Prince was interrupted by a curt voice.

"Cousin." Aerion addressed, hands behind his back as he pinned you beneath his scrutinising stare, not even sparing a glance at Valarr. He had already witnessed enough; how his cousin dared to apologise on his behalf, how you offered your enchanting smile and charming words, clinging onto Valarr's arm as if he were your saviour.

It was pathetic.

And it would stop this instant.

"Aerion." Valarr countered, offering a tight smile to his cousin.

"Lady Tully." You included, smiling slightly at the stupid joke, but it quickly diminished when you noticed the two men remained silent, with Valarr glaring at his nonreciprocating cousin. Instead Aerion seemed more interested in your eyes.

Alluring, beguiling eyes. His steadfast focus remained on them, even as his cousin continued to speak, even when you looked away from the silver-haired prince. His attention remained solely on you.

"As I was saying, My Lady…" Valarr began again, his smile slightly strained as his cousin remained unmoving, offering the rose to you. The blossom was quickly accepted, your fingers tracing the smooth stem, your gaze wandering back to the silver-streaked Targaryen. But once again Aerion disliked the scene unfolding before him, meaning that once again Valarr was interrupted.

"My Uncle has summoned you. He requests your presence immediately." Aerion declared, his nails biting half-moons into his palms as he noticed the glimmer in your eyes return. How dare you direct that look towards Valarr? How dare you deem him worthy of such a privilege?

Valarr shot a look at his cousin, half disbelief, half annoyance. He knew Aerion's nature, deception and bitterness coursing through his veins. And despite this universally acknowledged truth, Valarr could not ignore his words on the off-chance that his cousin was truly not lying.

Of course he was lying, but truly what more could you expect from Aerion? It was Valarr's fault for being gullible.

And so he turned towards you once more, the words he desperately wished to voice dying on his tongue, tasting like ash.

"You must excuse me, My Lady." He murmured, voice laced with regret and disappointment as he hesitantly pulled away from you, allowing his fingers to brush against the flow of your skirt for just a moment. "It appears that my Father requires me."

You responded gracefully, voice soft as you bid farewell to the Princes, grasping the opportunity to flee as soon as it appeared. But this was futile, a steady hand grasping your elbow, fingers digging into the skin as you were guided further into the verdent gardens, further from your refuge.

You inwardly cursed, heart dropping as you allowed Aerion to drag you to a remote corner of the courtyard, the only witnesses being the chirping cardinals and twisting ivy on the sun-bleached courtyard wall.

He did not bother asking what you were discussing with Valarr, did not bother asking why you were in the gardens — instead he simply stared, completely taking you in, searing the image into his memory.

You refused to meet his gaze, nails gently scratching against where the thorns had been removed, fingers travelling to caress the soft petals as they yielded to your touch, the gold parting. This was not supposed to occur. You were not meant to interact with the Prince this much, surely you were cursed.

"Why were you with him?" Aerion interrogated, taking the rose from your hands, scowling at the blossom as if it had caused him offence, throwing it to ground. Deep violet eyes settled on you once more, piercing you with chilling precision.

"Prince Valarr wished to converse—"

"I did not ask about what you were doing." He clarified, stepping towards you, his fingers tracing along the curve of your neck, catching onto the chain of your necklace, the golden links glimmering as he observed your pendant. He could smell chamomile and lavender once more, the addictive scent calming his mind. "Why were you with him?"

Your brows furrowed in confusion, suppressing the urge to flinch at his touch, wishing desperately to create some distance. But you could not, his grasp remaining on your pendant as he watched the garnet stone glint in the sunlight.

"I am not sure what you mean, My Prince." You confessed, your heart racing as he finally yielded your necklace, the cold metal of your pendant hitting the skin above your neckline. The question itself was some sort of trap, you decided. How could you answer as to why you were with the Heir's Heir? There was no option for you, the reason was simply because you could not deny the requests of the Blood of the Dragon.

"You will refuse him in the future." He murmured, closing the gap between you as he caught a lock of your hair, twisting the strand around his finger.

"That would be an insult." You responded, instinctively retreating from his warmth, creating the distance you yearned for. He was far too close, far too much — the scent of sandalwood and ash flooding your senses, perforating into your mind, burning your thoughts and self-control.

He scowled at the movement, before yanking the strand, pain flaring at the base of your scalp as you hissed sharply, your head snapping with the harsh movement. And you quickly responded before you could even think, digging the heel of your foot into his, smiling as he flinched, a curse rasping out his larynx.

But the gratification of satiating your desire was temporary, immediately vanishing as the severity of the situation dawned on you.

Seven fucking Hells.

What did you do?

Terror seized you as you backed away from the glaring Prince, watching as his breathing became unsteady, his lips curling with an emotion you truly could not identify. You turned on your heel, submitting to the fear that guided you as an instinct older than your lineage possessed you.

You had to run. You could not think, your mind haunted with the impending future, of the consequences that would occur. Even if you ran, you would not be able to get far. He would still chase you. He would find you, make you pay for daring to strike a Prince of the Blood.

There was simply no escape.

Yet despite this realisation you still tried, only to be dragged back, his fingers curling around your biceps, nails stabbing through the silk fibres of your sleeve, roughly pulling you into him. You stumbled, back hitting his chest, and you could swear that his nose brushed against your hair as he inhaled sharply.

You struggled against his grip, his hands turning you to face him as your mind racing with thoughts and possible solutions. But they all fell flat as you came to one conclusion.

He wished to strike you. To punish you for such impudence, for such disrespect.

But your mind was silenced as his lips crashed against yours, teeth clashing as he desperately kissed you, chasing the taste of honeyed wine. His hands had travelled, one carded through your hair pulling the strands while the other cradled your jaw, holding you in place.

You froze, your hands steadying yourself on his shoulders, not pushing him away.

What the fuck?

You had accounted for every possible outcome, crafting swift resolutions for the worst scenarios, but you could have never expected this. How in the Seven Hells could you escape this?

Instead of reciprocating his actions, instead of returning his kisses, you bit his bottom lip harshly, the flesh tearing against the sharp of your fang. The metallic taste infiltrated your mouth, blood staining your lips as he finally withdrew wincing at the sudden pain.

His fingers immediately raise to his lips, tracing the torn skin as blood weeped at the injury, a crimson drop trickling down his chin. Your own lips were stinging, swollen and bruised by his harsh kisses.

His pupils were blown, black darkening the deep violet as he watched you with a certain satisfaction. Yet the hungry look in his eyes remained, not completely satiated, gaze fixed on you like a dragon following its cornered prey.

He allowed you to run away this time, to flee from him. He did not bother chasing you.

He had won.

—

Aster had requested a favour from you.

A gift for her wedding, she had clarified, eyes pleading as she grasped your hands. She wished to attend the merriments occurring within the Baratheon tent, but could not conjure up the courage of going alone.

She did not dare ask her betrothed to take her, unsure of how that may have seemed. However she heard that Delmar was acquainted with the Laughing Storm, and it was certain that your brother would attend.

He would be your chaperone, and in turn hers as well. You had hesitated for a moment, your mind still reeling from your encounter with the silver-haired Targaryen. You did not want to risk another interaction.

But you could not deny her, pity striking you at the sight of her furrowed brows and doe eyes. You were weak, and so you joined her, Delmar many paces ahead of you as she whispered excitedly in your ear.

Lyonel Baratheon exceeded any expectation you had for the man; he was loud and boisterous and utterly charming in a way that commanded attention. He was impossible to ignore.

He was already a tall man, yet seemed insistent to tower above every person in the tent as he danced upon tables, his antler crown lopsided on his head of salt and pepper curls. You could not deny that he was handsome, and clearly neither could Aster, allowing the Baratheon Lord to spin her, viridescent silk skirts twirling to the discordant melody of unharmonious singing crashing against the sound of fiddles and flutes. She danced with him, and any other man she ran into, her cheeks flushed pink with exertion, breathless as she grinned so brightly.

Your smile could only mirror hers, watching her joy from the sidelines as you settled into a corner of the tent, sipping costly imported Myrish firewine, the spiced wine burning your throat. But you did not mind the subtle pain, quickly becoming accustomed to it as the feeling was more enticing than any that the offered Arbor gold could provide.

Delmar was also engrossed within the celebrations, stood upon a rickety table that swayed as he sung a bawdy tavern song with one of Baratheon's bannermen, Arbor gold spilling out of his goblet, the fruity wine dripping off his fingers. You wanted to laugh, to mock your brother while he was in a drunken stupor, to share Aster's glee, but you were unable to.

You could not even stomach the food offered during the feast, your stomach turning at the sight of the roasted duck, and instead just sipped your firewine. The thought of the Targaryen Prince haunted you; harming the Prince, kissing the Prince, harming him once more. Your heart was conflicted on how to feel, scandalised at your actions, scandalised at his, fearing what is to come.

But there was one emotion that did not waver. You truly hated him.

You almost wished you could have inflicted more damage. To make the crime worth the impending punishment.

You flinched, the sound of harsh laughter drawing you out of your suffocating thoughts. It soon faded however, but not due to distance. Cerulean eyes found you, the candle light faintly glinting against his irises as his gaze narrowed with a heavy intensity that interrogated you. You returned Lyonel's attention, watching him for a moment before allowing your focus to be drawn back to where Aster whirling, your mind pirouetting with her once more.

But Lyonel's gaze lingered, unwavering as he noticed your demeanour, as if noticing a flaw within the atmosphere he had carefully curated. You were not sharing the merriment.

"Lady Tully." He commented, your name sounding more like a fact rather than an address. "I did not know that Delmar's sister was a terrible bore."

"Perhaps I am, or perhaps I do not see the point of these festivities." You drawled back, your tone bitter despite allowing him to steal the goblet you were grasping like a lifeline. He took a quick swig of the wine, wincing as he ignored the urge to spit it back out. He would have insulted it if he did not quickly realise it was the very firewine he had brought with him from Myr. "No victories, yet you knights are celebrating as if you had won every competition."

He barked out a laugh at your response, not expecting you to cut back, the sound sharp and invasive as it pierced through the loud music of the tent. "How dull would life be if we only celebrated when there was cause to do so?

You remained silent, your focus drifting to your brother who seemed to detest his feet being on the ground, instead having them planted upon chairs as he travelled across the room, another knight placing them to aid his journey. The idiot was going to get injured, but you made no move to stop him, instead taking your goblet back from Lyonel, taking a long sip.

He noted your silence, and was unsatisfied with the response, his hand resting against the small of your back, palm firm against the smooth silks as he placed his antler crown upon your head. It hung loosely on your head, and you quickly stabilised it with a palm as you shot the Lord a questioning look.

"Do you like to dance?" He asked, eyes twinkling as he grinned at you, determined to change your mood. He decided that no one was more deserving of the happiness that was infecting the participants of the festivities, especially with how jaded you seemed. You rolled your eyes at his question, but he could tell he had won you over, your lips stretching into a grin as you began to respond.

But no response came.

The warmth of Lyonel's hand quickly disappeared, replaced by a familiar heat as you felt someone press against you, a hand wrapping around your bicep, laying a silent claim. Sandalwood and ash. Your eyes darted down to the offending hand, heart dropping at the sight of pale lithe fingers that curled around your arm.

And your garnet ring glinting from where a signet ring should lay.

"Baratheon." Aerion's voice called out, you could feel his voice vibrate against your back, his grip tightening as he greeted the Stromlander.

Lyonel responded curtly, his gaze hardening as it darted between you and the dragon that grasped you. He could not identify the emotion on your face, stuck between anger and regret as you glared onwards, not truly looking at anything. But you did not move, did not flinch, simply allowed the volatile Prince to hold you as if you were his possession.

"Leave us." Aerion demanded, dismissing the Lord as if this were not Lyonel's tent, as if Lyonel was the one causing the disruption. His free hand grabbed the crown by the antlers, gently removing it off your head before roughly shoving it against Lyonel's chest.

The Baratheon opened his mouth, mind fuzzy by the liqueur he had indulged in, the border between logic and stupidity blurred as he began to argue against the command. But he was quickly silenced by your glare, your head subtly shaking once to dissuade him. And so he pursed his lips shut, offering a tight smile as he obliged to your wishes, taking his crown and abandoning you to the dragon.

Aerion's hand travelled down the expanse of your arm, tracing the inside of your forearm, following the trail of the veins of your inner wrist, before settling around your wrist, fingers pressed against the skin as your pulse fluttered like trapped bird beneath his grip.

"My sweet Lady Rivers." Aerion murmured, warm breath hitting against the skin of your neck as you suppressed a shiver at the sensation, trying your best to ignore the mocking nickname he had decided to bestow upon you. He moved slightly, finally in front of you as he stole your goblet, unflinchingly drinking the firewine, gesturing for a knight to refill the cup. The knight quickly obliged, before disappearing into the refuge of the crowd, and you could only yearn to do the same. "You seem determined to ignore me."

You did not bother granting him the privilege of a response, instead your gaze was fixed on the fingers curled around your wrist, the garnet stone of your ring mocking you as it glimmered in the low candle light.

"Return my ring." You muttered, your voice drowned out by the intensity of the festivities, your mind clearing as the wine seemed to no longer course through your veins. He pulled you closer, his head lowering so his lips brushed against the shell of your ear.

"No."

Cunt.

Your gaze finally drifted up, head tilting slightly as his face was inches away from you. Violet irises dark and unwavering, restless as they flickered across your face, shimmering like the softness of twilight. The violet was swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, almost seeing your own reflection within the void that threatened to consume you. His lips curled with amusement as he noticed the glare that had settled into your features. You were truly beautiful when you were angry; divine and wicked, appearing like justice personified.

Your eyes dipped to his lips, lingering for a moment as you noticed the wound beginning to scab on his bottom lip, evidence of your bite. Your head spun at the sight, a strange delight coursing through your veins that was quickly extinguished once you remembered exactly why you had inflicted the injury.

He could only swallow harshly as he noticed where your gaze travelled, his mind flashing back to the very moment you were reminded of.

"Then perhaps you will release me, My Prince." The title dripped with thinly veiled vexation, the vowels dragging as if it were an insult. His smile twitched at your request, grip tightening slightly as if the very idea was a slight.

"So you can run off to that Lord?" Aerion accused, his voice low and heavy with a strange insecurity that you could only furrow your brows at. His behaviour was confusing you; perhaps you were more drunk than you had assumed. Why in the Seven Hells was he mentioning Lyonel? A Lord who you had never truly talked to before, finally sharing your first sentences devoid of any courtesy moments prior.

Despite your inhibitions being blurred by the firewine, your mind still functioned to the best of its capabilities. You quickly noticed the poorly concealed accusation, your anger flaring once more. Was he questioning your honour? There was no greater insult to a Tully, no greater insult to a woman. You were just thankful that you did not drink as much as you had truly wanted, as you would have certainly struck him if you had. The desire to do so coursed through your veins, the fingers of your free hand twitching slightly as you denied to fall into the temptation.

You twisted your wrist slightly, trying to release yourself from his grip as you responded. "I am not sure what you are suggesting, Your Grace, but I would like to be dismissed now."

Any trace of a smile vanished from his features, a cruel look brightening his eyes as he scowled at you, displeased by the reaction you provided. Why did you always flee from him? Did you enjoy withholding your presence from him? To make him yearn for your attention?

First his cousin, now some Baratheon lord — his patience was wearing thin, threadbare and fraying from your insistence to entertain the pursuits of lesser men.

His cruel, darling Lady Rivers.

The sound of heavy crashing tore through the charged moment, ripping your gaze away from him, your heart dropping at the sound of cursing and groans. The music stilled, a moment of tense silence washing over the tent.

Delmar, that damned fool.

You wrenched your arm from Aerion's grip, possessed by a newfound strength as you tried to push past him. But Aerion, like he often was, was disappointed by how your interaction was progressing, and grabbed at your skirts to interrupt your escape, vermillion silks bunched around his fist, spilling out between his fingers.

"Do not leave." He whispered, his voice going unheard as you tugged at your skirt, pulling the fabrics from his grasp as you shot him a glare, your eyes wild as you continued your pursuit of finding your brother. You did not hear his plea, soft and vulnerable and wanting, instead your mind was paralysed with a certain blankness as logic evaded you, the thought of your brother being injured anchoring your wits. And so you denied the request you did not witness.

Your heart thudded uncomfortably in your chest, certain to break your ribs as you pushed past the small crowd that was beginning to form, with your fool of a brother stemmed within the centre, unable to move. Your eyes darted around, taking the scene in completely as your mind began to race once more.

The wood had splintered at its leg, shards of mahogany exposing the wound as Delmar gritted his teeth at the pain throbbing through his ankle, desperately trying not to make any more noises. His foot was at a strange ankle, clearly a consequence of landing on it incorrectly.

Lyonel was beside him, grinning wolfishly at the stupidity of your brother while Aster gravitated to your side, her hands grasping yours as she tried to not look Delmar.

Any initial fear that you had experienced was replaced by an anger that you could not explain. Why in the Seven Hells would he act so stupidly? If he could not handle being so intoxicated, why would he indulge?

"You dimwitted wretch." You scolded, scowling at Delmar who certainly seemed more clearheaded, the fall sobering his mind as he offered a sheepish smile. The music began once more, the fiddler clearly dissatisfied by the lack of grievous injury as quick paced notes began to fill the air.

"Such kind words, sister." Delmar grumbled, hands grasping at the slant of the broken table as he attempted to become upright once more. He winced, a shallow gasp escaping him as pain sparked at the weak movement, and Lyonel quickly steadied him, grabbing at the injured man's forearms.

"And truthful." Lyonel added, quirking a brow at you as he struggled to suppress his own smirks, guiding the wounded Tully to lean against him. It would not be a celebration until someone had become injured. And unfortunately that individual just had to be your brother.

You abandoned Aster, your hand tracing against hers in apology as you went to Delmar's other side. A heavy arm draped over your shoulder, and you suppressed the urge to flinch at the smell of sweat and sickly Arbor gold.

"Idiot." You hissed out, the cool night air nipping at your face as you left the tent. "You will wish that the fall would have killed you, because Father certainly will now."

Delmar paled, either from the pain or fear, but you could not find it within you to care.

Instead your mind wandered back to garnets and ash.

—

Your mind felt as if it were splintering.

Cracked shards of incomplete thoughts as pain coursed through the wits that you tried to grasp onto.

"Damned fools." Medgar Tully cursed, face flushing with rage as a vein protuded on his forehead. His gaze dragged over his second eldest son, who was pathetically seated by the table, his ankle bandaged tightly with linens and silks, a wooden crutch beside him. "You have turned us into a laughing stock. House Tully fallen before the tourney has even begun, that is what everyone will be whispering."

You flinched at the sound of his voice, feeling it ricochet against the inner curves of your skull, piercing your thoughts. You groaned slightly, grasping your head as you allowed it to fall against the oak table, trying to block the sunlight that fell in slim ribbons through the ripples of the tent's fabrics. Your head hurts so much. Myrish firewine was clearly something not to be indulged in, yet despite the pain it caused you (during and afterwards), you still craved the numbing feeling it would cause. Perhaps you should seek out Lyonel, delay your hangover by drinking once more…

"Father—" Delmar attempted, unable to look the older Tully in the eyes.

"Silence. You have done enough." Medgar turned to look at you, concern briefly flickering in his eyes at the sight of his slumped daughter. But he steeled it swiftly, he will pity you later. He barked out your name, sharp and quick, the intrusive sound causing you to wince further as you begrudgingly lifted your head. "Your brothers are half-wits, but you should have known better. How could you allow him to become injured? I expected more from you, girl."

You lowered your gaze, the pain of your head throbbing fiercely as your heart began to ache at your father's words. You had disappointed him — you did nothing yet you still managed to disappoint him. It was unfair, it was unjust, yet your lip still quivered at the harshness of his disappointment even though you knew it was unwarranted. You let your head fall onto your arm, shielding your face as you screwed your eyes shut, trying to soothe the sting of tears.

"Brynden will take your place in the tourney."

Your head shot up, neck aching at the sudden movement as you began to protest. "Brynden is hardly even a man, and you expect him to fight? He is not a knight."

Your gaze flickered to the twins, who had simply been loitering around the perimeter of the tent, simply witnessing your father's anger, pleased to not be at the receiving end of it. But now the winds had shifted, and they were getting burnt. Brynden paled, eyes wide with horror as he gaped at your father, unable to utter a single word as his mind stalled.

"He is Delmar's squire, and the rules will permit it." Your father stated, voice stern, his words set in stone. You could not convince him to change his mind, his resolve was set.

But you could try. You began once more, trying to sweeten your tone to not anger him further. "Father, there is no need—"

"Do not speak to me of what our House needs. Brynden will fight, and he will bring us honour. I will go meet with the Master of the Games, to ensure that this change will be made." He hissed, turning to face Delmar, gesturing for him to rise. His voice softened slightly, his gaze travelling over your tired features; dulled skin and shadowed under-eyes. "And perhaps you should not attend the first events, your energy would be better spent resting and gathering some strength."

You did not need him to clarify why. You looked like shit. You could only offer a tight-lipped smile as he left, Delmar following suit with his clutch.

There was whispering in the corner of the tent, hushed and layered, voices arguing over each other.

"What are you whispering about?" You called out, slouching in your chair, feeling the wood dig uncomfortably into your back as you felt your whole body ache slightly. Either you needed to find more firewine, or never drink another drop of liquor for the rest of your life.

The whispering halted for a moment, the twins sharing glares at each other.

"He is saying that he cannot do it." Mervyn revealed, the words quickly tumbling out of his mouth, cursing when his twin punched him. "What? That is what you had said!"

"Well it does not matter anyways, I have to do it." Brynden mumbled, dragging his feet to sit beside you, frowning as he refused to meet your gaze. He was a man of ten and two, yet despite this, the pout on his face made him look even younger. Your heart tugged at the sight, pity striking you as he fidgeted in his seat. Mervyn quickly followed, shadowing his technically older brother (the difference was mere minutes, by Brynden would hold those minutes over his head for the rest of eternity).

"And Brightflame will beat you into the mud, so perhaps we should call the Maesters now." Mervyn taunted, seating himself on the table

"Do not call the Prince that." You scolded, scowling at the mention of the silver-haired Targaryen.

Mervyn rolled his eyes, muttering a response about how the aforementioned Targaryen bestowed that title upon himself.

"But it is true." Brynden complained, letting his head fall against the mahogany in an ungraceful thud. "He had mocked us yesterday, saying that he will be going fishing for trout during the first round."

You cringed at the poorly created threat, scowl deepening at Aerion's gall. How dare he threaten your brothers? First he taunted you, and now them also? You wish that you could beat the audacity out of him.

You could beat it out of him.

Mervyn watched how your features began to neutralise, brows furrowing as you seemed to be absorbed in a hidden conversation in your mind. You were thinking, certainly a dangerous thing.

"I will take your place." You suddenly stated, head snapping to look at Brynden, who only huffed at your relevation.

"She is still drunk." He mumbled to Mervyn, who began to laugh at your suggestion.

"How potent was the liquor Lord Baratheon was serving?" Mervyn questioned in a mocking tone, shooting you an amused glance.

"Potent enough to offer me enlightenment. It is brilliant."

"Brilliance or madness?"

"They are one and the same." You grinned at him, leaning forward, your tone almost conspiratorial. "And we all know that I am as skilled as Delmar, I will actually be able to win, unlike you."

"The man is ruthless, you will get injured."

"Fact." Mervyn interrupted, gaze flickering between his two siblings.

"Not as injured as you would have gotten." You deflected "And must I repeat that I can win?"

"Also a fact." Mervyn interjected once more, a slight downward smile on his face as he shrugged at a glaring Brynden. "She has a better chance than you, and Father would be furious if you lose."

"Are you seriously agreeing with her?" Brynden accused, jaw hanging as he glared at his twin. They were meant to have twin solidarity. Traitor.

"I believe that I have won." You grinned, watching as the squire slowly shut his mouth, his gaze flickering between you and his twin, trying to weigh the decision he would make. Consider the risks and potential issues. But it would be futile.

He would agree.

—

Cyvasse was a great game.

You had hated it initially when your older brother Malger would force you to play it, finding it boring and repetitive, each round ending in your loss. You had no idea how Malger was able to continuously win, as if the Fates had decided that he would be the ultimate Cyvasse champion. All your other siblings refused to play the board game with him, knowing what the outcome would be. But you were determined. You had to win at least one time before abandoning the game. You had studied books on the art of Cyvasse, learning about techniques and methodology foreign to you, even managing to convince your Septa to play with you when you should have been studying the Histories of Westeros.

After your fiftieth loss, he would finally reveal his secret.

There was no point being able to master the game if you were unable to dissect your opponent. Malger would disclose how it was not Cyvasse that you should be playing, but rather your opponent. To investigate their quirks and tells, see what would irritate them, make them impatient. And ultimately distracted. Because when your opponent was distracted, they were unable to think ahead. And this failure in planning their next moves would secure your victory.

You would later learn that this advice was not only applicable to Cyvasse, as Malger would win over his Lady Wife using these same methods. Your good sister was promised to another, but Malger dissected his character, learned his weaknesses and allowed his new opponent to expose his flaws to his betrothed. And she was not impressed, breaking their betrothal while Malger was able to win her over, already having planned this since he had met her. He would soon marry your good sister, the couple stupidly in love, and he would never confess that he had done this.

But regardless you knew, you recognised the very game techniques he had taught you. And you learnt that they were more valuable than you could ever expect.

You knew your opponent.

Aerion Targaryen, an arrogant and wicked man. Impatient and impulsive, all faults that you despised and yet that was exactly where your victory lay.

Aerion did not know that it was you beneath the visor. He did not know that the one upon the steed brandishing the tourney lance as if it were a lethal weapon was the woman he enjoyed to torment. He did not know that you had planned everything perfectly.

Your absence was easily explained, no one would be looking for you resting in your tent, for fear of disturbing you. Brynden was easily concealed amongst the congregation of smallfolk, his face blurring in with the masses. And Mervyn had easily distracted your father, ensuring he would be seated amongst the other nobles while you were steeling your nerves. All you had to do was don his armour, and everyone would be none the wiser.

Your heart rattled in its cage, a heavy anxiety pressing harshly against your lungs as you tried to steady your breathing, sweaty palms adjusting the grip you had on the lance. And despite this, you could not help the stupid grin on your face. No wonder men loved war — if this was simply a taste of the battlefield, you could find yourself becoming addicted to it. The thrill, the liveliness; blood rushing through your veins, your head clearer than it has ever been before.

You could only chase the feeling.

The horn blew, and you pressed your thighs firmly into the steed's sides, guiding the horse to charge. Hooves thundered against the dead grass of the listfield, and you gripped the tourney lance tightly, aiming it at your opponent's shield, the sigil of the tri-coloured Dragon glaring back at you — red, orange and gold. The only thing between you and Aerion was the wooden tilt barrier and space awaiting to be disturbed.

Your lance shattered, splintered through the center as he had deflected the blow with his own.

You scowled slightly — his lance did not break. He would be awarded points for being able to break yours. You returned to your side, gesturing for Mervyn to provide a new lance, biting your tongue so you would not speak. You could not speak, not now. You had to complete this and not be discovered.

Hands brushing against the steed's caparison, tracing over the Tully red and blue, following the embroidered leaping trouts, you took the lance from Mervyn's hand, guiding the horse to turn as you screwed your eyes shut. You could not hear anything. Just blood rushing and your racing heart.

You exhaled forcefully, and charged once more, gaze focused upon the dragonhead helm of your opponent, your lance aiming for his shield once more. At the last possible moment, you tilted the lance upwards, allowing it to crash against the protruding spikes. His own shattered against your shield.

You laughed sharply as the horse rounded the turn once more, the sound harsh and brittle, fueled by adrenaline while hearing Aerion bark out a curse behind you. You were ahead now; breaking a lance against your opponents helm was viewed more highly than anything he had done so far. You simply had to unhorse him now. Finish this before it could continue any further.

"Fucking Tully." You could hear him growl behind you, grabbing the replacement lance as you tried to silence your giggling, your shoulders trembling as you bit your lip, tasting copper as you struggled to suppress your giddiness. You already knew what the crowds were thinking, hearing chants of Tully.

He was losing to a squire. The Bright Prince, son of the Anvil, was losing to a mere squire — a boy who had never even participated in a joust, much less win one. The Dragon was losing to a Trout.

The truth however, was far more cruel and delectable.

He was losing to a Lady.

He was losing to you.

You could not suppress your grin, wild and unbridled, veiled by your helm, only your eyes shimmering through the gaps. There was a strange elation that flooded through you; the power of being able to see without being seen. To assume the identity of another and having the knowledge of your success, despite it being attributed to another. You were unlike the other knights, all fighting for honour and recognition. No, you were fighting to settle your heart. To finally quell the loathing that burned your mind.

To truly win against Aerion — receive the revenge that you had been yearning for.

And he would never know.

He would simply believe that he had lost to your younger brother, and perhaps that would be humiliation enough to deter him from ever interacting with you again. He would truly learn how brave a Tully of Riverrun could be. A pity that he would not know the truth, but it was for the best.

You would just have to be satisfied with besting him, despite no one else knowing.

Your chest heaved unheadily, greedily gasping in air as you readied yourself once more, your gaze skirting over the numerous faces of the smallfolk. Until you finally saw him. Brynden, his face mostly masked by the shadow of his hood, head low but he was watching you. You nodded twice at him, the movement quick as it was quickly disguised by the movement of the horse. But he had seen it and had understood the underlying message. You were to finish it, and Brynden would have to retreat to the tent and change into his twins armour so that he would be waiting for when his congratulations were to come.

Your attention returned to your opponent, violet glaring at you as you charged once more. You aimed your lance towards his shield, planning on shifting it at the last second like you had before.

But there was something strange.

His lance was aimed too low.

Too low to hit you, too low for a rightful victory. He was aiming for the neck of your horse. You snarled beneath your helm, fury biting its unyielding jaws into your psyche. Cruel, monstrous Aerion. How more ignoble could he be?

Was he so insulted by his own inadequacy that he intended to kill the horse? To perhaps injure your darling brother for life? He truly was pathetic.

The joy you had momentarily indulged in was torn away from you, dulled by an inexplicable sadness before being replaced by the ugly poltergeist of your loathing. He was no longer just a participant of the joust, no longer just an opponent — he evolved into something far more unforgettable. He was now a combatant, a hostile foe that you had to deal with.

The sound of hooves firmly planted against dry dirt filled your ears, exhaling sharply as you neared him once more, allowing him to believe that he was truly going to succeed. And perhaps if you were a knight, a lesser individual, he would have. But you kept your lance aimed towards his shield, shifting yourself upon the horse so that you were closer to the tilt barrier despite being slightly unstable, before striking it against his lance before it could touch the soft flesh of the horses neck. The wood splintered immediately upon impact, , and with the remaining lance you firmly gripped, you forcefully pushed at his chest plate.

The impact was unexpected, the edge of the exposed wood scraping against the panelled black steel of his armour, your full body weight pushing against it. He was unseated, his foot tangled amongst the saddling of the horse as it dragged him along the floor, his armour tearing at the dead grass beneath him as he struggled violently, his body writhing as he tried to release himself.

Despite the sight, you did not even smile. The glimmer in your eyes dying, just glaring at the pathetic Prince as a squire ran onto the arena, trying to calm the horse. You prayed the horse would kick its hind legs, let the Dragon suffer blows from both a horse and a Tully. But the gods were cruel, and your prayer went unanswered.

Instead the Dragon snarled at the squire to leave, struggling to his feet as he roared for his morningstar. Dark violet glinted at you beneath the visor of his helm, glaring as he watched you as you dismounted slowly, brushing a soft hand against your horse's neck as you steadied your breathing.

"Get me a trident." You whispered to Mervyn, his panicked eyes frantically flickering over you, his breathing shallow as he guided the horse away.

"This was not meant to happen." He hissed back once he returned, hands gripping the weapon you had requested. You did not bother giving him a response, just turning to face the Targaryen once more.

The cool metal seared against your sweaty palms, your mind racing as you weighed the possibilities. If you lost, all would be exposed — he would remove your helm and force you to yield. You would be punished for your deception, for attacking a Prince of the Blood while disguised. They would claim you had malintentions, that you were acting treasonously, And they would conclude that you were not acting alone, that your kin would have known of your plans, and that they would have aided. Not entirely false, but the truth would be manipulated into a grievous farce.

You could not afford to lose.

You would not lose.

You did not even flinch as the Master of the Games announced that the fight was to continue, now a contest of arms. Instead you steadied yourself, steeling your heart as you advanced towards Aerion, rolling your head slightly, the bones crackling under the motion.

He appeared larger now, the height no longer equalised by being seated upon horses. More menacing too, the dragon helm snarling at you as he prowled towards you, the spikes of his morningstar dragging across the ground, scraping at the dirt.

You whispered a prayer, a silent plea to any god that would listen, your heart clattering unsteadily as you gripped the trident with your dominant hand, twirling it to familiarise yourself with the weight.

Truth be told, you were more comfortable with a sword, the trident being Malger's preferred weapon.

The trident was not truly a weapon utilised in war — it posed too many risks. It was too specialised, its effectiveness relying upon the skill of its wielder. You would have to be fast; swift and agile while you tried to strike.

Your eldest brother would say that it was easier to defend with a trident, especially against weapons that you were not used to fighting with. You had never fought against a morningstar, the club-like weapon foreign to you. Your gaze remained stuck on its spikes, watching as Aerion swung it up, ready to strike you with it.

You gripped your shield tightly, raising it to meet Aerion's attack, the wood splintering slightly under the spikes, the weight of the shield trembling against your forearms. A grunt escaped you at the sudden impact, stumbling back as you tried to create distance as he swung once more, unrelenting in his attack.

You panted out harshly, eyes wild as you tried to look for a flaw amongst his defense, searching for somewhere to strike. Muscles straining, arms weak as you struggled to deflect him blows. You could hear a sharp laugh, the bitter sound mocking you as the situation dawned on you.

You were going to lose if you did nothing. You were going to lose because you were truly not thinking. Because you had forgotten who your opponent was.

He was not some fierce contender — he was simply a cruel, pathetic boy. The realisation repeated itself over and over in your head as you continued to raise your shield in defense, the mantra reminding you of what you had to do.

You had to beat the shit out of him.

Aerion continued to laugh, the sound choked through gasps of air as he raised the morningstar once more, intending to break your shield.

And you struck the trident at his wrist, the spears unceremoniously crashing against his gauntlets, his grip wavering, the weapon crumbling out of his hands as he hissed out a curse at the blooming pain. His arm had moved awkwardly, his shoulder snapping back under the sudden impact.

You did not allow him to recover, ensuring that he would remain distracted by the pain. You could not afford him gaining the opportunity to gather himself. Using your shield to roughly shoulder against him, the metal of his armour grinded against the splintered wood, pushing him away from his abandoned weapon.

He stumbled backwards, both hands gripping at his shield as he deflected at the jabs of your trident. You struck at his head, his chest, his arms, truly any part of him that entered your vision.

You twirled your weapon before swinging the hilt of your trident against his legs, his knees trembling at the blow. Yet he remained standing, trying to use his own shield to hit you as he retreated. The tri-prongs piercing against the wood of his shield, scratching at the painted dragon, defacing the gold.

Sweat trickled down your neck, catching onto the neckline of the linen tunic you wore beneath the armour. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but you ignored it, simply advancing your attack. You could not become distracted. You had to focus, think ahead.

Your head spun, dizzy with adrenaline and rushing blood as you dug your heels into the dirt, feigning left before dodging the way he tried to hit you with the edge of his shield. He stumbled slightly, expecting resistance only to find himself striking at emptiness. And you took this opportunity to pirouette, appearing behind him, trident and shield still in hand as you planted your foot firmly against the middle of his back, kicking strongly while he was still distracted.

Knees trembling, he fell face forward, helm crashing against the floor with a heavy thud, the impact disorienting him. You stabbed your trident at his arm, the prongs piercing into the dirt, barracading his arm between the space of the spikes. You knelt above him, one knee digging into his injured shoulder, smiling as he cried out in pain — the other knee remained planted against the floor, armour rattling as you adjusted your position, effectively trapping him. You discarded your shield; you had no more use for it.

He was unable to move, struggling against you as you grabbed at the spikes of his dragon helm, dragging it back, his neck snapping at the movement.

You did not utter a word, instead just lifted his visor so his face was exposed to the crowd of nobles. You could not see his face, could not see who he was looking at. But you could see them through the obstructed vision of your helm. Were his eyes even open? Could he see that they were all watching in awe as Brightflame was bested by a green squire?

You did not have to demand for him to yield, the words escaped his lips soon, a pathetic whimper as he realised that there was truly no escape.

"I yield."

You released a sigh at the declaration, knees weak as you rose clumsily, hand grasping at the trident that still held his arm hostage, wrenching it out of the ground.

Your heart had finally calmed.

A squire rushed onto the tiltyard, aiding the Prince as you retreated, relishing in the victory that vibrated through every fiber of your being. Your legs felt numb as they guided you swiftly through the tents, finally appearing before Brynden's.

"What took you so long?" He hissed out, watching as you collapsed onto a chair, filling a cup with cool water that you greedily drank. Poor Brynden was dressed in armour identical to yours, his twin's armour that did not witness a moment of fighting. He was practically vibrating with nerves, his heart thudding unsteadily as he feared being uncovered. You had discussed this before the joust; no matter what, he had to wear Mervyn's armour in case anyone else reached the tent before you. You would simply have to hide if that were the case, conceal the armour and retreat to the refuge of your own tent.

"You won." You grinned out, tone teasing, ripping the helm of your head as Mervyn rushed in, his head swivelling, darting between the entrance of the tent, and you, his darling sister that had bested the Dragon.

Mervyn began rattling on about everything that had occurred, his hands busy with untying you from the bindings of the armour he had secured before the joust as he spoke of how your victories, plural. Brynden copied his movements, removing your greave, and then the cuisse, and then moving onto the next leg to do the same. They had to be quick, it would only be a matter of time before your father and Delmar would be storming through the tent, sickened with joy as they would congratulate Brynden for his supposed victory.

All the armour was removed, revealing Mervyn's clothes that you had worn underneath, the linens baggy upon your figure. You grabbed at the cloak Brynden had worn amongst the smallfolk, the heavy fabric swallowing you whole, concealing your face as you snuck out of the tent.

The cool air nipped at your exposed face, shivering as you felt sweat trickle down your neck, the strands that had escaped your tight hairstyle slick against the moisture.

You would return to your tent, giddy at the silence as you removed your clothes, replacing them with a light cotton gown, feeling your body cool, the heat that coursed through your body subsiding as the truth finally settled in.

You had won.

And no one knew.

—

All anyone could talk about was Brynden's victory.

You would later learn that once the commotion of his victory subsided, he was dragged back out onto the tiltyard by your father. By this point, he was no longer wearing armour, he had managed to remove it before Medgar had entered the tent, being found holding the helm that had concealed your face.

The Lord of Riverrun clasped the shoulders of his young son, chortling with pride as he praised him for winning his first joust, against a Prince no less. Delmar beamed at his brother, unable to speak as he watched him with shock.

They would never know the truth, a mercy you forced the twins to oblige by.

Your father would guide Brynden back to the tiltyard as he was summoned by another Targaryen. The Hammer. And so Brynden would have knighthood bestowed upon him by the Heir Apparent, smiling sheepishly as guilt gnawed at his psyche.

He did not deserve the title, he would argue later with you. You would hiss at him, demand that he would be grateful for such an honour as the unsaid truth hung between you.

That should have been your knighthood.

But you would have never been able to receive it. The Realm would never be able to accept that a Lady could be as skilled as a man, that she could be as honourable as a man. Despite the fact that history sung stories of how time and time again women could also be skilled warriors, evidenced by Visenya the Conqueror (although that was a title seemingly reserved for her male counterpart), they would deny this fact. They would claim that the nature of women would never allow them to be worthy of the title of Knights.

It was why no woman sat upon the Iron Throne, despite there having been many opportunities — their claims were always refused in favour of a male's, despite it being weaker.

So now you sat in the main hall of Highgarden, sipping at the sickly saccharine Arbor gold offered, smiling as your father regaled about the way he had trained his children, trying to ignore a bruised Aerion that glared at you.

"From the moment they could walk." He emphasised, tongue loosened as he gushed to the men around him. Lord Tyrell had invited your family to dine with the royals, claiming that the new knighthood was cause to celebrate. "I would train them with wooden swords. Each of my children…"

His voice seemed to drone on, the two senior Targaryens nodding along, although you could tell that Prince Maekar had checked out of the conversation long ago, his eyes distant as he chewed on the roasted venison.

"You must be proud, My Lady." Valarr whispered lowly to you, seated right beside you as he cut through the red meat on his plate with ease. Your head instinctively tilted towards him, drawing closer so that you could hear him more clearly. "Your brother has brought your House honour."

Your smile widened slightly, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you responded. He did not even know the truth; no one did. It triggered a certain glee within you, to be able to get away with such a large lie.

"He truly has." You replied, your voice matching his, hushed as if it were a secret. "And I am certain that if you spoke to my Lord Father, he will tell you exactly how his victory came to be."

Your gaze flickered over to a flushing Brynden, who was being needled by the youngest of Maekar's children, Rhae and Aegon. They were investigating him, pestering him as they shot rapid questions about his supposed performance, how he had been trained, how he had managed to win against Aerion.

Your attention dragged to the other side of you, trying to involve yourself with the conversation Aster was having with Daella, but your replies were sparse, hesitant as your heart skipped as you became aware of being observed.

The eldest of the royal children, Daeron, was silent beside Aerion the entire time, his gaze fixed on you as if he were seeing something no one else could. And Aerion seemed to mirror his older brother, watching you unwaveringly, his glower mirroring the one upon his father's face. Except he was seething, fury flaring at the sight of you whispering with his cousin, sharing secrets and smiles.

Daeron interrupted his sister, who had been talking about Aster's exquisite embroidery, voice loud as he drew your attention back to him.

"A victory like that must truly feel like your own then, My Lady." Daeron commented, tone lazy, almost mocking. Despite that, there was something heavier unsaid, an insinuation that he should not have known the value of. You furrowed your brows slightly, forcing yourself to continue to smile as your mind raced, trying to think of an appropriate response. But he interrupted you before you could even say a word. "You must have been so excited witnessing such a scene."

"Unfortunately my daughter was ill." Medgar intervened, gaze hardening as he observed the three Princes that seemed to prowl around you. He was not blind, he could see how they were looking at you. How Daeron's words carried a strange tone, how Valarr whispered to you. The worst was how Aerion refused to look away from you, his gaze laying a claim on you, unwilling to speak. "But she will be able to witness the excitements of the next. Will you be joining the lists, My Prince?"

Daeron did not respond, scowling at how you were able to escape, sipping the wine. His father responded for him. Daeron was to fight. And there was no arguing against it.

But the Drunken continued to watch you, an unsettling feeling prickling along your skin as you refused to look at the sons of Maekar. The only truly normal one was Aegon, who was busy twittering to your brothers. No wonder the young Prince did not sit amongst his own, insisting to sit with yours instead. He was probably accustomed to their strangeness.

You sat up straight, your fork piercing into a boiled potato, watching as the prongs sank into the carbohydrate.

"Are you also a skilled fighter, My Prince?" You questioned, your gaze returning to challenge Daeron's. You forced your gaze not to waver, ensuring it to remain on the golden-haired Prince and not waver to his brother, who you could see was glaring at you from your peripheral. You smirked slightly, unable to look at Aerion as the sight of the purple bruise that bloomed against his high cheekbone elicited a surge of delight through you. Your own bruises had begun to deepen, littered across the body, mainly concentrated at your forearms when the vambrance had supported your shield to block his blows. You had favoured tight full-armed sleeves, ensuring that they would not be exposed. Aerion did not have the same privilege of hiding his bruises.

"Not as skilled as Aerion." He responded succinctly, offering you a tight-lipped smile as he gestured for his goblet to be refilled once more. This was his third goblet since you had seen him, the plate of food laying untouched as he indulged in the drink provided instead.

Not as skilled as you.

You hummed softly, offering your own smile in response as you bit into the potato you had speared. What excellent boiled potatoes, the flavour sweetened by your own joy. You would not allow these Targaryens to dim your glee, you would ignore their strange words and strange glances.

Valarr drew your attention once more, talking to you about the other jousts that had occurred, of a Lannister that challenged a Stark, and so on.

"I too will joust in the eve." He revealed, his fork sinking into a slice of venison. He hesitated for a moment, gaze flickering to yours, hopeful, almost reverent. "I hope that you will attend. If you no longer feel ill, of course."

"I do not." You replied, voice soft as the Prince nodded gently, your response encouraging him.

"Then…" He began, his throat suddenly dry as he met your unwavering gaze once more, flashing a shy smile as he continued. "Then would you allow me the honour of wearing your favour?"

Your smile dropped slightly, mind stalling as you did not expect those words to leave the silver-streaked Prince.

What in the Seven Hells?

You were unsure of what you had truly expected for him to say, but it had been anything but that. Perhaps you were more dull than you had believed. Your brows furrowed slightly, trying to think of a response (truly any response would do, anything to interrupt the sudden silence that fell on the table), gaze flickering between amber and lilac, trying to search for any hint of jest.

You found none.

"I would be honoured." You managed out, the words stumbling slightly, feeling blinded by the brilliance of his grin as he sighed softly, the fear of rejection finally evading him. Perhaps he is simply asking to be nice? Or as a friend?

But you were not that dimwitted to truly believe that that was the case. Favours were usually bestowed upon the victors of the competitions (something you had regretted not doing, but truly you had no time). You knew why men would ask for the favours of ladies before the joust.

It was an offer of courtship.

And you had accepted.

—

The silence of your tent threatened to consume you.

The only sound was your shallow breathing as you paced across the expanse of your tent, the base of your palms pressed firmly into the sockets of your eyes, small stars dancing along the darkness that obscured your vision.

Fuck.

You were meant to avoid the Targaryens, not court one. How in the Seven Hells did this even occur? What had you done to provide the illusion of even wanting to be courted?

You tried to calm your breathing, steady the sharp gasps that expelled out of your lungs — it was not the worst thing to occur to a person. Being sought after was a compliment, and by a Prince no less.

But you did not want this.

You were greedy and selfish and cruel, and what you wanted was something that you could never have. Something Valarr could never give you. You wanted more.

Perhaps you would have accepted it more willingly if you had never participated in the tourney, if you had never tasted the thrill of victory. But you had, and now the offer of courtship tasted bitter upon your tongue, an unrelenting reminder that you were just a Lady.

People would simply believe that you had one victory, that you had won over the Targaryen Prince with your pleasing smiles and shy words. But this was a victory that held no value to you. Not when you had truly bested a Prince that day, felt him submit beneath you, won on a field forbidden to you.

So you schemed. You could make this situation positive, you simply had to think ahead.

Princes courted ladies often, yet not all courtships ended in betrothals. You would simply have to ensure that neither would this one. You did not know what Valarr had liked about you, every time you had spoken to him, you had lied to the Prince. But you knew that once he saw you for what you truly was his adoration would vanish, disillusioned to all your flaws.

You could still win. No one cared over a failed courtship, rather this would simply increase the amount of betrothals you would receive, in turn allowing you to choose who you would wed. Your Lord Father would be disappointed when the courtship would fail, but perhaps he will be happy if you wed soon after.

Despite trying to dissect the situation for its advantages, your heart remained heavy, the joy you had been experiencing extinguished as you came to the realisation that this was the only was you could make your father proud. Your brothers brought him honour on the battlefield, sword in hand, while you could only bring him honour by wedding well, spilling blood in childbirth.

Was this your next battle? To convince yourself that you could be satisfied with the prospect of marriage?

And that was how Aerion found you, half agony, half hope, pacing in your tent.

He remained silent, prowling through the entrance, steps light as he remained unnoticed.

You did not notice the sudden gust of cold air, did not notice the heavy gaze that followed you, did not notice the presence of another.

Until you shivered. Your spine steeling as you halted, listening to the whispering of the wind that whipped against the side of your tent, the fabric rustling as you sighed out a curse, fingers brushing against your skirts. You smoothed the silks once, twice, a self-soothing act as you finally turned.

You gasped lightly, a sharp inhale of cold air burning your lungs as you grasped at your heart, feeling it jolt in its cage while you suppressed the urge to flinch, finally noticing the Bright Prince.

"Prince Aerion." You stumbled out, your gaze flickering to the entrance of the tent, wishing that he had simply entered the wrong tent. He had not. You finally allowed yourself to look at his face, to memorise the sharp lines, the bruises that marred his unblemished skin. He looked tired, like his mind was haunted by the events of the joust, continuously turning them over and over in his head.

He shuddered at the sound of his name, but did not respond to it. He did not return your greeting either, slowly advancing towards you. Sandolwood and ash, the familiar scent swirling around you as he crept closer.

"Ruined Rabble." Aerion suddenly stated, violet eyes baring into your soul as he gauged your reaction

"Pardon?" You questioned, despite having heard his words as clear as day. You swallowed harshly, forcing your breathing to slow, forcing yourself to show no sign of weakness. The last time you had interacted with Valarr, it had displeased the silver-haired prince greatly, resulting in impulsive strikes and stolen kisses.

What would he do now that you had not obeyed him? That you had not denied Valarr, but rather accepted his courtship?

Aerion continued swiftly, inching closer, his fingers twisting your garnet ring that laid upon his pinky finger. "That is the move you enjoy performing in cyvasse, is it not? A signature of sorts?"

"I suppose…" Your voice betraying a sense of nervousness as you backed away from the Prince, suddenly feeling trapped in your tent.

"I had questioned my uncle on the move, see he enjoys playing cyvasse, you must play with him one time."

"If that is what the Hand wishes"

He ignored your words. "He explained it very well. The art of laying a trap. Of decoys and deflections, setting bait."

You could not respond, your mind reeling as he closed the distance between you. You could not escape. There was no escape.

"The issue is, My Lady." The title laced with derision, leaning in as he grabbed your jaw. "You cannot trap a dragon."

"I am afraid I do not understand your meaning." You felt your jaw tremble slightly as you spoke, your words weak as it failed to carry the weight of your lie.

"Do not act dimwitted, My Lady Rivers, I enjoy your cleverness. It was you who I fought, not your brother." His words were casually cruel, hiding his adoration as he continued to interrogate you.

Your forced a laugh. "Surely you jest, My Prince. How could it have been me?"

He watched you quietly, unsure of how to answer, before pulling up your sleeve, revealing the early stages of a bruise, the skin darkening. "Explain your injury."

"I am terribly clumsy, My Prince. I had fallen." You lied, ripping your arm out of his grasp.

"A simple fall caused this great of an injury?"

"A bruise is not a great injury." You replied, forcing your features to remain neutral. You had to think, you had to escape. "Unless this farce is regarding the injury to your pride."

"My pride?" He hissed out, eyes narrowing, his breath hitting against your face as you forced yourself to glare back.

"Is that not what this is about? I did not deny your cousin, and I do not intend to do so either." You murmured, voice low and cutting as your blood rushed once more, your mind clearing as adrenaline guided you. "Is that why you accuse me of performing such deception?"

"You witch." He growled out, his hand snapping out to grasp at your forearm, his fingers digging into the bruises hidden by your sleeves. A soft pained moan escaped your lips as you struggled to conceal your wince. "This is deceit, your wicked tongue lying so easily? You truly believe that he is worthy of you?"

You glared at him, your irises darkening with detest and an emotion you were horrified by, chest heaving as you allowed your free hand to cradle his jaw. His eyes immediately screwed shut, his cheek pressing into your hand as if he were committing the touch to his memory.

"What does it matter?" You whispered, thumb caressing his silken skin, before pressing it firmly into the bruise upon his face. He flinched, sharply inhaling, yet he did not move.

"He does not see you." Aerion replied, his hands travelling to your waist, trembling fingers brushing against the silk, movements reverent as if worshipping at an altar. "He only views the beauty and grace, only what you allow him to see. But I see you. I know you better than you know yourself. Your soul is mine, and mine is yours. Do not delude yourself into believing that you could ever be his."

You frowned slightly, brows furrowing as you took him in. He was weaker than you had expected. You had to give him credit, you did not expect him to deduce that it was truly you at the joust, but he abandoned his accusation so quickly once you insulted his ego.

"You have known me less than sennight, you do not know me." You responded, tone disappointed as you withdrew your hand, prepared to retreat, to abandon him to remain with confessions that would linger unanswered.

His hand quickly covered yours, fingers curling around yours, the gold of your ring searing into your hand as he pressed it firmly to his face, ensuring it would not leave. He pressed a kiss to the palm, fingers brushing against where your pulse raced, the quick pace soothing him.

"I know that you are more like me than you would ever admit." He whispered, pulling you closer, the grip on your waist tightening infinitesimally. Your chest brushed against his, chaimail dragging across silk, the space between you disturbed. "And that you are my better."

The words hung in the small space between you, your gaze flickering between his darkened violet irises, trying to discern whether he was lying, whether he was trying to manipulate you. You did not find what you were looking for. Instead you found something that terrified you.

Complete, utter devotion. A gentleness that was uncharacteristic to the cruel prince (perhaps you had struck him too hard within the combat of arms, scrambling his wits, you tried to justify).

"And if I deny you?" You questioned, the words hesitant as you became aware of his touch, how close he was to you, sharing the air between your faces.

His lips curled slightly, stuck between amusement and fear, a wounded look flashing through his eyes, fingers flexing against the warmth of your waist as his head dipped low, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. Chamomile and lavender. The familiar scent soothing him.

"Then I would simply have to follow you until you deemed me worthy." He finally answered, the words hesitant, unsure, as if he feared that you would push him away, reject his request.

Your thumb brushed against the softness of his lips, tracing over the healed skin, his breath stuttering at the gentle action. Your eyes were glimmering.

Guiding his head, you captured his lips, revelling in the hungry growl that escaped him as he gripped at you. You swallowed his muted whimpers, nipping at the softness of his lips as he sounded as if you soothed a pain that hauntedhim.

His lips continued to chase yours as you departed, gasping for air as they travelled along your neck, determined to place bruises not gained through combat. Your fingers tugged at the soft silver strands at his nape, grinning stupidly as he kissed you.

During Valarr's joust, Aerion would grin upon the stands, stealing glances at where you were seated. Aegon would be disturbed by his brother's happiness, unsure of what the root of such strange behaviour was.

But Daeron knew. He had dreamt it. He had seen you in his dreams defeating a golden dragon, had seen you with the sigil of fire smeared with blood upon your forehead, your lip and palm cut open with dragonglass.

But he allowed his brother to indulge in his happiness, glee at his victory.

But Aerion was wrong, as he often was.

You did trap a dragon.

♤♡◇♧

Taglist:

You were unsure of when you had begun to spiral — was it when you had allowed yourself to become blinded by Aerion's pretty words? Kissed him willingly although you had cursed him when he had done so previously? Had almost feared it?

Or was it earlier than that, when you accepted Valarr's request for a favour? Accepted his silent offer of courtship?

You needed to think, to figure out some sort of solution, to escape.

But you could not.

You could not think, not when Valarr was before you on the tiltfield, your azure silk ribbon tied around his armoured bicep, shimmering against the onyx of his armour in the soft light emitting from scattered lanterns. Not when his gaze would dart to you each time he had broken a lance, bi-coloured irises searching your features, looking for any hint of approval or praise. You were just thankful you could not see his face, his grins shielded by the visor.

But maybe, just maybe, you would have been able to ignore Valarr, to have directed your attention elsewhere. To distract your mind with some other meaningless thoughts.

But you could not, because certainly the gods were cruel, and all you could feel was the crushing weight of Aerion's gaze, boring into the base of your skull, petrifying you in your place. Each time you messed with the rings upon your hand, each time you shifted uneasily within your seat, each and every movement you attempted were all witnessed by Aerion.

He did not care that his cousin was jousting, that he was currently winning. Any other time, it would have infuriated him, irritated by the cheers that seemed to follow Valarr no matter what he did. But Aerion, for the first time in his life, truly did not care.

Not when he was the true victor.

You tried whispering to your father, requesting to be dismissed under the guise of your headache returning, but he simply took one look at you and refused.

"You did not watch your brother's first joust, you must at least see his second." Medgar implored, his voice hushed as his gaze drifted back to the tiltyard, watching the silver-streaked Prince upon his royal steed. You could not even force a smile, forcing yourself to settle back into your seat — your father did not even know the truth.

Valarr would win, and you would join the crowd in applauding him, except you would avoid his gaze as he rode past. He slowed as he passed you, given you ample opportunity to look at him, direct one of your gentle smiles at him, give him any ounce of attention.

But you did not.

He could only frown as he continued, heart dropping as he could not even enjoy the sweetness of his victory. How could he when you seemed unimpressed? Indifferent to whether he won or lost, even when your favour was bestowed upon him, the fabric delicately coiled around his rerebrance.

Perhaps you were still ill, he consoled himself, his gaze darting behind him once last time, a desperate attempt to see if you spared one glance. You had not.

You truly did feel ill, your mind aching, your temporal pulse drumming an unsteady beat that throbbed through the skin, piercing your skull. Perhaps you just required rest. Maybe then your mind would finally quieten, maybe then you would finally be able to act accordingly.

Yes, you simply needed to sleep.

Maybe sleep would give you the courage to dissuade Valarr, gently reject him and guide him elsewhere. Any affection he held for you would simply be novel to him, and perhaps due to its newfound nature, it would be fragile. Easily broken.

But Aerion would be more difficult.

He was stubborn, claiming his words as being more sacred than fact, renaming them prophecy. But perhaps he was more like Valarr than he would care to admit, perhaps his affections were simply an impulsive whim, something to entertain him. Perhaps distance would rectify this, allow him to become bored of you.

You knew Aerion's nature, it was impossible to not know of his personality and volatility.

He was a storm, ravaging through every room he entered, leaving others to deal with the chaos left in his wake.

He was a liar, and a manipulator, and a deceiver, you reminded yourself.

And he had deceived you with his trembling hands, soft confessions and reverent eyes.

He had looked through you, violet gaze piercing through your soul, and knew exactly what you yearned for. So that is what he told you. Those words were not from his heart, he did not truly believe them — he simply knew that that was what you desired. He was a liar, and a liar, and a liar. Every word was a lie. Lie. Lie. Lie.

The mantra continued in your mind, the words pirouetting, twirling and twirling, trying to sear itself into your mind so that you could not forget.

You could not forget.

You had forgotten once, and that lapse in judgement resulted in weakness. You could not be weak.

And so you kept reciting the words over and over, mind distracted even while your brother, the newly knighted Ser Brynden Tully began his (technically first) joust. You did not even flinch when your brother was unhorsed. Instead the selfish part of you was secretly happy, rising while Brynden struggled to get off the floor, his face planted into the dead grass. Your father allowed you to flee, to escape under the guise of being concerned for your younger brother. And Aerion watched.

You bunched your skirts into your fists, rising them to allow you to sprint down the stairs of the stands, feeling the firm oak beneath you through the soft velvet of your slippers. And you kept your pace, continuing to run, passing the Targaryen tent, ignoring Valarr who called out to you, until you finally reached the Tully tent.

You pushed past the draping navy fabric, forcing yourself into the refuge of the tent, finally being able to breathe. No Targaryens could watch you here.

Brynden was in the centre, body slouched on a wooden chair as he tilted his head back, trying to stop the blood that was steadily trickling from his nose. His twin, Mervyn, was nowhere to be found, while your other brother, Delmar, was busy fussing over him, pressing silk handkerchiefs into his face, the fibres becoming ruined by the crimson.

"Do not do that." You scolded, forcing his head into its normal position. "You will choke on your own blood."

"That sounds false." Brynden mumbled out, his voice muffled by the silks Delmar had pushed onto his face. Yet despite his slight protest, he allowed you to move his head. His eyes were stinging, blurred by tears that he had tried to suppress. It hurt so much. He grabbed at your hand, squeezing it in a silent apology. He cannot believe that he had allowed you to fight for him.

What coward allows his sister to fight his battles?

Although he almost wanted to laugh — you had won, and against a far fiercer competitor than his own. Perhaps he was a coward, but you were certainly the better fighter.

"I do not know how you did it." He murmured, his voice laced with pain as winced at the scowl he attempted. He could not even frown, even that was too painful.

You did not respond, just gently pushing his hair that had begun to stick to the sweat of his forehead, slick to the skin.

Delmar replied with gentle reassurances, falsely believing his little brother was talking to him. But of course he would believe that, he had no idea about what had truly occurred the day of Brynden's alleged first joust. He did not know that it was you upon that steed clad in armour. He did not know that Brynden's knighthood was founded upon falsity.

And he would never know.

Mervyn rushed into the tent, a Maester in tow, guiding him to the young Tully. The Maester looked over Brynden, ensuring that he had sustained no hidden injuries, before finally redirecting his attention to the young knight's face, prodding at the tender skin. Brynden flinched, hissing sharply at the triggered pain.

"A superficial wound, Ser." The old man tutted, replacing the blood soaked silks with unblemished linens. He was unimpressed by Brynden, the very knight who had been the talk of the tourney yesterday was reduced to tears over a swollen nose. The bone had not even broken. "The bleeding will cease soon, and you can have some milk of the poppy for the pain."

You thanked him, watching as he placed a small vial onto the table, a soft click emitting from the gentle impact, glass clattering against oak. And the Maester retreated as quickly as he had appeared, his robes trailing behind him.

You rolled your eyes as Brynden greedily drank the medicinal liquid, letting it rush through his body, providing a relief liquor never could. You left before you could hear him complain, before he could moan about how his injuries ached and how he wishes to never joust ever again. But that was no longer in his control. He was a knight now — a knight of House Tully, a knight of Riverrun, and he would have to obey the words of his House.

The hems of your skirt ghosted the dead grass and disturbed dirt, becoming an unsightly brown that you were sure mirrored the underneath of your velvet slippers. But you could hardly care.

Not when the silver-streaked Prince seemed to be insistent on seeking you out.

"My Lady." Valarr breathed out, eyes widening slightly as your sudden appearance shocked him. He was hovering around the entrance of the Tully tent, clearly trying to gather the courage to enter, to seek the opportunity to speak to you. He just did not expect that the opportunity would present itself so quickly, on a silver platter with a neat bow.

You greeted him lowly, bowing your head as you avoided his gaze, trying to find a way to round the Targaryen before you. But dragons rarely released their prey once grasping it.

"I hope your brother is not too injured." He commented, voice formal and hesitant, his fingers ghosting the ribbon tied around his bicep as he found himself unable to talk about what he initially intended. You, your acceptance, how you would proceed. But it was becoming increasingly difficult with how you seemed to be insistent on abandoning him.

"Thank you, My Prince." You replied, distant as your gaze skirted around taking in your surroundings; wandering knights, flickering lanterns and the void of the night you wished you could be swallowed by.

"I would like to call upon you tomorrow," Valarr continued, his gaze following yours, unable to truly look you in the eye. If he could, he would have noticed your distance, how you were not truly a part of the conversation, your mind wandering elsewhere. If he could, he would have noticed your reluctance and seen your answers for what they truly were. Mere diplomacy. He quickly added on another formality, not wishing to seem forceful. "If you will permit it."

"Of course, My Prince." You responded, repeating the title as if it were a boundary, as if it could draw more distance between the two of you. Valarr did not notice.

He simply smiled, a grin stretching across his lips as he sighed, relieved. His cheeks tinted a sweet rouge, matching the tip of his nose that had reddened from the nipping cold. His fingers twitched at his side, an unwanted thought forcing itself onto the forefront of his mind. But he yielded to the urge, ignoring the logical part of his mind that whispered reminders of decorum.

He took your hands with a gentleness that almost made you flinch, cradling them as if they were fragile pottery, his steady warmth seeping into your skin. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, lips barely brushing the skin, feather-light.

"Thank you, Lady Tully." He whispered, his grip loosening as he bid you farewell, stealing one last lingering glance as he departed from you.

Motherfucker.

You exhaled deeply, trying to calm your trembling heart, flexing your hands as his heat seemed to linger, settling into your bones. You should not curse him, that is cruel, but you could not help it. He was making your heart waver, to consider your decision once more, but you could not. You had to remain firm in your resolve.

Even if you held any affection for Valarr in your heart (and unfortunately you did, the Prince was far too good-natured not to admire), you had to ignore it. Dig it deep within your ribs and allow it to die, to calcify and remain forgotten. It would only cause issues for you, and you did not want to deal with issues.

The greatest of which was following you as you tried to retreat to the safety of your personal tent, always watching.

And you knew that he was following you. Aerion's attention was now a familiar entity to you, unwavering as it tore you apart, dissecting all your components, trying to read your mind. Unfortunately, he tended to be successful, becoming skilfully literate in all your reactions and movements. Reading your mind was a simple feat to him.

"My cousin lingers." Aerion stated, letting the entrance of the tent ripple close behind him, not bothering to greet you. You had surpassed formalities by now.

You stilled at the sound of his voice, not turning as you could hear him approach you. His hands travelled, gently touching the small of your back, fingers travelling up your spine before getting lost within your hair. He did not tug, did not pull, just simply grasped at your hair, feeling the tresses curl around his fingers.

He continued after a beat, unwilling to allow silence be your only answer. "And you do not push away."

"I cannot." You replied, a simple statement, all truth and cruelty. He scowled at your response, letting his head fall upon your shoulder, arms pulling you closer. He wished you would choose him — openly, proudly, to reject Valarr and drive him away.

But you could not, not in the manner he wished.

He sighed deeply, the dejected sound deliberately loud as he tried to rouse some sort of pity within you. If he was successful, you did not show for it, neglecting his need for confirmation, attention, your reply was in the form of pulling away from him. He allowed you, brows furrowing in slight confusion, watching as you dragged your ring off his finger, placing it onto your own. The garnet glinted in the low candle light, winking at him.

"Perhaps you should leave, My Prince. The hour grows late, and I am certain you will be wanted for any festivities the night entails."

"I do not wish to celebrate my cousin's win, I wish to remain here — with you." He had the nerve to appear bashful, any wickedness stripped away, exposing cruel affection that caused your ribs to tighten, the oxygen within your lungs dissipating as you felt your heart spasm uncontrollably.

He is a liar, and a manipulator, and a deceiver, you reminded yourself, your nails biting half moons into the soft flesh of your palm, the skin breaking slightly, blood threatening to spill. Sin had many faces, yet his was the most alluring. Violet eyes twinkling at you, statuesque features carved by the Seven themselves; it was unfair how handsome he looked while you were trying to pull away.

But you needed to create distance, to curate a boredom that would awaken him from the reverie he seemed to be entailed within. He simply needed to be reminded of who he was — Brightflame, the Dragon, the Monstrous.

"You need not celebrate to enjoy the merriment, My Prince." You insisted, using the formality once more like a shield, as if it could protect you from the Targaryen. Your fingers busied themselves, twisting the ring you had finally retrieved, the weight feeling unfamiliar. It no longer felt like yours.

His eyes narrowed, sharpening as he noted your tone, the detachment, the coldness. "Are you requesting my leave?" He hissed, voice incredulous as he watched you walk away from him, finding a flagon to pour yourself a goblet of wine.

Just hours prior, you were kissing him in this very tent, reciprocating affections and wandering lips. Yet now…

Now it appeared you wanted to destroy any evidence of such a memory, ensure that it would never occur again.

You sipped the wine slowly, trying to create some more time for yourself. Firewine, thank the gods. Something that would actually numb your mind.

"I am not." You replied weakly, the lie blatantly evident, not even having the courage to conceal it more skilfully. Perhaps you wanted him to know it was a lie. To be entirely truthful, you were unsure of your own intentions.

He chuckled at your response, immediately recognising the falsehood.

"I know when I am unwanted." He murmurred, his gaze languidly travelling over you, the dirt that stained your hems, your fidgeting movements, flushed cheeks. "Rest, My Lady Rivers, and dream of me."

He left, a scowl deepening on his face as he retreated to his own tent, not bothering to follow the sound of laughter and hoots. He would only act brashly.

He stilled.

Perhaps that was exactly what he needed.

And even in the mercy of sleep, your dreams were occupied by violet and ash, dragonfire and garnets.

—

When you had entered Highgarden that morn, you had expected many things.

The castle was quite predictable, with lively halls filled with the chattering of maids and ladies alike, sunlight spilling in through its large windows, reflecting fractured rainbows upon the walls.

You did not expect the coldness.

It lingered, latching onto the stones, curling into the vines.

And it was quiet.

Too quiet. A silence unnatural, forced upon the castle by actions motivated by selfishness.

You had planned to retreat, a strange feeling tugging at your heart, an instinct older than your lineage pleading with you to submit, to leave. But you were unable to, a maid spotting you before you could flee, rushing towards you.

"Lady Tully." The maid stuttered out, her eyes frantic as they darted around your face, searching for something you were unsure of. "The Hand has called for you."

Your heart dipped unsteadily, a tightness in your lungs returning, making it difficult to breath as you allowed the maid escort you to the solar of the Lord Paramount of the Mander, a temporary abode for the royals. What in the Seven Hells would the Hand want you for? Why would he call for you?

The logical corner of your mind continued to whisper, furthering your anxiety, your hands trembling as you were reminded of the fact that your Lord Father would certainly not be apart of this meeting. He had just risen, and was resting within his own tent, aching as a result of his own overindulgence in Arbor gold.

Formality dictated that your father would have been summoned also, and your presence would have been requested through him. But certainly this situation was abnormal, for why did it feel as if they were waiting for you to enter the castle at your own volition, as if they were waiting for you to stumble into a trap.

You felt trapped.

A prey blind within a dragon's den.

The maid remained several paces in front of you, her feet moving quickly, rushing through the empty corridors and halls. Until she finally stopped before the solar, two knights guarding the entrance. You immediately noted their white capes, their tired expressions, their hands firmly resting upon the hilt of their swords, waiting.

They barely spared you a glance while the maid whispered something to them, her voice too low for you to catch. They simply swung the doors open, announcing your presence while the maid was able to flee. You could only watch her retreting figure in envy, wishing you could follow her.

Instead you steeled yourself, forced yourself through the wooden doors, your gaze skirting around the strange scene before you. You were unsure of what you had expected, perhaps panic, the noise that had been drained from the rest of the castle, anything but what laid in front of you.

Prince Baelor seated at a large oak desk, laying a cyvasse board upon its surface.

"Lady Tully." He greeted, offering you a cordial smile, mirth dancing in his eyes as he observed your confusion. You stumbled out a greeting, bowing your head slightly as you lingered by the entrance.

Perhaps the maid was mistake, perhaps you were not requested, perhaps—

Your thoughts were interrupted by his voice. "Please sit, My Lady. My nephew mentioned that you play the game. It seems that not many do here."

"That is strange, Your Grace, I have played with many players here." You replied, voice hesitant as you avoided his gaze, instead staring at the board in front of you. It was far more expensive that your own, the pieces carved from marble, having a certain weight to them.

"No skilfull players, then." He admitted, his smile deepening slights as he noticed how you began to gather your tiles, drawing the partition so that your side was now shielded from his eyes. "But Aerion sings your praises, he claims that there are no players better than you.

"The Prince is very kind, but I am not that good at cyvasse. My brother Malger is far better." You responded, biting your lip slightly as you felt your fingers tremble trying to lay the tiles. Fuck. Why would they not stop shaking?

The Hammer huffed out a soft laugh at your words, you were certainly the first to refer to Aerion as kind. The cruel boy was anything but kind.

"It seems that my nephew is not the only one to sing your praises." He continued, removing the silk partition once he had confirmed you had placed all your pieces into their appropriate places, discarding it gently. "My son seems quite taken by you."

He made the first move, moving a rabble across the distance of a singular tile. You did not reply, instead focused your efforts on observing his board. The formation of his tiles was one Medgar favoured, and you hoped that slight insight would aid you in playing.

"Prince Valarr is very gracious."

Baelor did not laugh this time, as it was evident your words were not a lie. You truly believed it. Yet the words seemed to pain you, as if you believed that you did not deserve that grace.

"He is." Was all Baelor managed out, his gaze darting between you and the board, watching as you made your move. He was unsure of what to make of you.

At first glance, you appeared to be the perfect Lady, courteous and polite, but the more he watched you, the more he noticed the fire that seemed to simmer beneath your skin. You had more depth than he had expected.

"You may want to visit Lady Tyrell." He suggested casually, moving a catapult diagonally. You immediately recognised the trap he was trying to lay, moving the piece it would eventually affect. "There had been an incident during the festivities of the night. I am certain you will hear of it all."

Incident? You could feel your heart quicken at the vagueness of such a remark, but you forced your features to not betray any anxiety, instead fixing your gaze on his jewelled hands, watching as his fingers curled around a rabble, hesitating before moving the piece.

You countered the move, not claiming the rabble despite there being the opportunity to do so. It was another trap. "That is unfortunate, I hope it will not distract from the rest of the tourney."

"The tourney had been cancelled."

"Pardon?" You managed out, your gaze darting to his face, only to find him already staring at you. The look in his eyes was undistinguishable, a strange pain that seemed to furrow his brows. Yet all you could see was Valarr staring back, the bi-coloured irises far too familiar. From this distance, you could see all the similarities that the Heirs shared. But there was something within his sire that made him look more human than royal.

Baelor continued without stopping, already making his next move as if he had not just revealed something shocking. "And unfortunately for Lady Tyrell, it seems that her wedding will be delayed."

"That is truly unfortunate." You mumbled out, moving your own rabble quickly, forcing yourself to not ask anymore questions. You desperately wished to ask, to discover what could cause such a result, who was responsible for such a wretched situation.

The game seemed to continue, pieces circuling each other haplessly, making moves of no subsequence as each player seemed to be able to discern the motives behind each action.

You were stuck in a stalemate.

You did not voice it, as you already knew that Baelor had recognised it, a small smile creeping onto his face. He left many things unsaid between you. He did not reveal the true nature of the incident, who had been affected. You would discover it all in time.

And he did not voice that Aerion had been sent away.

For you will certainly hear about that.

—

Aster was hysterical, hands gripping at your skirts as she threw herself into your arms, forcing you to hold her.

Your arms quickly curled around the Tyrell, steadying her lightly as she collapsed into you, her head burrowing into your shoulder. You did not say a word, just gently caressing her hair, brushing the brunette curls away from her face.

"That vindictive, wicked man." She whimpered against you, her voice slightly muffled as she stumbled over her words. "He struck Karlon, and kept stricking him. What did my betrothed do to deserve such an injustice?"

You could hear slight whispers from the ladies that had lingered, watching the scene of the Tyrell rose wilting once more.

Poor Lord Stark, was repeated over and over, pitying the unconscious man. The Maesters were unsure of when he might awake, yet it seemed that the entire castle was praying that it would be soon.

Cruel, monstrous Aerion. How more ignoble could he be?

"Karlon simply wanted them to stop arguing." She continued, blubbering slightly as her voice was more sobs than words. "They just would not stop fighting."

Your hands gripped at her biceps, holding her gently as her knees buckled beneath her, taking you with her. You were more graceful than her, simply steadying her as you lowered into a crouch, ensuring that she would not fall. Your skirts circled around you, silks of navy and gold layering over each other as she insisted on remaining pressed against you, almost hearing her heart as it jolted unsteadily with every broken gasp she took.

You would later learn that the 'they' she had been referring to pertained to the two Princes, Valarr and Aerion. You were not surprised by Aerion's involvement, chaos lingered within his shadows. But Valarr shocked you; you had expected more of him.

According to the second-hand whispers that seemed to mutate in each passing, words were shared, insults were spat, and poor Karlon Stark made the mistake of trying to maintain the merriment. Aerion could not strike his cousin, but perhaps he should have as there were more consequences in battering the Northerner.

You could only scowl at the retelling, cursing the Prince for acting so impetuously. Acting upon one impulsive win had cost Lady Tyrell the memories of her wedding. They would no longer be guilded in victory and sweetness, instead dripping with the blood spilt.

You had wished for distance from the Prince, but the gods were certainly cruel for obeying your pleas in such a manner.

—

The Reach was truly beautiful, but you could not be happier leaving.

The circumstances of your departure made you feel guilt at such glee, but you had become sick of thorns and golden roses, you simply wished to return home. To return to your mother and good-sister, to only play cyvasse with Malger, and to not have to see any more dragons.

You were awaiting your carriage, watching as men darted around you, collecting belongings as all the tents had been disassembled. The field looked barren, the only evidence of a tourney ever being held was the blood staining the tiltyard, crimson fertilising the dead grass.

You had wished to depart as quietly as you had arrived, lost amongst the knights and braying horses, remaining unnoticed.

But you seldom received what you desired.

"Lady Tully." A familiar voice called out, and you winced at the title. You were becoming sick of being called 'Lady Tully'.

"My Prince." You greeted back, turning to face the silver-streaked Prince that advanced towards you. He looked tired, features slightly sunken as if he had not been able to sleep at all.

"You are leaving?" He questioned despite knowing the answer. Everyone was leaving, and evidently so were you. He simply found it difficult to approach the topic of your courtship once more.

You nodded in response, unable to verbalise a reply, knowing that the words would just sound pathetic. He hummed softly, quietness settling as you were only able to exchange stolen glances filled with words that would forever remain unspoken. There was a strange understanding that seemed to be shared, that perhaps it was not meant to be.

He made no mention of your courtship, it had died as silently as it had begun. He made no mention of pursuing things further, perhaps his father had raised him to recognise when not to pursue unwilling futures. He made no mention of what had occurred the night before.

"It was an honour meeting you, Lady Tully." He murmured, offering a slight smile as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, the skin where his lips lingered tingling. You could only share his smile, recognising the finality etched within his farewell.

There were no dramatics, simply a soft silence you mourned.

—

Arriving at Riverrun brought a solace you did not realise you craved. The humid air, the lingering scent of minerals and flowers that carried freshness rather than the saccharinity of Highgarden.

Everything seemed perfect.

Your entrance brought calm and good news. Your good sister had given birth, a babe who had Tully eyes, named after your Lord Father. They had sent a raven to Highgarden, but you had left the Mander before it could reach it's designated spot.

Your mind finally silenced.

No longer were you spending nights fretting over the intentions of dragons, you were finally able to rest in peace.

You spent most of your days accompanying your good sister, ensuring that she was healing well, that she was comfortable. But she was a Serret of Silverhill, Westerlander through and through, so she had many standards that you ensured were met.

"According to sources who will remain unnamed, a certain Prince had taken a liking to you." Elodie grinned at you, her arm wrapped around yours as you guided her through the gardens, grateful for the shade provided by the redwoods and elms. You were teetering along the edge of the godswood, not truly entering.

"Ah." You sighed, rolling your eyes as you tried not to grin at her teasing. "Which twin was it?"

"Why do you believe it was a twin? Why could it not have been Delmar who had told me?"

"Because that oaf does not even realise what occurs before him half the time, I am almost certain he did not even know until we arrived home. Was it Brynden?"

She sighed before answering. "Mervyn."

"Twat."

She hit your arm slightly, giggling at the way you cursed your poor younger brother. You were slightly thankful that it was not Brynden that had been whispering about your adventures at Highgarden, he was currently indebted to you.

You were unsure of how he would fulfill this debt, but would certainly find a way.

"Do not curse him, if anything you should curse yourself. You did not even tell me!"

"Tell you what? That Prince Valarr courted me for less than a day? I do believe that does not qualify as a courtship." You laughed, the sound light and airy as you reflected at the ridiculousness of such a situation. It felt like a lifetime had passed since Highgarden, and you could not have been more thankful.

"Perhaps it would have lasted longer if it were not for the actions of his cousin." Elodie tutted sympathetically, slowing her pace slightly to sit upon a redwood bench. "It is good that you had only received the attention of Prince Valarr rather than one of the other young Targaryens."

Her tone turned slightly somber, hissing slightly as she sat down completely, the ache in her legs subsiding. You had heard all of her complaints; swollen feet, pained calves, aching bones. In her daily arguments with Malger, she would exclaim that she would never bear another one of his children, that he must be satisfied with the one. (This argument would not work, however, as she would give birth within a year to another child, a girl this time.)

You huffed out a bitter laugh, sitting beside her, absentmindedly twisting the garnet ring adorning your hand. You had not removed it since Highgarden, it was always on your person, either upon your finger or hanging from your neck on a simple chain. You were not sure why you refused to remove it. Or perhaps you did, and simply lacked the courage to name it.

If only she knew.

She would certainly pity you.

You did not pity yourself, perhaps you should have. You had heard what Aerion had done. How he had ruined the tourney, how he had ruined Aster's wedding. And you were angry at him, but for more selfish reasons than you would ever admit. You were angry that he had left suddenly. That he had abandoned you, not even seeing you for one last time.

You had assumed that distance would be the cure for your ails, but it seemed the further he was, the more he haunted you. You found yourself thinking about him during the day, wandering about where he was, perhaps in Summerhall terrorising his knights. And you found yourself including him in your prayers each night, in the solitude of the sept.

He did not deserve your prayers, you would remind yourself. He is a liar, and a manipulator, and a deceiver. Yet you still prayed for him, whispering pleas to the Mother and whichever other deities that might listen to you.

Aster had sent you a letter. The raven had arrived midday, the sun at its very peak while you were reading its contents. Her Karlon had awoken, slightly confused, slightly dazed, yet his mind was still intact. He had remembered very clearly what had occurred that night. He was able to recite the words exchanged exactly to their very intonation.

Apparently a knight had insulted your honour, had made comments about how you were conducting yourself; he whispered about how you were trying to seduce a Prince, and were trying to increase your chances of wedding one by pursuing two. Your brother and Aerion had dealt with the knight, something you would interrogate Delmar about later. But apparently Aerion was unsatisfied by Valarr's lack of reaction, and had begun arguing with his cousin regarding this. Karlon intervened, noticing the situation escalating further than it ever should have, and Aerion was offended by this also. And his offence came at the price of Karlon's health.

His pride was injured due to comments made about you.

In your response you did not mention what Karlon had said, simply congratulating her on her wedding ceremony. It was quiet, and intimate, and had occurred within the godswood of Highgarden, the Three Singers witnessing the ceremony. She did not have the lavish wedding she had wished for, she no longer wanted it either. She had witness the cost of extravagance and understood why her good father had been against the tourney. War truly was not a game.

You spoke about your own happy news, of your good sister giving birth, and requested that she kept in contact with you.

You sent the raven to Winterfell.

Aster never brought up the incident again, instead just sharing details of her married life, of her new responsibilities, the cold, how her husband somehow manages to bring her flowers each morning although she is certain she has never those particular species grown in the Glass Garden.

Life had truly settled into a comfortable routine, your days occupied by watching the glimmer of sunglints upon the water and clumsy embroidery. Until you heard it.

A Dragon upon the Trident.

♤♡◇♧

Taglist:

Tanselle placed a steadying hand on your shoulder. “You resurrected my laptop when the repair shop declared it dead. You gave me back my thesis. I owe you loyalty and honesty.”

“You paid me in charcoal pencils,” you reminded her.

“And they were expensive,” she said with dignity. “I stand by the gesture.”

Valarr leaned forward. “You’re too good for him.”

You sighed. “You all say that like he’s a war criminal.”

“He emotionally destabilized half this friend group,” Kiera said. “He told Duncan that his poetry read like a budget funeral.”

Duncan looked offended all over again. “It was about existentialism.”

“It was about sadness and ducks and an elm tree,” Kiera shot back.

While they listed Aerion’s crimes against their collective dignity, your phone buzzed.

You glanced down.

Aerion: This lecture is unbearable. If one more person misuses the word ‘dialectic’ I will start a fire.

Another buzz.

Aerion: You should come steal me. We can get ice cream after. They have new flavors. You can try the weird ones without committing financially. I will eat the consequences.

You bit back a smile.

Tanselle narrowed her eyes. “Is that him?”

“No.”

Your phone lit up again before you could stop it. Kiera lunged and grabbed it out of your hands with a gasp.

“Traitor,” you muttered.

She froze. Then she made a strangled noise.

“What?” Valarr demanded.

Kiera turned the screen toward them.

Your home screen wallpaper.

Aerion asleep on his back, hair a mess, face softened in a way he would deny under oath. One arm wrapped tightly around the ridiculous build-a-dragon plushie you had given him as a joke. The plushie’s wings were squashed against his chest. He looked younger, gentler.

There was silence.

“Is that a stuffed dragon,” Duncan asked slowly, “or have I lost my grip on reality?”

Valarr looked personally betrayed. “He said he threw that away.”

“He did not,” you said.

Kiera stared at the image. “Who took this?”

“Daella,” you said, and silently thanked Daella Targaryen for her stealth.

The Fossoway cousin looked shaken. “He looks…domesticated.”

Tanselle pressed her lips together. “It is difficult to demonise a man who cuddles handcrafted dragons.”

Valarr recovered first. “This proves nothing. He could still hurt you.”

You took your phone back. “I appreciate the concern. Truly. But I’m not being manipulated. I’m not naïve. And he listens to me.”

“That’s new,” Duncan admitted.

“It is,” you said quietly.

The intervention deflated from there. They tried a few more half-hearted warnings, but it lacked conviction now that they’d seen photographic evidence of Aerion clinging to plush fabric like a child.

The intervention failed miserably. Unfortunately, Valarr told Baelor about it anyway.

And Baelor Targaryen, being Baelor, ever the mediator, ever concerned for his family, mentioned it in passing to his brother.

Which was how Maekar Targaryen ended up summoning you into his study with the gravity of a man preparing for diplomatic negotiations.

Baelor lingered in the doorway. “You’re overstepping boundaries,” he warned.

“I do not care,” Maekar replied.

You stood awkwardly in front of the desk.

Maekar folded his hands and attempted sternness. “I've been made aware that certain jealous...” he paused, visibly censoring himself before failing entirely, “...jealous cunts are attempting to sabotage this relationship that you have with my son.”

You blinked.

Baelor closed his eyes briefly.

“I will not have my son destabilized by petty gossip,” Maekar continued. “He is…difficult. But he is not careless with you.”

His voice lost some of its steel.

“If you are feeling pressured,” he added, “or uncertain, I expect you to speak plainly. Do not disappear. Do not allow outside interference to dictate your decisions. Do not...What is the word people use these days, brother? Phasing?”

“Ghosting.” Baelor supplied helpfully.

“Yes, that.” Maekar nodded gravelly. “Do not do that to my son.”

You realized, slowly, that this was less interrogation and more plea.

“I don’t intend to break up with him,” you said carefully.

Maekar exhaled as though someone had removed a blade from his ribs.

“Well then,” he said, but it lacked force. “If this is overstepping, so be it.”

From the hallway came Aerion’s voice: “Why the seven hells would she break up with me?”

He stepped into the doorway, looking affronted and deeply confused.

Maekar stiffened. “We are having a conversation.”

“About my hypothetical abandonment, apparently.”

Baelor looked amused now.

Aerion’s gaze snapped to you. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“No.”

“Was it discussed?”

“Not seriously.”

He narrowed his eyes at his father. “You terrified her.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Maekar bristled. “I was safeguarding your interests.”

“My interests are fine.”

You reached for Aerion’s hand before this devolved into something louder. His fingers closed around yours instantly, grip firm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him quietly.

He searched your face, suspicious of humor. “You would tell me.”

“I would.”

His shoulders eased by a fraction.

Maekar looked almost…grateful.

Baelor clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “See? Overstepping.”

Maekar ignored him.

The younger Fossoway cousin, whose name you later found out to be Raymun, abruptly got married out of nowhere.

The wedding itself was small and rushed, which only fed the gossip.

He had married the girl within weeks of the announcement. She was red-haired and smiling but visibly overwhelmed by the sudden attention. You had met her only once in passing. She seemed alright.

That did not stop the students.

By Monday, the campus had decided she was a manipulating maneater. That she had “secured her future.” That no ancient house with apple orchards older than half the continent would have welcomed her if she hadn’t arrived pregnant. Someone muttered that she’d had other boyfriends. Someone else suggested the baby might not even be his.

You stood in the corridor outside a lecture hall and listened to a girl you barely knew say, with astonishing certainty, “Well, what did he expect? She’s not even from an old family. Obviously she baby-trapped him.”

Trapped him.

As though he were a deer and she a snare.

You thought of the Fossoway crest, an apple, and nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Centuries of land ownership reduced to fruit on a shield. And yet that fruit apparently made him too good for a woman who had done nothing but exist in the wrong tax bracket.

It unsettled you more than you expected.

Later, when you mentioned it to Aerion, he was leaning back in his chair, lazily scrolling through his phone.

“I heard about that,” he said. “Fossoway name has fallen on sad days.”

You looked at him.

He glanced up, catching the change in your expression almost immediately. “What?”

“You think it’s funny?”

“I think the entire situation is predictably tragic,” he said lightly. “He always did have questionable taste.”

“Aerion.”

He lowered his phone slowly. “What did I miss?”

You folded your arms, suddenly aware of how warm the room felt. “They’re tearing her apart. Calling her a nobody. Saying she trapped him because no one of old blood would have agreed to marry her otherwise. They don’t even know her.”

He frowned faintly. “People say things.”

“They’re saying the baby might not even be his.”

“That’s a standard cruelty.”

“That doesn’t make it harmless.”

He studied you properly now. The flippancy faded. “Why is this upsetting you this much?”

You hesitated, which annoyed you more than the gossip had. You weren’t usually the kind to internalise whispers.

“I’m not from here,” you said finally. “Not from the Seven Kingdoms. I don’t have land or a crest or generations of portraits staring down from a hallway. I’m…no one.”

He scoffed. “You are not no one.”

“You know what I mean.” Your voice sharpened despite yourself. “If they can reduce her to that, if that’s all it takes, what do you think they say about me when I’m not in the room?”

His jaw tightened.

You pressed on before you could lose your nerve. “I didn’t grow up in this. I don’t belong to some old house. I don’t have the kind of family that hosts political fundraisers or has things named after them. I’m just…me.”

“And?” he asked carefully.

“And maybe one day that will be the only thing people see.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze intent. “Do you know what people say about my family?”

“That you’re powerful.”

“That we’re unstable,” he corrected. “That we’re dramatic, reckless, borderline unhinged. That Targaryens are either brilliant or disastrous with very little in between.”

You almost smiled. “That part might be fair.”

He ignored that. “Our reputation is not pristine. My father has been accused of everything from ruthlessness to tyranny in boardrooms. Baelor has been called manipulative. Daeron...” He stopped himself with a slight grimace. “You’ve heard the stories.”

“Yes.”

“And me?” He arched a brow. “I am not exactly known for gentle courtship and discretion. I'm not the picture-perfect son like Valarr.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because at the end of the day,” you said quietly, “your flaws are interesting. Forgivable. Eccentric. Mine would be proof I never belonged there in the first place.”

Silence settled between you. He looked at you the way he did when he was trying to understand something he didn’t like.

“You think status makes people kinder?” he asked.

“No. I think it makes them selective.”

He stood abruptly and crossed the room, stopping in front of you. His hands settled on your arms.

“You are a good person,” he said plainly.

“That’s not how rumors work.”

“I don’t care how rumors work.”

“I do,” you admitted. “I don’t want to be reduced to a cautionary tale. Or a gold digger. Or some foreign girl who got lucky.”

He stared at you like the suggestion offended him personally. “You think anyone who knows me believes I could be trapped?”

You gave him a look.

He huffed. “Exactly. The narrative would be that I ruined you, not the other way around.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It is accurate.”

You shook your head, but some of the tension eased despite yourself.

He softened slightly. “If...” he began, then paused, as though the word required more weight than he was used to giving it. “If you ever deign to marry me, and I stress the deign, my family would turn it into a national fairytale.”

You blinked. “That’s your solution?”

“It is a practical one.” His mouth curved faintly. “They would market us as a triumph. The unstable son who matured and found the right way and the brilliant foreigner. They’d drown out whatever nonsense anyone attempted to circulate.”

“I don’t want to be marketed.”

“Then don’t be.” His thumb brushed absently against your sleeve. “But don’t assume you would stand alone either.”

You searched his face, looking for mockery. There wasn’t any.

“You really don’t see it the way I do,” you said.

“No,” he admitted. “Because I have watched you resurrect Tanselle’s thesis out of a dead machine. I have watched you tutor Egg for two hours without losing patience. I have watched you worry about a girl you barely know because strangers were cruel to her. That is not nothing.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he continued, more quietly now. “And if anyone tries to suggest otherwise, they will discover I am not nearly as reformed as you make me appear.”

That earned a reluctant smile.

“You made a joke about her,” you reminded him.

“Yes.” He grimaced. “That was before I understood why it mattered to you. I will reserve my cruelty for people who deserve it.” he added dryly.

You studied him for a long moment.

“People will still talk,” you said.

“They always do.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

He tilted his head. “Are you planning to leave because of it?”

“No.”

“Then neither am I.”

Aerion squeezed your arms once and pecked your nose before letting go. You laughed despite yourself.

The worry didn’t vanish entirely. But it no longer felt like something you had to carry alone.

Part 6: see here

a/n: My inbox and messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

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“Good evening,” he says, like you are still a person with a doorbell, like this isn’t terrible. His voice is calm, precise, a straight line in a place made of spirals.

He talks anyway.

“You’d say this is pathetic,” he murmurs, leaning back against the hull, shoulders sagging. “And you’d be right.”

Silence answers him, your kind of silence—the thick, throbbing one, full of unsent texts and unscreamed words.

You remember how he used to laugh. It hits you like a brick.

He has not laughed in so long.

“I was going to quit,” he says casually, like someone mentioning milk on the grocery list. “The week before—” He stops. Adjusts his glasses like he can focus grief into something manageable. “I was going to quit. We would have moved somewhere ordinary. You would have hated it. We would have argued about curtains.”

Your not-mouth aches with the shape of his name. Your not-hands twitch around nothing. You lean—instinct, gravity, habit—and the shadows of you curl closer. You do not mean to be frightening. You are just… loud, now. Pain echoing itself.

He doesn’t flinch.

Of course he doesn’t. Idiot. Beautiful idiot.

“You’re still you,” he says, and he says it like an incantation. Like if he threads the sentence enough times through the needle of his throat, reality will obey. “You understand me. I know you do.”

Do you? Yes. God, yes.

You understand the set of his shoulders, the way he won’t meet your (nonexistent) eyes when he’s lying to himself. You understand the ritual of it: he brings food, he talks about the news, about coworkers, about the sky being rude again—too bright, too grey, too anything. He narrates life like he’s smuggling it in for you, piece by piece.

You ripple, because that’s what your body does now—ribbons of you ballooning and collapsing around the cracked hulls, the suggestion of shoulders, the echo of your face in the wrong place.

There is a barrier around this place—his work, precise and ruthless. You can feel it like glass teeth around you. He made the world smaller for you, wrapped you in a boundary you cannot cross. Not a cage, he told himself. A kindness. Containment with love on the label.

You hover against the edge sometimes, feel reality spark and snap, taste the ozone bite of It’s safer this way. You could rage. You don’t. Even your anger is tired.

He sits down on a chunk of concrete like he’s clocking into overtime grief.

He unpacks dinner.

He does this every day. Every single fucking day.

“I brought the curry from the place you liked,” he says, and then corrects himself in a voice too soft for the world, “—the place. You liked the naan more than the curry.”

You, plural and wrong and still you, press closer. You do not have a stomach, but you feel hunger, but not like before. Something else lives in you now—hunger, wrong and prickly, a feral wanting for warm things that isn’t love but wears its face badly. You keep it on a leash made of your name, the one he still says so carefully. You do not touch him. You can't. You do not feed the part of you that is curse and not girl. You are stubborn, even now.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he sighs, glancing up at your mass, at the storm of you. “Yes, I ordered extra naan.”

There is silence, and there is the ocean chewing things it doesn’t return, and there is Nanami talking because not talking would kill him in a way no curse could.

“Do you remember the ring?” he asks suddenly, and his voice cracks—just once, like a bone you thought would hold. “I was going to do something elaborate, but then you laughed at that proposal video with the flash mob and I… recalibrated.”

You try to say his name.

What comes out is a sound. A pressure. A groan of ship metal remembering storms. The world leans with it, gulls scatter.

But he smiles at it like you said something funny.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “That does sound like me.”

He talks like you’re still sitting cross-legged on his couch, knee to his thigh, complaining about the world and snacking like it owes you. He tells you about missions (carefully), about Gojo’s ridiculousness (unavoidably), about how he almost quit—how he almost did just pick you, mundane and alive and choosing bread over destiny. His hands shake when he unwraps the food but he pretends not to notice, so you pretend too.

You miss everything about him, well you don't actually remember anything, just vague... feelings. But you know you miss his hands. The warm pressure, you miss his touch... his... everything.

You remember the moment it happened in shards. Pain, yes. Fear, yes. The heavy, humiliating reality of it—“not fun circumstances” doesn’t cover it, darling. It was the kind of ending that should come with a refund. And then all that pain gathered its things, punched the clock, and said: guess we’re building god now.

Nanami had found what you’d become and instead of doing the kind thing—the right sorcerer-thing—he built you a cage the size of grief and called it “safe.”

He trapped you here.

He saved you here.

He did not exorcise you. He couldn’t.

You think: If he asked, I would go.

You think: If he tried, I would let him end this.

You think: He won’t.

He still doesn’t.

“This is selfish,” he tells the air like he wants someone to disagree. “I know it is.”

He’s not crying. He doesn’t cry. But his voice has a wetness to it, like he’s talking underwater.

“If your pain is here,” he mutters, almost angrily, “then maybe—maybe—you’re not carrying it somewhere else.”

Well that's a nice way of rationalising all this, huh?

He looks at you then, really looks, at the hulking, glitching shadow of you suspended between broken ships, and you feel like a constellation someone shook too hard.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.

He means: I don’t want to lose you again.

You want to tell him: I’m already lost. You want to say: this hurts. You want to say: you look stupid eating curry in a haunted dockyard, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Instead you shudder the tide backwards by accident.

“Sorry,” he says on reflex, like he bumped into you in a hallway. Then he huffs a laugh—ugly, helpless. “Listen to me. Apologizing to—”

He doesn’t say a curse. He swallows the word like broken glass.

He talks anyway.

“Today I thought about what color we’d have painted the kitchen,” he confesses, staring at the dark water. “Terrible, isn’t it? The brain’s capacity for… admin during catastrophe.”

He presses his palm to the cold air as if there’s glass between you—which, honestly, there might as well be. You flood toward that hand like a tide pulled by the moon of his wanting. The closest you get to touch is the temperature changing.

“Come back,” he whispers, suddenly vicious with hope. “Just—wake up. Yell at me about how the world is stupid and unfair and eat my leftovers and leave wet towels on the bed. I’ll take it. All of it.”

Your answer is a low, organ-deep moan through the ship bones that rattles bolts loose. A groan of world, not of girl.

He nods, like you made a compelling counterargument.

“Right,” he murmurs. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

He pulls out a book, because of course he does, because Nanami Kento is the kind of man who reads to his own haunting. His voice turns story into structure and it hangs in the air with you, a scaffolding of syllables holding the night together.

You hover. You listen. You are a bruise that learned how to speak in weather.

Sometimes you reach for his shadow and it reaches back wrong. Sometimes he laughs at something you do not understand anymore. Sometimes he talks about your body—your softness with a reverence that makes the ocean jealous.

“You always said you took up space,” he says. “You do. You always did. You still do.”

It’s almost funny. It’s almost everything.

Wind slams through the empty ship frames like breath through teeth. Rust sings. The whole place is a lung and you are the air that won’t leave.

He packs up the empty containers in silence, neat, practical, like tidying the edges of grief will keep it from spilling.

“Goodnight,” he says, standing, suit rumpled, hope feral. “I’ll be back.”

As if there’s a universe in which he wouldn’t be.

He takes a few steps, stops, and looks over his shoulder. There are too many of your eyes, not in the right places, and none of them are where tears would go.

“I still—” His jaw works. He changes the sentence like he’s afraid of breaking the world with the real one. “You’re still you.”

He leaves before the lie can echo.

*-*

The tide creeps in like a nosy neighbor. The wrecks settle. You fold and unfold yourself like a bad dream trying to be a body.

Somewhere above the waterline, the world keeps happening, rudely. Here, in the cathedral of rust and salt and you, time develops a limp.

You wait. You ache.

Tomorrow, he will bring more food you cannot eat and hope you cannot hold and stories you cling to anyway, like barnacles to a dead ship.

*-*

Nanami feeds the cat like it’s a ritual and a confession.

Chairman Meow blinks up at him with that judgy, IRS-auditor stare cats are born with, tail flicking like a metronome set to emotional devastation. The apartment smells like you — it STILL smells like you — shampoo in the bathroom, your lotion on the dresser, your favorite sweater folded with reverence on the back of the chair nobody sits in anymore.

Five months.

Five months.

Everyone thinks he exorcised you.

He told them so, on purpose, in that clipped Nanami tone that makes people nod and not ask questions. Sorcerers grieved, said ah, what a tragedy, and then, like everyone trained to survive in this job, they moved on.

He did not.

He is, legally speaking, committing a career-ending crime for love.

No one knows he’s still got a curse sealed in a shipwreck like it’s a secret shrine. No one knows he visits it every day like a pilgrim. No one knows he talks to the silence and pretends it answers.

Your hairbrush still has strands of you threaded through its bristles like gold filigree. Your shampoo squats in the shower, half-empty, stubbornly yours. Chairman Meow still sleeps on your blanket, kneading croissant-shaped dreams into the fabric.

Nanami stands there, stiff shoulders, careful hands.

He spoons wet food into the bowl.

Chairman Meow chirps, head-butting his shin.

“You’re still here,” Nanami murmurs.

The cat purrs like a broken engine full of honey.

Nanami presses his thumb into the dent of the aluminum lid like he needs to feel something give.

He puts the bowl down.

And — because he hates himself — he presses play on the voicemail.

Your voice bursts through the tiny speaker all warm and obnoxious and alive:

“Babe. BABE. Listen. I found a pastry-themed pet bed. I repeat. A CROISSANT. FOR THE CAT. Chairman deserves luxury. We are a high class household. A little croissant man. Monsieur Meow. Call me back or I’m buying three.”

There’s laughter in your voice. You sniff. You ramble about cat beds and sales tax like the world is going to keep spinning forever.

Nanami’s jaw locks.

The message ends.

The apartment is too quiet. The cat chews. The clock taps at the wall like a polite ghost.

He closes his eyes.

He imagines the ocean and the shipwreck and the way you hover there — a wound that learned how to breathe — and he tells himself he’ll go see you tomorrow.

He tells himself he’ll keep you safe.

He tells himself he has control.

He does not.

*-*

Three days.

Three days of exorcisms and red tape and blood and paperwork. Three days where the world asked him to be a sorcerer instead of a grieving man.

Three days where he didn’t go to the shipwreck.

The guilt tastes like metal by the time he arrives.

The seals hum faintly — worn, tired, fraying like the hem of an old shirt — but intact. The air inside is cold and wet and familiar. The ship’s ribs creak overhead.

“Good afternoon,” he calls, voice small in the cavernous dark. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

You don’t answer.

You never really answer, but usually you appear — dragged from the shadows by habit or curiosity or the gravity of his voice.

Nothing moves.

His blood goes thin.

“Hello,” he tries again, stepping closer to the barrier he swore he’d never cross. “I brought… tea.”

It sounds like a plea.

He waits.

Nothing.

He has always sworn — always — that he would never step inside the true interior of your domain. Just in case. Just in case you snapped. Just in case the thing in you wanted to unmake him.

“Great,” he mutters to himself. “Brilliant. Outstanding judgment.”

The seals shudder against his skin — a warning, a plea, a boundary he walks through anyway — and for the first time in five months, Nanami Kento is standing where your pain lives.

The space is wrong without you.

Empty corners. Echoes. The smell of salt and rot and the ache of absence.

His brain begins listing horrors like a grocery receipt:

You escaped. You’re gone. Someone found you. Someone killed you. Someone found out about him.

His breath hitch-stutters.

“Please,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

He rounds a crate.

And there — curled on the cold metal floor, naked and trembling and terrifyingly, impossibly human — is a woman.

For one godawful heartbeat he thinks, she fed. Oh god, oh god, she killed someone — he drops to his knees, coat shedding dust, hands already moving, training roaring to life.

For exactly one infinitely long, horrifying instant, he thinks his cursed fiancée dragged a random human in here to eat.

Then he sees your mouth.

Your mouth.

Your stupid cupid’s bow. The scar on your chin. The exact constellation of freckles you always said looked like a lopsided Orion.

You.

You with skin mapped in faint, branching marks like lightning trapped under the surface. You with hair a few shades lighter, washed out by whatever storm spit you back into a body.

He laughs. Or sobs. Or some unholy hybrid. He makes a noise like he’s being stabbed by hope.

You twitch.

You make a sound — wet, animal, raw — and his heart tries to exit his body via his throat.

He shrugs off his coat. Wraps you in it like you’re a thing he’s saving from the sea. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely knot the fabric.

“Don’t—Ken” you mumble, slurring, voice full of gravel and sleep and rain.

“It’s me,” he says, and the sentence falls apart halfway through. “It’s me, my love, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

The world blurs. His hands are shaking. He keeps touching your face like he is terrified you will disappear if he looks away.

He sobs. Actually sobs. He cups your face like it’s a miracle and a bomb.

“It’s me,” he chokes, forehead pressing to yours. “It’s me. You’re here. You’re—”

Alive.

He doesn’t say it out loud because he doesn’t trust the word not to vanish when he looks at it.

*-*

He calls Shoko because she’s the only person he can imagine telling the truth to before the world crushes him for it. His voice is calm in that vicious, brittle way that means he is two seconds from collapse.

Shoko is going to kill him.

Actually, she is going to murder him, resurrect him, and murder him again with better posture.

He calls her anyway:

“I need med evac,” he says. “And… I need you not to ask questions yet.”

He calls her because who else do you call when your dead fiancée wakes up on the floor of a haunted boat like a bad bible story.

He doesn’t stop talking the entire ambulance ride.

Nanami is sitting beside your stretcher, shoulders squared like a man in front of a firing squad.

“I… contained her,” he says calmly.

“You harbored a curse.” Shoko pinches the bridge of her nose. “For five months.”

“Yes.”

“You lied to the higher-ups.”

“Yes.”

“You could have died.”

“Yes.”

“You could have killed someone.”

Nanami looks at your face.

“...no.”

Shoko stares at him for three solid seconds and then sighs like a collapsing cathedral.

“You’re lucky she didn’t rip out your kidneys and wear them like earmuffs,” she mutters.

“She— She was gone,” he says. “And then she wasn’t. The seals were intact. I don’t know what happened. She— She’s breathing. Her pulse is… slow, but present.”

Shoko, voice flat and deadly: “Nanami. What did you do.”

“I did nothing.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

*-*

He walks with you like contraband through the halls of the med base.

Shoko runs tests. Scans. Things with cursed energy that sound like Latin and regret.

The higher-ups are… not thrilled (oh gee, who is surprised?).

Not thrilled in the way of men who would happily drop you into a hole labeled “mysterious anomaly do not touch,” but can’t because Nanami is standing there like a polite guillotine.

The higher-ups are already circling like bureaucratic vultures, their voices sharp as scalpels:

“You lied.” “You concealed a curse.” “You compromised containment.” “You should have exorcised her.”

Shoko steps between them like a brick wall in a lab coat.

“Shut up,” she says pleasantly. “Unless one of you can spontaneously explain this, get out of my way.”

They get out of her way.

*-*

Nanami sits outside your room with his head in his hands while wires kiss your skin and machines hum lullabies. Your chest rises and falls. Your fingers twitch in sleep like you’re dreaming about reaching.

Shoko emerges an hour later with a face like a thesis on disappointment.

“You’re an idiot,” she says.

“Yes.”

“You could have died.”

“Yes.”

“You could have unleashed something catastrophic.”

“Yes.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t tear you apart.”

He looks up at her, eyes bright, full of hope, yet so hollow. “She came back.”

Shoko sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“You don’t know how she came back. You don’t know what this means. She’s in a jujutsu coma — her brain reads like it’s been through a war and then tried to knit itself back together with fishing wire.”

“But she’s here.”

Shoko stares at him for a long, long moment.

“…yeah,” she says quietly. “She’s here.”

*-*

Three days.

Three days where time refuses to move unless Nanami shoves it. He has not blinked in several geological eras.

Shoko wants to shake him.

“You understand,” she says, voice low, “that this is… unprecedented, right? People don’t just come back from being curses.”

Nanami hums.

“Nanami.”

“Yes.”

“Are you even listening to me.”

“No.”

He is holding your hand.

He keeps his thumb against your knuckles like he’s checking that you’re real every three seconds.

“She’s here,” he says, and he smiles — a small, cracked, terrifyingly gentle thing — “she’s here.”

Shoko looks at him and then at you and then at the ceiling like she would like to speak to management about this timeline.

“Coma,” she explains, low. “Her brain… think of it like a computer that was halfway melted and then shoved back into a casing. There’s activity. It’s messy. But it’s there.”

“Will she wake?” Nanami asks.

“I don’t know,” Shoko admits. “I would like, personally, to scream into a jar about it.”

He sleeps in a chair. He wakes to the beep of monitors and the antiseptic smell of maybe. He holds your hand like he’s terrified gravity might forget you again.

Chairman Meow is staying with Ieiri for “observation.”

(He is not under observation. He is simply a cat. Shoko observers that the cat is in fact, a fat cat. But Shoko refuses to let Nanami go home alone and stare at your toothbrush like it’s a meteorite.)

*-*

On the morning of the third day, you inhale differently.

It’s a wet, stubborn, determined breath — the kind of breath people take when they’ve decided not to die out of spite.

Your fingers flex.

Your eyelids flutter.

Nanami stands so fast the chair skitters backward.

“Hey,” Shoko says, already there, already checking your pupils, your pulse, your everything. “Hey, don’t rush. You’ve been asleep.”

You blink up at the ceiling.

You blink at Shoko.

You blink at Nanami.

“…I… not a fish,” you croak.

Shoko makes a noise like a dying cough and a laugh having an identity crisis.

“Good news,” she says dryly. “Cognitive function: chaotic, but present.”

You swallow. Your throat trembles. You frown very hard at Nanami like he’s an unsolved puzzle on a bad day.

“You—” you say. “You look… taller.”

“I’m the same height.”

“You... r' lying. Stop growing.”

Your words wobble in strange places. They come out like they were assembled by a committee of bees. Shoko calls it “mild post-cognitive disorganization.” You call it “my brain fell down the stairs.”

Nanami laughs.

He laughs and cries and presses your knuckles to his lips.

“You’re here,” he whispers.

“Am I?” you murmur, blinking at your own hands like they’re on loan. “I.. am..like… like soda can someone shook... and..forgot to open.”

“That tracks,” Shoko mutters, scribbling notes. “Try not to stand. Try not to curse-burst. Try not to do… whatever it is you did to come back.”

You squint. “Did what?”

Everyone in the room goes very quiet.

There it is — the question weighing down the air like wet wool:

How.

How did you un-curse yourself.

How did your pain unwind.

How did you crawl back into a body when bodies are notorious for moving on without permission.

Nanami doesn’t care.

Not really.

He cares that your hand fits in his again. He cares that your voice hits the air like a stone in a pond. He cares that the future he buried now sits in a hospital bed complaining about soda metaphors.

Shoko cares.

The higher-ups care.

The world cares.

You close your eyes, brow furrowed like you’re listening to a far-off radio station.

“Remember… water,” you murmur slowly. “Salt. And… talking. Someone kept talking to me. Every day. Like an idiot. Wouldn’t shut up.”

Nanami freezes.

You smile — small, crooked, deliriously alive.

“And I thought… if I stay, he’ll never leave,” you say. “If I stay, he’ll drown with me. So I… let go.”

No one breathes for a second.

Shoko swears under her breath.

Nanami presses his forehead to your hand and laughs — broken, holy, ridiculous — like a man who has finally run out of misery to hold.

“I’m going home,” you mumble.

“Yes,” Nanami says, voice shaking. “Yes. You will.”

A/N: hope you liked it! merry celebrations to all those who celebrate, to all who don't, merry evening!!

Masterlist

the first thing you feel when you wake up is that delicious ache between your legs that you've grown so familiar with. it brings back memories of last night: hours filled with gasps and moans, a bed transformed into a nest, and four walls as witnesses to a love that went from a casual encounter to a pillar of strength. the second thing you feel is austin's arm around your waist, his big, possessive hand on your skin as if, even asleep, he knew you belonged to him. the third thing you feel is the softness of the sheets and the touch of your bare skin against the smooth silk, the light, almost ghostly caress the fabric blows over your aching body. and the last thing you feel makes you curse inwardly.

you close your eyes tightly and wrinkle your nose, resisting the urge to groan in frustration, though you're not really frustrated, just irritated and tired, because you've felt this for two months and you know you'll continue to feel it for much longer. your breasts hurt. god, seriously. if it were austin's fault, you wouldn't complain, but it's breastfeeding's fault, and it's as if your patience and energy are being tested by your own body.

you move a little, barely, but the soft touch of the fabric against your swollen, sore nipples makes you wince briefly. you lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling; the baby monitor is silent, so you know you don't have to get out of bed, but your breasts say otherwise. in your case, the only downside to being two months postpartum is that your breasts are painfully full of milk every morning.

other than that, your short postpartum period has been all about sex, so it really could be worse. maybe you shouldn't even complain, because thankfully you're handling these months much better than most mothers, but you're stubborn and sometimes capricious, and right now you're really sleepy, so you complain anyway.

trying not to wake austin, you shift gently, carefully loosening his grip on your waist, but austin is austin, and his hand on your waist instinctively tightens, prompting you to turn your head to look at him. he seems more asleep than awake, but he refuses to let go.

"where are you going?" he asks, his voice raspy and sleepy, his blue eyes clouded with sleep, his brow adorably furrowed in confusion.

your irritation vanishes instantly, and your expression softens at the sight, before you smile gently and lean in to kiss his lips and forehead, your hand gently stroking his cheek. austin is beautiful, but he's especially adorable when he doesn't want you to get out of bed; his furrowed brow, his confused and sleepy eyes, his messy hair, and that little bump on his lower lip, a barely visible pout, makes you want to pull him close and hold him tight.

and he looks gorgeous, but your breasts are killing you.

"i need to pump." you whisper, wrinkling your nose slightly, trying to wriggle free from his grasp. "they're so full."

austin is silent for a moment, processing your words, before letting out a soft oh and immediately releasing you with a sympathetic nod.

"do you need me to help you?"

his concern melts your heart despite the awkwardness. "no, love, i can do it myself."

"okay." he mumbles sleepily, rolling over onto his stomach, ready to go back to sleep. "go take care of those beautiful tits of yours."

you give him a playful look that he clearly doesn't notice and get out of bed, naked, your hair cascading down your back like a waterfall. you wrap yourself in a silk robe and tie the ties around your waist, not bothering to put anything else on underneath. you turn off the air conditioning, just like every morning, and when you leave the bedroom, you quietly close the door behind you.

no staff are coming today; no helpers, no chefs. they rarely come when you and austin are home at the same time—except when he's having one of those parties or dinners with his friends—so the house is completely silent, that kind of silence that only exists in the early hours of the morning, when the world seems to hold its breath before waking.

you go downstairs and cross the living room barefoot to the kitchen, where you don't linger long. you drink a glass of cold water while you empty your breasts, filling three bottles with milk. you put two in the refrigerator and leave the kitchen with one in your hand, filled with warm milk. you go back upstairs and follow the long marble hallway to your baby's room.

however, as soon as you open the door, you stop dead in your tracks.

austin is standing in the middle of the room, wearing only pajama pants that sit low on his hips, his bare torso illuminated by the soft light coming through the window. his short blond hair is tousled, unruly, as if he'd run his hand through it several times when he got up. and in his arms, wrapped in a white blanket, is her.

lori.

your daughter.

his daughter.

your heart leaps slightly in your chest when you see austin holding his baby; she's still asleep, her little head resting against austin's bicep, one of her tiny hands clutching his finger. austin holds her with a naturalness that still surprises you, gently rocking from side to side, as if his body learned the movement before his mind.

you don't speak immediately; instead, you stay there, still and silent, watching with the bottle clutched between your fingers and something warm expanding in your chest. it's such an intimate image, you even feel as if you're interrupting a moment that doesn't concern you.

austin looks up when he senses you. his eyes, still sleepy, light up when he sees you.

"i thought you'd be a little longer." he says softly, careful not to wake the baby. "i missed her and... well." he makes a small gesture, as if he doesn't know how to explain why he ended up there.

you smile gently. "i thought you'd still be asleep." you reply, finally moving toward them.

you hand him the bottle, and austin looks at it for a moment. "now?" he asks.

you nod. "it's warm."

austin settles lori more carefully, bringing the bottle to her lips. the baby stirs slightly, wrinkling her little nose, and then, almost immediately, begins to suck with that soft, rhythmic sound you already recognize as one of the most comforting in the world.

austin exhales slowly, looking at lori with soft eyes full of tenderness. "hello, little one." he murmurs softly, in a low voice. "good morning."

you lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, watching them in silence. you've seen austin on red carpets, in front of cameras, surrounded by people, transformed into something almost unreal for the rest of the world. but nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to seeing him like this: disheveled, barefoot, with your daughter in his arms, completely oblivious to everything but her.

"thank you for giving her to me " he says suddenly, without taking his eyes off lori.

you feel your throat close up a little. "she's yours too, aus." you reply softly.

austin shakes his head slightly, a small smile curving his lips.

you lower your gaze, a little embarrassed, a pinkish tinge tinging your cheeks. "we did something incredible." you correct him, watching austin's smile widen.

"i know, but…" he swallows. "i still can't believe how she came out of you." he looks up at you, and there's something in his eyes that completely disarms you. it's not just love; it's awe, a kind of quiet reverence. "you did something incredible."

lori continues eating, completely absorbed, and austin watches her as if he can't tear his eyes away. every now and then, he wipes the corner of her lips with his thumb, with a gentleness that seems calculated, but is actually instinctive.

for a moment, you think about all the times you doubted yourself during the pregnancy, the fear, the exhaustion, the long nights. and now you're here, watching your husband hold your daughter, looking like he were born to do it.

time seems to stretch. to stop, even.

"she's looks just like you." you say, breaking the silence. "more and more every day."

austin lets out a soft, nasal chuckle. "you say that because you love me."

"and because it's true." you tilt your head slightly, studying lori's profile. "she has your blonde hair, the same shape as your lips, your eyes... even her little nose looks like yours." you look up at him with a small smile. "and she has your calmness. although it's still too early to tell."

austin shakes his head slowly. "no. it's true."

when lori finishes eating, she puts down the bottle with a contented sigh, her eyelids drooping again. austin picks up the bottle and checks that it's empty.

"i think i won." he murmurs.

you know he's not talking about the bottle, but about lori, about you, about his life, about how that night after breaking up with his ex-grilfriend led him to become a husband and now a father.

"you won."

austin settles lori against his shoulder and gently pats her back. a few seconds later, a small burp escapes the baby, and austin smiles as if he's just witnessed a miracle.

"well done." he says, very serious.

you let out a low laugh. "you're ridiculous."

"i'm a proud father."

when lori is completely relaxed again, austin looks down at her and then at you.

"do you want me to change her?" he asks. "i can."

you hesitate for barely a second, more out of habit than anything else. then you nod. "are you sure?"

austin leans toward you and gives you a soft kiss on the lips; brief, but full of meaning.

"go." he repeats. "i'll take care of her."

you close your eyes for a moment, resting your cheek against his shoulder. "thank you."

before leaving, you look at them one last time: austin is already heading to the changing table, whispering to lori, probably telling her a secret only the two of them share.

god, you need to give him another baby.

the living room is bathed in that soft, amber light that only exists when the sun has already set but the night hasn’t fully claimed the house yet. a few lamps are on, strategically placed, warm and low, turning the space into something intimate and almost cocoon-like. the television murmurs quietly in the background, some old movie you’ve both seen a dozen times, something familiar enough that it doesn’t demand attention.

you're curled on one end of the sofa, knees drawn up, a blanket draped loosely over your legs. austin is stretched out beside you, his back against the armrest, one arm propped comfortably as he holds lori against his chest. she's wide awake now, dressed in a soft cotton onesie, her tiny feet bare and kicking lazily against his stomach.

austin is completely gone.

he presses slow, exaggerated kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, the tip of her nose. each one is followed by a quiet sound, little mwahs that make lori wrinkle her nose before bursting into a toothless smile. she lets out a high-pitched giggle, the kind that still feels like magic every single time you hear it.

"there it is." austin murmurs, grinning down at her. "that's my favorite sound in the whole world."

he does it again. another kiss. another giggle.

you watch from your spot, chin resting against your knee, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. you don't interrupt. you don't move. you just... watch, letting the image sink into you: austin butler, movie star, heart-throb, your husband —your husband— lying on a couch in sweatpants, completely undone by a baby who weighs less than a watermelon.

he looks impossibly happy. relaxed in a way he rarely was before lori. softer. like something inside him finally exhaled.

your hand drifts unconsciously to your stomach, your belly. the movement is small, almost involuntary, but it's enough to make your chest tighten.

you've been quiet for a while now. too quiet.

austin notices eventually. he always does. he looks up from lori, eyes flicking to you, immediately attentive.

"y'alright?" he asks softly, looking at you with soft, attentive eyes

you nod, too fast. an automatic gesture that makes you force a tense smile, more like a grimace. "yes, i'm okay." you whisper.

he hums, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn't push. instead, he adjusts lori slightly, letting her rest more comfortably on his chest, her ear pressed against his heartbeat. one of his hands gently pats her back, slow and rhythmic, while the other reaches out to you.

"baby." he calls you softly. his fingers move, asking you to come closer. you look at his hand for a moment, and he moves his fingers again. "hey, come here."

you hesitate for half a second, then scoot closer, settling against his side. his arm wraps around you easily, warm and solid, pulling you into him until your shoulder presses against his ribs. you rest your head against his shoulder, breathing him in: clean soap, warm skin, something uniquely him.

lori makes a little sound, then goes quiet again, her fingers curling into the fabric of austin's shirt.

"she's getting heavier." austin murmurs thoughtfully, looking at her with that expression that never leaves his face every time he looks at her.

you smile softly. "she's growing."

"too fast, yeah." he sighs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "she was just... a really tiny thing and now she's..." he pauses, smiling to himself. "still tiny. but less tiny."

you let out a soft breath of laughter.

silence settles again, comfortable but charged. the movie keeps playing, forgotten. the only sounds are lori's quiet breathing and the distant hum of the house.

your heart starts to beat a little faster.

you know this is the moment. you've been carrying it around all day, turning it over in your mind, waiting for the right time. there's never a perfect one. but this feels… close enough.

"aus?" you murmur. your voice is barely a low, soft sound, almost shy.

"yes, doll?"

you swallow, watching the screen without really watching it. "there's... uh, something i need to tell you."

his body shifts subtly, instantly alert. he looks down at you, concern flickering across his face.

"what is it?" he asks gently. "is everything okay?"

"um, well..." you tilt your head, hesitant, but then you nod again, slower this time. "yeah, yeah, i mean..." you nod again. "yes. everything's okay.”

he waits. he always waits.

you draw a breath, then another. your fingers twist into the blanket on your lap.

"i…" you pause, then force yourself to continue. "i went to see my doctor yesterday."

austin's brows knit together slightly. "why?"

your mouth feels dry. "just… a check-up."

his concern deepens. "but you didn’t tell me." he doesn't sound angry, but... he doesn't sound particularly happy either.

"i know." you answer quickly. "i... i didn’t want to worry you." you look up at him, meeting his eyes. "and i didn’t know for sure yet."

"for sure about what?" he asks quietly.

your heart is pounding now, loud in your ears.

"i'm pregnant."

the words hang there, fragile and terrifying and real.

for a second, just one, austin doesn't react at all. his face goes completely still, as if his brain needs a moment to catch up. then his eyes widen, just slightly.

"what?" he breathes.

you nod, a small, nervous smile tugging at your lips. "i'm pregnant. again."

he blinks.

then again.

and then again.

his gaze flicks instinctively to your stomach, then back to your face. "you're-" he swallows. "but you just had lori."

"i know."

"two months ago."

"i know."

his mouth opens, then closes. his arm tightens around you unconsciously, protective.

"are you-" he stops himself, lowers his voice. his hand suddenly lands gently on your belly. "are you okay?"

"yes." you answer quickly. "i'm okay. the doctor says everything looks fine. it's early, but-"

"jesus." he whispers.

you watch the emotions move across his face in real time: shock, confusion, concern, something like fear. his jaw tightens slightly.

"god, baby, but you're so young..." he says softly, almost to himself. his thumb moves gently over the skin of your stomach. "and your body hasn't even-"

"i know." you repeat, more gently this time. "i know all of that."

austin keeps looking at you for a few more seconds, like he’s still trying to process it all. his hand remains on your stomach. he doesn’t move it.

"they say i control you." he adds quietly, almost ashamed. "that i rush you. that… that i force you into things." the word force costs him something.

you lift your head immediately. "that's not true."

"i know." he cuts in quickly, firm. "i know. but i still hear it. and it makes me want to…" he exhales, holding himself back. "i don't care what they say about me, but i don't want anyone thinking you don't choose." he leans a little closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. "you're the most stubborn person i know." he says with a faint smile. "if i tried to control you, you'd send me straight to hell."

you can’t help but laugh. "correct."

"exactly." he nods, satisfied. "you'd humiliate me publicly."

"probably."

"definitely."

there's pride in his eyes.

he exhales slowly, eyes dropping to lori, who sleeps on, blissfully unaware. he strokes her back once, grounding himself.

"was it-" he hesitates, then looks at you again. "was it planned?"

"i'm pretty sure it wasn't." you say, without taking offense at his question. "but… it doesn’t scare me." you add quietly.

that makes him look at you again, really look at you.

"it doesn't?"

you shake your head again. "i was surprised. and yeah, a little overwhelmed." you give a tiny, nervous laugh. "okay, maybe more than a little. but when i saw the test, i didn’t feel scared. i just thought about… us. about lori, about you and-and i know you want more kids."

his throat works as he swallows.

"you just went through so much." he says, voice low. "pregnancy, labor, recovery… breastfeeding." he grimaces. "i just... i don't know, baby, i hate the idea of your body not getting time to rest."

"i know." you say softly. "but... my body isn't just mine anymore. it hasn't been for a while. and that's okay. i trust you. you have always taken care of me."

he closes his eyes briefly, your words hitting somewhere deep. when he opens them again, something has shifted. lori shifts a little, making a soft sound, and he glances down at her. his expression melts instantly.

a smile starts to form. slow. disbelieving.

"again." he murmurs, almost reverently.

you nod.

"i'm gonna have two little girls." he murmurs. "two."

"maybe not a girl." you say.

he raises an eyebrow. "with my aim, sweetheart? that's straight to the target."

you snort despite yourself. "austin."

"i'm just saying i'm consistent." he grins shamelessly. "precise. efficient."

"you're unbelievable."

"baby, two months." he insists, absurdly proud. "that's professional level."

you swat his chest lightly. "stop bragging about that."

"it's a natural talent." he shrugs. "should put it on my résumé."

"actor, singer and… what, reproductive sniper?"

he lets out a low laugh that vibrates against your cheek. "exactly."

you shake your head, laughing now, tension melting away. "you're impossible."

"and fertile." he adds proudly.

you press your face into his shoulder, groaning. "please stop."

he laughs, the sound full and warm, vibrating through you. then he sobers slightly, lifting your chin so you have to look at him.

"hey..." he says softly, looking at you gith gentle eyes. "i want you to know that i'm really happy, okay? i... i love it when you're carrying our baby. i just..." his thumb brushes your cheek. "i worry because... you're my baby. and i love you. that's all."

"i know." you whisper, staring at him. then you smile, softly. "and i love you too. and..." you sigh. "and i don't care what others say: you've never forced me to do anything, and you're not forcing me to do this. i want this. again. with you."

his expression softens even more as he hears your words, the gentle reverence in them. he leans in and kisses you; slow, tender, careful not to disturb lori. when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

"i got this." he murmurs. "i really do, okay? i'll take care of you. i always will."

you nod, eyes stinging. "i know."

he smiles again, that proud, almost smug smile returning. "guess i should start practicing my... skills."

you glance at lori, sleeping peacefully between you.

"something tells me" you say softly, looking at them. "you'll be just fine."

he presses a kiss to lori's head, then to yours.

"i'm the luckiest man alive." he says simply.

you take a breath and shrug, nodding. "yes, you are." you concede, not caring if you sound boastful.

"and fertile."

"austin."

he laughs again and gives you another kiss on the lips.

the film set is warmly lit, with the lights carefully placed to evoke the atmosphere of a 1970s home. there's a crib, a rocking chair in the corner, prop toys, baby clothes folded on the dresser against the wall, and baz giving quick instructions between sips of coffee and puffs on a cigarette.

austin doesn't listen to anything he says. he can't. not when you're dressed in that pink babydoll that barely covers your beautiful ass. not when you're holding a baby that should be his. not when you look so pretty.

he steps further into the nursery, dressed as elvis, with slicked-back hair and a wardrobe impeccable. he's gone through a thousand rehearsals of his accent, gestures, and movements, but none of that makes him as nervous as what he sees right now: you, his girlfriend, transformed into priscilla, with a baby in your arms.

his heart tightens in a way no camera can capture. the way you hold the baby—tenderly, with such natural care, as if you were born to do it—is tearing him apart inside. austin feels the air in the room grow thick, his concentration slipping through his fingers.

it's too much.

he watches you gently rock the tiny baby, murmuring to her in that low voice only he usually hears at night, and the world around him ceases to matter. it's not the spotlights, the cameras, or the script. it's you. it's the sigh of you with a baby in your arms, so delicate, so beautiful, so fucking perfect that all he can think is: i need to get her pregnant.

he watches you, unable to move from where he stands, holding his breath slightly. every gesture you make, every smile you give the baby, is driving him wild. It's not just that you look beautiful; it's that he sees you in a role he'd never allowed himself to imagine: you with a child, caring for it, loving it, being a mother.

his heart is pounding, and he can't help but imagine it: that little girl in your arms would be his daughter, that baby you're smiling at would be his, you would be the mother of his child, his children. many children.

his breath catches slightly. he forces himself not to show it on his face, because baz is watching him. but inside, he's on the verge of despair. his fingers clench, hidden in the sides of his pants.

"austin, remember: this part is intimate. it's not about elvis the superstar. this is just elvis being a father." baz says, in his energetic, detail-oriented way, walking around the set with headphones around his neck and a coffee in his hand.

austin nods, trying to focus, but his gaze inevitably returns to you. and no, it's not just priscilla he sees, it's you. his girl. his wife. his love. the person who, just by smiling at him while cradling the baby, is completely destroying him.

in his head, the scene splits into two realities: the fictional one, where elvis and priscilla are lisa marie's parents... and the real one, where austin wants nothing more than to skip all the hours, all the scenes, everything, to take you home and make you the mother of his child.

he runs his hand through his hair, trying to calm the heat rising through his body. damn, he's desperate. he wants this so much it almost hurts. he wants to take you in his arms and tell you that he wants to be a father too, with you, now, that he can't wait any longer.

the baby in your arms babbles, and austin swallows. a sound so small, yet so powerful, that he imagines it multiplied: what would your real child sound like? what would you look like, with your rounded belly, walking through the house he would buy for the two of you?

his thoughts become tangled. he sees you laughing, exhausted, with your hair disheveled, holding a newborn as he arrives with flowers and toys. he sees you in bed, caressing your belly while he kisses your navel. he sees you in front of the mirror, wearing loose clothing, blushing because your body is changing… and he's proud, so damn proud, to know that it's his.

damn, he thinks. it's supposed to be a tender, family moment… and instead, all he can imagine is his own daughter in your arms while you smile at him like that. imagining you pregnant, taking care of his child, laughing for him… the desire becomes almost unbearable.

austin approaches the two of you and leans slightly toward the baby to get a better look at her face, but soon his attention is drawn back to you. you tilt your head up so you can look up at him, because you're so small, and then you smile at him with that mix of sweetness and shyness as the warm light illuminates your angelic face, and he feels a strange warmth in his chest… and elsewhere too.

"you look good with a baby." he murmurs softly, his mouth dry.

you smile, sweet, a light blush on your pale cheeks. "do you think so?"

he nods, staring at you. "i do."

you're beautiful.

and he's devastated.

because seeing you like this ignites an instinct he didn't even know was so close to the surface. it's not just tenderness. it's not just desire. it's a primal hunger, a vertigo in his stomach: he wants this with you. he wants to see your belly grow, feel you lean against him at night, kiss your forehead while you complain of tiredness. he wants to see you in his home, in his bed, carrying his baby.

"you're doing too well." he murmurs, barely audible, leaning into your ear while smiling at the rest of the team, as if they were simple words of encouragement between colleagues.

you glance at him, with that sparkle in your eyes that drives him crazy, and answer in a low voice:

"she's just a baby. it's not hard."

it's not hard. those words pierce through him. austin clenches his jaw to keep from laughing, because what he means is: yes, it is. it's hard when all i think about is you, holding our real child.

the casting assistant approaches to take the little thing away, but the baby girl won't let go of the fabric of your babydoll, clinging with her tiny fingers. austin feels his chest swell with absurd pride.

"i think she doesn't to want to let go of you." someone from the crew tells you, in a light tone.

austin laughs along with the others, but inside he thinks: of course not. because you're perfect. because you were born for this.

after adjusting the baby's clothes and the blanket she's wrapped in, the assistant places her back in your arms, and austin stays with you in silence for a moment. there are people around, yes, and there's a camera filming behind the scenes, yes, but he's reached the point where he doesn't care.

in front of him, you move smoothly and gracefully; your blue eyes, framed by eyeliner, gaze down at the baby in your arms with a sweet, maternal gaze that drives him wild, all while you gently rock her, cooing.

if people find out—and they will—he doesn't care. you already have his ring, you already have his last name—even if almost no one knows it yet—, and soon he will give you his baby. and the rest can go fuck themselves.

and then, unable to resist, he leans in close enough to whisper to you:

"you'd look so pretty pregnant."

you blink up, looking at him in surprise, your eyes sparkling as if you weren't sure you'd heard right. and austin smiles, with that mix of cheekiness and vulnerability that only comes out with you.

"austin..." you say softly, with a sweet warning, asking him not to start there, in front of everyone.

but he can't stop himself. not after seeing you like this.

"i'm serious." his words are a firm murmur, buried in his throat. "you would look really pretty pregnant."

you try to hide your smile, biting your lip as you give him that quick, nervous glance, because anyone could approach at any moment and there's literally a camera filming everything.

"don't say things like that here."

"why not?" austin tilts his head, his fingers barely brushing the baby's head in your arms. "you're so beautiful with her... and you would be even more so with our baby."

the word our hangs between you two. you stare at him silently, your cheeks burning, your eyes looking up at him with that mix of longing and innocence that drives him wild. and he feels his pants tighten as he imagines himself bending you over one of the pieces of furniture and making you take it.

"austin." baz's voice snaps him out of his trance, with that australian accent. "are you ready?"

austin swallows, regains his professional smile, and nods, placing a kiss on your forehead before stepping back.

the script says he's supposed to smile softly, kiss the baby's forehead, look at priscilla tenderly, tell her he'll put lisa to sleep while she rests. he does, easily. but deep down, austin fights the urge, the visceral desire to turn all of this into a confession: to whisper in your ear, no matter the crowded set, that he can't wait any longer, that he wants you full of him, round and shiny with pregnancy, that he wants you his in every way.

and that he wants it now.

filming ends late at night. the set is enveloped in that strange silence that only exists when everyone leaves, when the lights go out and the echo of voices still floats in the air. austin emerges from his trailer, still trapped in his body. he spent the whole day holding back, hiding what he felt every time he looked at you with the baby in your arms.

the fresh air hits him, but it doesn't calm him down. he walks slowly, as if he doesn't know where he's going, even though he actually knows exactly where he's headed: his steps are leading him to your trailer. there are no guards on watch, no technicians running back and forth, no cameras. just the night and the feeling that if he doesn't speak now, he'll go crazy.

he doesn't knock. he knows he doesn't need to—not him—and when the door opens, there you are.

you'e no longer priscilla, nor the young mother with a baby in her arms. you're you. just you. no false eyelashes or elaborate hairstyles, your face half-cleansed, still removing your makeup in front of the mirror. and what hits austin hardest is seeing you in one of his hoodies, huge on your small frame, enveloping you as if you were swimming inside the fabric.

god. you're only nineteen.

nineteen, austin thinks, and feels a pang in his chest. you're still so young, such a child compared to him, and at the same time… nothing in the world can stop the fierce desire that consumes him. that instinct that had been haunting him all day returns with even greater force, now that he has you so close, so natural, so much his.

he closes the door behind him and stares at you for a second too long. you notice it, of course, because you know him better than anyone.

"what's wrong?" you ask, in that calm, soft voice, so sweet, so like hers, raising an eyebrow while you continue to hold the cotton ball to your cheek.

he doesn't answer.

"satnin?"

hearing the nickname, he blinks and swallows, taking a step toward you.

"i can't get it out of my head, you know?" he says, directly, without beating around the bush.

you blink, leaving the cotton ball on the vanity. your blue eyes look at him through the mirror. "what?"

"today. you. with the baby." he answers in that voice, that southern accent he can't shake anymore, as he takes off his jacket and throws it on the bed.

you sigh, smiling faintly, as if you knew sooner or later he'd say it. "aus... it was a scene."

he shakes his head, his lips forming a brief grimace. "no. not for me." he murmurs.

your eyes meet in the mirror.

austin stops behind you, watching you remove your mascara, and the sigh splits him in two. he doesn't need more embellishments, more costumes, more lights, he doesn't want that. he wants you like this, with your hair a little messy, your skin clean, your comfortable clothes that smell like him.

he leans forward, just enough so that his reflection is a breath away from yours.

"i went crazy." he confesses in a husky murmur, staring at you through the mirror. "all day, every time i saw you with that baby girl in your arms, i was lost. i didn't see priscilla, you know? you're not her, you're better than her. i... i didn't see the stupid scene, i only saw you. and i thought... god, i thought you'd look even more beautiful pregnant."

you tense a little; he can feel it, but you don't interrupt, so he continues.

"it's crazy." he continues, laughing humorlessly, clenching his fists on the vanity table. "i know, baby. 'cause i know how young you are, i know. i think about it and tell myself i should calm down, that it's not the time. but i can't help it, doll. i can't." his eyes shine, and it's not just desire; it's pure vulnerability. "i..." he looks at your body, then back into your eyes. "i wanna see you with my child inside you. i want it so much it hurts."

you slowly turn in your chair to face him. you're wrapped in your hoodie, your legs tucked beneath you, so small and fragile that austin's breath catches in his throat.

"aus…" you begin, as if searching for a way to stop him.

but he kneels in front of you, holding your hands tightly, not letting you look away.

"listen to me." his voice lowers, almost a plea. "it's not just desire, okay, baby? it's-it's not just that turns me on to see you like that. it's that i feel as if it's... i don't know, inevitable. as if your body and mine were destined to create something together."

he watches you swallow, your eyes shining, confused between fear and tenderness.

austin lowers his forehead to rest against your cold, pale knees. he needs to cling to you physically so he doesn't break.

"i wanna do it with you. i wanna give you a child. i want you to be the mother of my children, as many as you want."

you gently stroke his dark hair, your thin, cold fingers running through his short locks, trembling with each caress.

"i'm..." you stop, but then you try again: "i'm nineteen, austin."

he lifts his head, his eyes desperate when they find you. "i know. and that's why i feel like a fucking crazy. and i know people will talk, they'll think shit about me, about us, they'll say i'm a fucking predator. i know. but fuck them. because i love you, and i know i've never wanted anything in life like this."

the silence thickens.

you look at him for a long moment, your breathing ragged, before pulling him towards you, wrapping the hoodie you're wearing around him. and in that hug, austin knows that, soon, very soon, his vision will be fulfilled. he'll see you with his child inside. and it will be the most perfect image of his life.

the clock strikes almost one in the morning when you finally arrive at the apartment. the silence of the city contrasts with the storm inside austin. the two of you had spent the entire day surrounded by lights and cameras, but nothing had exhausted him more than the struggle with his own thoughts: that constant vision of you, pregnant with his child.

you take the elevator together, without speaking, tired after a long day and comfortable with the shared silence. he hugs you, putting an arm around your shoulders, making you rest your forehead against his chest as the elevator ascends.

when you finally arrive at his apartment, you take off your shoes, leave your bag on the couch, and go straight to the kitchen for a glass of water. austin watches you from the doorway, his heart pounding.

the hoodie you're still wearing is his, and it reaches mid-thigh. your long, dark hair is free, falling over your back, your skin clean and fresh from the quick shower on set. you're no longer priscilla, you're no longer the king's wife, you're you. his wife. and, to austin, you're infinitely more beautiful. just like that, without extravagant hairstyles and so much makeup, you're perfect.

he approaches slowly, as if afraid of scaring you, because he already has, though not intentionally. still, he can't resist the urge to touch you. he wraps his arms around your waist from behind, pressing your back to his chest, and buries his face in your neck, inhaling your sweet, soft scent. you sigh, resting your free hand on his forearm.

"you're restless." you murmur, with a tired smile.

"i can't stop thinking about it." he admitted, his voice rasping.

"again?" you barely turn your face to look at him.

austin nods, not letting go. "the whole way back, every minute, all i could think about was you with a baby inside."

after a moment, you place the glass on the counter, turning in his arms. you rest your hands on his chest and stare up at him, as if trying to gauge the extent of his obsession.

"you know it's not that simple, austin."

"i know." he closes his eyes for a second, trying to control himself. but when he opens them, all they reflect is the burning truth of his desire. "but tell me you didn't think about it. tell me that, when you were holding her in your arms, you didn't imagine what it would be like if she were ours."

you open your mouth to respond, but not a word comes out; no protest, no rejection. and that silence, short and tense, is enough to ignite him even more.

austin uses his hands on your waist to lift you up, sitting you on the counter, and positions himself between your legs. he kisses you with an urgency he's been suppressing for hours, and you respond with a low moan, gripping your shoulders as you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling his already hard cock against your core. his hands are everywhere; on your waist, your thighs, your ass. he grips hard, leaving his imprints on your pale skin.

"aus…" you try to say, but he doesn't let you continue.

"let me make you a mom." he whispers against your mouth, desperately, rubbing against you. "let me give you what i saw today."

for a moment, silence covers everything. all you hear is his labored breathing against yours, the uneven pounding of his heart that you can almost feel in your own chest.

"austin…" you repeat, barely a whisper. he doesn't know if you're trying to stop him or if, deep down, you're asking him not to stop.

he lowers his forehead to rest against yours. his voice shakes a little, rough, laden with something more than desire.

"i'm not saying this on impulse," he murmurs, his eyes closed. "i'm sayin' it because i felt it. because when i saw you with her, so sweet, so natural… i-i understood that's what i want with you. everything. anything." he places a soft kiss on your forehead and, against your skin, murmurs again: "let me give you a baby. let me show you how much you mean to me."

suddenly, he feels your hands searching for him; brushing against his neck, his hair, your slender fingers tangling through his short locks. your other hand slides up to his face, caressing the soft skin of his cheek. for a moment, you just stay silent, saying nothing, just looking at him; his eyes, his face.

then, gently, like someone surrendering to something inevitable, you say:

"there are two months left until filming ends..." you pause for a moment. you lick your lips and take a breath before speaking again. "maybe... maybe no one will notice if it happens now."

your words are like pure gasoline. austin gasps, incredulous, and smiles against your lips.

"are you saying yes?"

you nod, shyly, but with conviction. you know what you want.

he stays still for a moment, his gaze clouded by a mixture of surprise and desire. you want this; you want to have his baby. his hand moves from your waist to your stomach, spreading possessively over your flat belly. he's never had unprotected sex. he's always been cautious. but right now you're offering him your womb, your body, unprotected.

he swallows hard and lowers his voice. "will you give it to me? your body? will you give it to me for my baby?"

his words make you blush even more, and your cheeks are tinged with an adorable shade of pink that makes you look identical to sin incarnate. despite the shyness and embarrassment you're clearly feeling, you nod again, looking at him with sparkling eyes.

he wraps an arm around your waist and leads you to the bedroom, almost groping you, still kissing you. he lays you down on the bed and leans over you, contemplating you for a second in silence.

you look... stunning. unreal. with your black hair cascading around your head like an angel's halo, your cheeks flushed and sweet, your eyes shining as they gaze at him longingly.

you're a sin, and they could condemn austin, because he will be your eternal slave.

"you're so young, so beautiful..." he says with a broken breath. "and yet, all i want is to fill you with me."

you caress his cheek tenderly, your eyes soft and your cheeks flushed. "then do it."

austin closes his eyes, letting out a grateful murmur, almost like a prayer.

"i will." he promises, resting his forehead against yours.

he kisses you like a hungry man, taking just enough initiative to make you shudder audibly under his control. that awakens something fiery in his chest—that little sound you make shyly—and he tightens his grip on your waist, pulling you closer to his body even though there's no space left between you.

with a speed that almost makes him proud, you slip your tongue into his mouth, demanding more like the greedy little thing you are. just as he had taught you. the thrill of the thought leaves him breathless as he holds your neck firmly and tilts his head just enough to deepen the kiss as you desire. you have the audacity to laugh between his lips, but his tongue absorbs it and transforms it into a dreamy moan, while your pretty fingers easily unbutton his pants.

fuck, he's been hard all day. he needs to bury his cock inside you or he will go crazy.

all he needs to do is get his hands on you the right way to pull you out of his hoodie. with his tongue in your mouth, he takes the initiative to slide the soft, padded fabric upward, before pulling back so he can pull it over your head, exposing your bare breasts in the air-conditioned room. he takes a moment to gaze at them properly, and his hands move toward them, tracing the round, pretty skin and the soft nipples throbbing in the cool air.

"fuck, baby…" he groans, cupping your perky breasts tenderly before giving them a squeeze. 

he leans in to take one of them into his mouth, licking your nipple before taking it into his warm, wet mouth for a voracious suck. he feels your back arch, pushing your breasts closer to him, and austin rolls your sweet pearl between his teeth, listening to you gasp. he switches sides, showing the same tenderness to your other breast as well, before pulling away with a wet pop. without looking away, he gently caresses them with his hands, watching how shiny and beautiful they look covered in his saliva.

"you like them?" you ask sweetly.

his eyes meet yours for a moment. "you already know that." he looks back at your breasts, never stopping his caresses, feeling them soft and round in his hands. "god, i can't wait to see them full of milk."

"yeah?" you sigh. "are you gonna drink from them?"

fuck.

"oh, i will." he moves a hand from your chest to grab your face in an almost painful grip. holding your sweet face in one hand, pinching your cheeks just enough to keep you in place, he speaks directly to you in a low whisper: "every day. and you'll love it, won't you? you're so naughty, angel."

the sly smile you give him back is incredibly revealing, as if you're enjoying the teasing, the dirty talk, the fact that a man who has authority over you is calling you naughty. austin isn't surprised: he knows you're shy, almost innocent, but you're not a saint.

austin gives you another kiss on the lips before stepping back, getting out of bed to take off his shirt and pants. meanwhile, wearing only your pink lace panties, you kneel in the center of the bed, waiting for him with wide eyes and an innocent, almost childlike expression. when he's completely naked, he kneels on the mattress and moves closer to you, reaching out to pinch a nipple before his lips find yours again.

you moan into his mouth; your soft hands cup his face as he kisses you like a starving man, adam in his deepest desperation. with his tongue in your mouth and his hands on your waist, he guides you until you're lying beneath him. his hands trace your body from where he kneels between your silky legs, feeling every curve and line, down to your hips and the waistband of your tiny panties.

he traces the edge as he whispers to you: "do you want my baby?"

your head falls back against the mattress with a sharp moan at his suggestion, his relentless teasing, the way he utters obscene words with such grace. he smiles and pulls your panties down your legs, watching as the lace clings to your pussy for a second longer because of how wet you are before it comes away. he tosses them to the side of the bed and then spreads your legs to see you lying spread-eagled before him like a feast.

you're glistening; wet, swollen, and ready, completely shaved. austin has never mind women with some hair, but there's something about your perfectly smooth skin staring back at him—swollen, pink, and moist—that arouses him intensely. just like the first time he took you.

he spreads your pussy open between his thumb and index finger and leans in to spit on you before pulling his hand back and giving your clit a hard slap. you let out an obscene moan—a mix of something childish and something provocative—writhing on the bed because you're so sensitive.

he smiles to himself and moves up to rub the head of his cock against your wet entrance, teasing you both. he's so big that just the tip opens you up slightly.

"you'll look beautiful with a big baby bump."

austin thrusts into you with exasperating slowness, raising his hand to wrap around your throat and hold you as he fills you inch by inch. he can watch your face contort at the expansion of his cock, your eyebrows arching and your long lashes fluttering. you murmur a silent yes into the room, nodding slightly as if it were almost instinctive.

moaning with pleasure as you feel his cock sinking into your warm, wet hole, austin tightens his grip around your throat slightly, leaning over you so his other hand can grab one of your breasts at the same time. and then he starts to move.

he watches you frown, your expression full of pleasure. "oh..." you whisper dumbly, staring up at him.

he starts fucking you hard and fast; the sound of skin against skin fills the room along with your moans and his grunts. you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. his cock takes over your hole again and again, and he watches almost tenderly as your hands grip his wrist. not to pull his hand away from your throat, but to keep it there.

"i'm gonna fucking breed you." he growls.

your response is an almost incoherent jumble of pleasure. "yes… yes, daddy… fuck, that's what i want…"

"say it." he demands between thrusts. "say you want me to breed you."

you moan loudly and nod frantically: "yes… yes, i want you to… breed me. fill me with your baby… fuck."

austin stares at you, taking in the vast expanse of your body, from your trembling, spread legs to your perky breasts bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts. you look like a perfect little dolly. and to top it all off, with every hard thrust into your supple body, he can see the bulge of his cock pressing against your lower belly from the inside out. you're so soft, beautiful, and unreal. so his.

"you'll look so beautiful when you're pregnant..." he murmurs, feeling his cock hit your cervix with every thrust.

he spreads your legs wider, deepening the angle even further. he watches where you're connect: your small body takes in his huge size with ease. he pulls out almost completely before thrusting back in hard, making you whimper and clench your hands around your wrist.

he groans and pulls his hand away from your throat to grab your face; his grip is tight, digging into your cheeks. your face in his hand is a sight to behold; furrowed brow, eyes clouded and brimming with tears, lips parted, pleasure written all over your expression. the sight almost makes him come because you’re so beautiful.

and, god, you're gonna be such a good mom.

"i'm gonna get you pregnant, you hear me?” he says, almost in a whisper, staring intently at you. he pulls out and then thrusts back into you, hard, burying himself all the way inside you, making you arch your back and let out a loud moan. "and then you're gonna give birth." he does the same, drawing another moan from you. "and then i'm gonna get you pregnant again." he pulls out again and sinks into you. you moan again. "and again." once more, this time harder. "and again." this time, you close your eyes tightly, and his expression softens as he sees two tears sliding down your face. "i know you want it."

you don't say a word, but your pussy is so wet and loose from the stretching of his cock that he's practically sliding into a warm, slippery hole made to receive his cum. he pulls back again and thrusts deep inside you, rubbing his pubic bone against your clit.

you whine helplessly and throw your head back, your legs shaking around his waist.

seeing you fall apart like that makes him absolutely wild. he starts fucking you again, with deep and fast thrusts, grinding that pubic bone against your clit with each snap of his hips.

"shit... can you feel my cock?" he reaches down. "baby?"

you nod frantically, tears leaking from your eyes. "you're so big..."

austin growls, wrapping his arms around your thighs to pull your legs back and open them wider. he's watching his thick, throbbing dick slide in and out of your small, pink pussy. he spreads your cheeks slightly, watching how your hole stretches around him.

your pussy is completely stuffed by his member, and it looks adorable and obscene at the same time. he starts fucking you harder and faster, his heavy balls slapping against your baby hole.

"god damn, you're so fucking tiny..."

his cock is so big and hard that it hits your cervix with every thrust, making you cry out in pleasure and pain.

he feels your walls vibrate and clench around him, knowing you're close. he circles your throat with his hand, applying light pressure as he enters you.

"cum on my cock, honey. show me how much you want my baby."

the pressure on your throat makes you moan louder and tighter around his cock. "o-oh... austin... austin, i..." your pussy starts clamping down hard around his size.

seeing you come apart around his dick makes his balls tighten. he watches your small body convulse, your breasts bouncing as you moan. he spreads your legs wider again, hammering inside you deep and fast, hitting that perfect spot that makes you screech.

austin gets even harder inside you, if that's possible, feeling your pussy milking his cock. he wraps an arm around your waist and suddenly flips you over, leaving you on all fours. he spanks you hard before grabbing your hips and pulling you back onto his member.

you moan, your face buried in the pillow.

he sinks deeply into you again, starting to set a firm pace. staring down at your body positioned beneath him, he swears nothing is a hotter sight. your lean body with curves accentuated with the arch of your back, the way your black hair spills in messy waves over your shoulders and that ass of yours is so perfectly round and welcomed his hands in a firm grip. 

"do you want my baby inside you?"

you moan loudly, pushing back to him, feeling him even deeper. he feels you get wetter and tighter at the thought of being pregnant with his child. with a loud groan, he starts to fuck you even harder and faster.

he slaps his hand across your ass, staining the skin pink before he's grabbing your flesh and yanking you back into his thrusts with a handsome groan.

"answer the question."

you nod frantically, your words coming out as broken moans. "y-yes... please... put a baby in me..." you arch your back more, pushing your ass out and spreading your legs wider, giving him deeper access. "breed me, please."

hearing you beg so prettily for his baby makes his dick throb inside you. he starts fucking you even harder, his hips slapping against your reddened ass with every thrust. "you're gonna be so full with my kid... will you give it to me? will you give me my lisa?"

you nod eagerly, pushing your hips back against him. "yes, yes, i will, i will, i promise."

"will you let me put her inside your body? will you give birth to her for me, baby?"

at this point, you're making non-stop whimpering and moaning sounds, completely overwhelmed with pleasure and the thought of being pregnant with his daughter.

"daddy..."

hearing you call him that makes his balls tighten. he watches your small body start to shake again. he spreads your cheeks wider, going even deeper. he finds your g-spot and nails it with each thrust, making you screech louder, cumming all over his cock again.

god, he loves making you noisy and squirmy like this.

your pussy spasm and gush around his thick cock. you're making a mess on the bed, soaking it with your juices. he leans over you, his chest pressing against your back as he whispers in your ear.

"you're so damn wet..." he spanks your ass again, leaving another red handprint.

your body goes limp suddenly, overloaded with two orgasms. you make a weak whimpering noise instead of moaning now. your hole is pulsing around him softly, trying to push him out because it's too sensitive.

but you don't do anything to push him away. despite the overstimulation, you stay still—or try to—so he can use your body. and austin does. he takes full advantage, because he's just a man, like the ones who destroyed the world. he fucks you hard against the bed, sliding a hand down your back to press you against the mattress, your ass in the air and ready for him.

you look like a beautiful little kitten.

"yeah…" you say in a purr, your words slurred with pleasure.

he smiles, leaning over you, covering your small body beneath his.

you couldn't escape even if you wanted to.

"what would people say if they saw my priscilla acting like a whore?"

and he's gotten you so used to humiliation that instead of complaining or trying to pull away, you just squeeze around his cock and let out a lewd moan.

"you're the one who wants to get me pregnant." you manage to say.

"and you're the stupid girl who's gonna carry it inside." and with that, he presses your face into the mattress with his hand and fucks you with hard, cruel thrusts that make you moan every time he sinks into you.

his balls are slapping against your overstimulated clit with every thrust, making you whimper and shake.

"fuck, daddy..."

"what? my baby wants to come again?"

"please..."

"beg more."

"daddy, please..." you plead, almost crying. "i'll be a good mom, i promise."

well, fuck.

"give me one more, then."

you whine and squirm weakly, trying to escape his relentless thrusts. but your sensitive body can't handle it anymore. you start crying out softly as he hits that spot again, your legs shaking violently.

with a final brutal thrust, he buries himself deep inside you and holds still, his hand covering your mouth to muffle your cries as he comes hard, filling you up. your body convulses one last time and you scream muffled into his hand as another orgasm rips through you.

"there..."

he stays buried inside you for a long moment, his cock pulsing as he finishes coming. slowly, he removes his hand from your mouth and gently pulls out, his softening cock slipping free with a wet sound. you collapse forward onto the messy bed, completely spent and overwhelmed.

he collapses down beside you, pulling your limp body onto his chest. he wraps his arms around you gently, holding you close as you both catch your breath. he buries his face in your hair and just holds you, his heart racing slowly as he comes down from the high.

"you did so well, sweetheart..." he gives you a kiss on the head. "such a good wife."

you stay curled up in his arms for a long moment, your body trembling weakly. he runs his fingers through your messy hair gently, pressing soft kisses to your forehead and cheeks.

he smiles softly and murmurs. "i think i might have broken ya... you good?"

"i..." you begin, your voice tired. "if it happens..."

his expression turns serious, his arms tightening around you possessively at the mention of pregnancy. he cuts you off with a low, firm tone. "if i get you pregnant, you're keeping it. no arguments. i was serious. this is not... just a fantasy, i want kids."

you look up at him. you seem hopeful, and it makes his heart ache, because even though you were having second thoughts just a few hours ago, now it seems like you really want to be a mom.

"promise me." you whisper.

"i promise." he looks down at you, his eyes intense and serious.

"and promise me you won't care what people say when they find out."

he understands immediately what you mean, as if your minds were connected.

you're young. and it's not that he's not—he's barely twenty-nine—but you're much younger. you were eighteen when you met him, now nineteen, soon to be twenty, and even though ten years isn't a huge difference, you know the internet will have a lot to say when they find out about your early marriage, especially when they find out you're expecting his baby.

and of course, he's not an idiot; he knows the comparisons and ridiculous theories from people with no lives of their own will come. elvis, priscilla. austin, you. blah, blah, blah. but austin isn't elvis—no one is like him, let's be honest—he is choosing you, he does have a choice, he's with you because he wants to, not because someone is forcing him. and you're not priscilla—god knows you're so much better—you don't want his name or his money, you're with him because you love him, not because of some twisted plan.

and, you know what? in his defense, you're so beautiful and sweet, and he just couldn't help falling in love with you.

he looks at you. "i promise."

the digital clock on your nightstand reads 11:11 p.m, and the mansion smells of expensive perfume and old arguments. you're sitting on your bedroom floor, on the soft white rug in the center of the room, your phone clutched in trembling hands, your makeup still fresh from a photoshoot that had gone well until you came home and found priscilla, who for some reason had decided to pay a visit.

you don't even remember the exact moment you snapped; you only remember hearing lies pouring from priscilla's mouth, and unlike your family, you decided you'd had enough and wanted nothing more to do with it.

the rest is... blurry.

the dim light on your phone illuminates your face. austin's name flashes at the top of the chat, and you look at it as if you might find there the calm you've been missing, the calm you've been missing ever since he left for australia.

"don't bother him..." you murmur, biting your lip, but your thumb is already pressing the call icon.

silently, you wait. embarrassed, because he's probably still on set or simply doesn't need to be bothered, but you still can't help it. you need him. although that's nothing new. the ringtone buzzes once, twice, three times... and just as you think about hanging up, his voice comes through on the other end, a little husky, soft, with that accent that sounds like a refuge to you.

"y/n?" he asks. "everythin' okay, baby?"

you inhale shakily and, for a moment, stare at the huge framed picture of your grandfather above your bed, unsure where to begin.

"i don't know..." you murmur, finally looking away. in the absolute darkness of your room, you bite a nail as you stare out the window. "i think i'm tired."

there's a brief silence, that kind of pause where he usually holds back the urge to run out and find you.

"what happened?"

"priscilla. she came over, i don't know why, and mom just... let her in, again." you swallow, and your voice cracks slightly. "and... and this shit ain't f'r me. i just... i just wanna disappear for a while."

austin sighs, and you swear you can almost picture him running his hand through his hair, with that mixture of tenderness and concern that's so uniquely his.

"then do it, baby." he says, without thinking too much. "drop everythin' and come with me."

you blink.

"what?"

"come with me."

you blink again, surprised.

"to australia?"

"to australia." his tone is firmer this time, more determined. "i'll take care of you. i promise you'll be safe here."

your heart leaps. "i can't... i can't just leave."

"yes, you can." his voice is calm, but firm. "you're eighteen now, baby. you don’t gotta 'splain nothin' t' nobody, alright?"

you give a nervous giggle, your eyes fixed on the ring resting in your palm; one of the rings that used to belong to your grandfather.

sure, it should be in a museum, but it was your grandfather's and you wanted it, so you took it.

"do you know what they’d say if they found out i ran off t’ be with you?"

"that you got tired of all the drama an' the lies." he answers calmly. "an' they'd be right."

"what if mom comes lookin' f'r me?" you whisper, your voice so low it's barely audible over the static on the phone.

"let her come lookin’ for you." he replies, gently but firmly. "she can’t keep controllin’ everythin’ you do. you deserve t' breathe, don’t ya?"

you bite your lip. the silence stretches for a few seconds, only the sound of the wind on the other end of the line, and his breathing.

"i don’t know if i can." you admit, your voice barely a whisper. "i ain't like you, austin. i... i don't know nothin'. i'm eighteen."

"i know." he says, after a pause. "that's why i'm tellin' you. i'm gonna take care of you. nothin' bad's gonna happen t' you here. i'm gonna take care of you."

his words hang in the air. you look at the ring again, as if it were an invisible compass.

"i swear, if you were here, i’d hold you till you stopped shaking'."

you close your eyes. "don't say that."

"why not?"

" 'cause you'll make me cry."

"cry, sweet girl. just don't stay there."

the lump in your throat tightens. you take a deep breath.

"what if i change my mind?"

"you won't."

"how do you know?"

" 'cause it’s me." he replies, with a smile you can almost hear. "an' 'cause deep down, you already made up your mind t' leave. you're just waitin' for somebody t' say it out loud. so… i'm sayin' it."

you remain silent.

"and what if all this goes wrong?"

"then we'll fix it." he says confidently, without hesitation. "like we always do."

you take a deep breath. "austin..." your voice trembles slightly, and you swallow. "i won't want to come back."

"i know." he replies gently, understandingly. "and you don’t have to, baby. stay here till filmin' wraps, an' i can come back t' california with you. and if not… then we stay here. i buy us a house right here, make our life here. 'member the kids you told me 'bout? we can have ’em here."

you remain silent for several seconds, just staring at the ring in your palm. deep down, you know this conversation isn't new; he's told you this before, many times, in other words, when he sees you frustrated by your grandmother's lies, your family's lack of initiative, or the weight of your last name.

but this time, his voice sounds different, almost as if he's reaching out to you in the darkness.

and then you remember the nights you spent together before he left, how he held you after making love until you cried, the drives in his car around los angeles, the laughter in his apartment while you composed on his guitar and he read a script. you remember how safe you feel when he holds you, how his voice can calm your racing heart with just a word: i'm here, baby.

and you understand: he's your home.

"austin..." you whisper, a smile slowly forming on your lips.

"come with me, love. i'll be waitin'."

the call ends.

your fingers tremble slightly as you lower the phone, leaving it forgotten on the rug. for a moment, everything is silent, save for the soft sound of the wind coming in through the window, moving the curtains as if they're trying to tell you something. the ring remains in your palm, cold, heavy, yet somehow comforting because of the memory of who it belongs to.

you let out a trembling sigh and look around: the enormous portrait of your grandfather above your bed, a photo with riley on your nightstand, your guitar in the corner, the flowers your mother sends to be changed every week. everything so tidy, so perfect… and so foreign.

you close your hand around the ring.

you place it against your chest, right over your heart, and close your eyes. and you think of your grandfather. you think of his voice. his laughter. how good he was. how he would have loved you if he had known you. how you love him even though he could never hold you. and then you think of austin. how he says your name as if it were a secret only he knows. how he holds you after sex. how he looks at you as if you were the only good thing in the world.

when you open your eyes again, something inside you has already decided.

you grab your sweatshirt, which is actually austin's, put on some knee-high brown boots, and take one last look at yourself in the mirror. your hair is a mess, your eyes still wet. but there's something different about your reflection: something serene.

fuck it.

at 4:25 a.m, while your mother sleeps in calabasas, you're crossing the dark sky wearing a baseball cap, an oversized hoodie that belongs to austin, and your grandfather's ring clutched tightly between your fingers. at the bottom of your bag is a notebook filled with all the lyrics to the songs you're writing, your laptop, your tablet, and a bottle of cologne austin gave you the last time you saw him, still in its box.

the flight feels endless. between your grandfather's songs and the memories of the phone call, you feel something between fear and excitement. you hadn't planned anything—you hadn't even packed properly—but for the first time in a long time, you don't feel trapped.

as the plane cuts through the clouds, you try not to think too much. that was the first thing you told yourself when you boarded: don't think, just breathe. but it's impossible. because every time you look out the window and see the sky, your mind goes back home. to the door you closed silently. to your mother, who will surely walk into your room in a few hours and see the empty bed, the forgotten charger, the sweatshirt she kept asking you to fold lying on the chair.

you feel a void in your chest, as if you left something vital behind. and you did. you left everything.

you don't know if what you did was brave or cowardly, only that it was necessary. the idea of ​​staying there, smiling for photos, pretending to be okay, listening to your grandmother's lies and dealing with your family's drama... is suffocating.

at some point, as the plane gently vibrates and the lights dim, you wonder if you're making an irreversible mistake. if you should have left a note for your mother, or riley, or even a message. but you didn't. you didn't want anyone trying to stop you.

you know your mother will be furious when she finds out you ran away not just from home, but from the country. you know riley and ben will worry a lot, the twins will be sad, and people will talk. really, you know it, but right now you feel happy, so there literally can't be nothing wrong with it.

you take a deep breath.

and even though everything still hurts—your chest, your eyes, the homesickness—there's something different now: a faint but steady feeling, like an invisible thread pulling you forward. for the first time, you don't feel like you're running away. you feel like you're going toward something.

you're going home.

it's 3:15 p.m when the plane lands in queensland, and the sun is so golden it seems like a promise of something new, something better, and you have to hold back the tears. not tears of sadness, but of relief, because it's as if, suddenly, the air weighs less. you step off the plane wearing sunglasses, your heart pounding wildly in your chest, immediately feeling the humid heat of queensland envelop you like a warm hug now that you've taken off your sweatshirt.

the airport is noisy, full of voices and announcements, but you can only hear one thing: your own rapid breathing. your hands tremble as you walk through the sea of ​​people, dragging your suitcase, searching for a familiar face in the crowd, until you see him.

because you see him.

austin is there.

he's waiting in the arrivals area, standing next to a column, wearing a cap and a black mask that barely conceal the obvious: that even trying to blend in, he's still him. he's still unfairly tall and as beautiful as ever, and when your eyes meet, everything else disappears.

the air you've been holding in your lungs bursts out.

and you… run. you just… run.

you drop your suitcase, leaving it behind, hitting the ground with a thud. people part as you close the distance between you and him, tears welling up unbidden. austin opens his arms just as you throw yourself at him and wraps you in a grip that instantly melts you.

you bury your face in his neck.

he smells exactly the same: his favorite cologne, warm skin, and home.

austin says nothing at first. he just holds you, his body tense, his breath slightly trembling, as if he's been waiting for this for months. his hand slides down your back to your hair, stroking it in a slow, reverent gesture.

the hug is long, warm, and full of relief, like a breath after holding your breath for months. you cling to austin like a koala, your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck, tightly, not wanting to let go, because you don't want to. his strong arms hold you close, one around your waist and the other supporting your head, cradling you like someone holding their most precious treasure.

for the first time in months, you breathe. you truly breathe. without that weight, without that pressure.

"you did it." he whispers against your hair.

"i did it." you repeat, with a shaky giggle, still holding him.

you feel him chuckle softly, a broken smile, and then he pulls away just a little, enough to look into your eyes. his eyes, as blue as yours, are moist, shining under the white airport lights, and they are the most beautiful eyes you have ever seen, a work of art that everyone deserves to see and yet only you can have.

"i can't believe it." he says, gently shaking his head. "i thought i was dreamin'."

"you're not dreaming." you smile, trembling slightly in his strong arms. "i'm here."

"you're here." austin gently strokes your cheek with his thumb, his voice low, as if afraid of breaking something fragile. "you came."

you look down, and your smile becomes smaller, more tender. "to you."

he nods slowly, still looking at you. "you came to me." he pulls you close again, holding you tight. then, against your ear, he says; "you'll be okay here, do you hear me? i'm gonna take care of you."

you close your eyes, completely relieved to hear his words. you finally feel the weight of the past few months melt away, because here he is; austin, your home. no matter how many things are broken in your life: as long as austin is with you, nothing else matters.

austin doesn't let go of you, doesn't put you down, he holds you tightly against his body with one arm, curled up like a koala, and that's how he grabs your suitcase and leads you out of the airport. many people stare; perhaps because of the strange scene or perhaps because they recognize you. you don't know, nor do you care, you just let austin lead you to his car.

he puts you in the passenger seat, takes off his mask, and finally kisses you. slowly at first, as if he were afraid you were a dream, and then hungrily, with the desperation of someone who has waited too long. his hands, big and strong, slide down your waist, up under your blouse, caressing your warm back beneath his palms.

you kiss him back, showing a little more desperation than he does, because you're not good at controlling yourself with him, your shaking hands clutching his shirt as if the fabric could anchor you to him.

the kiss ends several seconds later, because you're in an airport and can't do anything, but you're still breathing the same air, face to face, panting, foreheads pressed against each other's as you smile, realizing how inevitable this was.

of course you'd come. you can't live without him.

seconds pass, maybe minutes, and his forehead remains pressed against yours, his warm, confident fingers still brushing your waist, as if he can't quite believe you're really here, with him, after months apart.

"you have no idea how happy i am right now." he murmurs, a smile barely curving his lips, his voice husky, still trembling with emotion.

"no. i know. i know because i feel it too." you reply, trying to sound light, even though your throat burns with all the things you haven't said for months.

"and now you're here." he murmurs, letting out a low, almost incredulous laugh. then he leans down again and kisses your cheek, your chin, the corner of your lips, as if he needs to memorize you quickly before someone interrupts. "you look thinner." he says, not intending to judge, just with that mixture of concern and tenderness that comes out without thinking.

"it's your fault." you reply, laughing, running your fingers along his neck, feeling his rapid pulse beneath his skin. "i wasn't sleepin', i wasn't eating... i just kept thinkin' about whether you'd still love me when we saw each other again."

he looks at you intently, without a second's hesitation. "don't you dare say somethin' like that again." his voice is low, firm, but also pained. his thumb brushes your cheek, and there's more vulnerability in his eyes than he usually shows. "i thought 'bout you every day." he whispers. "i don't care if you're different, if you're tired or broken, or if you hate me for leavin' you there. the only thing that matters is that you're here."

you smile slightly, swallowing the lump in your throat, and place a hand on his chest. "i don't hate you. i never could."

he nods, takes your hand, and kisses it.

"good. 'cause i'm not letting go of you again."

"i hope you don't."

"ready to go home?"

you let out a small laugh, feeling your throat sore from the tears you're trying to hold back. you close your eyes tightly and furrow your brow, your forehead still pressed against his.

finally, almost pleading, you nod: "yes..." you breathe in his scent. "take me home."

he looks at you for a moment, studying your expression, and then nods, kissing your forehead. he lets go of your hand, fastens your seatbelt, and closes your door.

the drive home is quiet, but a pleasant, peaceful silence, like the calm after a storm. you're sitting in the passenger seat, watching queensland pass by the window: the wide roads, the deep green of the trees, the sky so clear it looks freshly washed. you feel relaxed, carefree, though still with the feeling that this is unreal, a dream, because it's too good.

but that's the thing. it's real. austin, beside you, his hand on your thigh as if it belongs there, is real. you, in his car, is real. you're moving to australia, you're moving with your boyfriend, to another country, with him. you're finally making your own life.

"are you okay?" austin asks you at a stoplight, turning his head to give you his full attention.

you look away from the window and meet his gaze; his face, so, so beautiful, his clear, bright eyes fixed on you and only you. his hand on your thigh moves up and down, caressing your soft skin. you look at him silently for a moment, before leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the lips that makes him chuckle.

"is that a yes?" he asks, laughing, though he's already on his way to give you another kiss.

this time, his hand on your thigh grasps your neck and he kisses you again, this time a longer kiss that tastes of coffee and vanilla. your hand travels to his wrist and you let it rest there, relaxing, feeling his warm skin beneath your fingertips as he feels your pulse under his fingers, but you soon frown when you hear austin click your seatbelt open.

before you can ask anything, he easily pulls you out of your seat and settles you onto his lap, your back against the window. you let out a small gasp of surprise, but then quickly melt against his side, perched on his thigh, both hands resting in your lap and your boots brushing the edge of the passenger seat.

"is this okay?" you whisper nervously as he wraps his arms around you, one gripping the top of the steering wheel, the other using your shins as an armrest for the gearshift.

"sure." he replies with a smile, his lips brushing your forehead. "you deserve a special seat, don't ya think?"

the way austin looks at you makes a sigh escape your lips. there's something in those eyes, a quiet, almost reverential affection. he doesn't need to say i love you; it says it all about him, every gesture, every glance, and for the rest of the trip he holds you in his arms as if you were his most precious treasure.

when you arrive at the house, you feel a pang in your chest. it's not a mansion, nor a luxurious place. it's a bright house, with large windows and the smell of new wood, and the sound of the sea in the distance. and yet, the first thing you think is: home. and when you walk through it in silence, touching the decorations, looking at framed photos of the two of you, smelling the air, you know: this is your home.

austin watches you from the doorway, arms crossed, smiling slightly, and he's so beautiful.

you put your bag down on the sofa and turn to face him. suddenly, the silence changes: it becomes more intimate, more real. austin looks at you with that mixture of tenderness and wonder, as if he still can't quite believe you're standing in front of him.

"what do you think?"

"i think it smells like you." you say, with a small smile.

he chuckles and comes closer, putting his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

"is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"a really good thing." you look into his eyes, standing on your tiptoes to wrap your arms around his neck. "it feels like... home."

he smiles slowly, as if those words are sinking deep inside him. his hands move calmly down your back, one up and one down, as if confirming that you're still there, tangible, real.

"home." he repeats softly, almost to himself, but without taking his eyes off you. "i never thought that word would have meaning again."

there's something gentle about his tone, a restrained tremor that compels you to look at him closely. his eyes, so blue and so full of light, hold you with a mixture of love and vulnerability that takes your breath away.

"again?" you ask in a whisper, gently stroking his jaw.

he nods, his thumbs toying with the hem of your blouse. "yes. with you."

he kisses you before you can say anything else. it's not a rushed or perfect kiss; it's slow, warm, as if time ceases to matter. you feel the brush of his nose against yours, his breath against your cheek, the slight tremor in his chest, his hands squeezing your waist and back, pulling you closer, as if he wants to tuck you inside his chest and never let you go.

when you separate, he rests his forehead against yours. "i've wanted this since i got here, you know? you, walking barefoot 'round here."

a soft laugh escapes you through your tears. "i didn't know you needed me so much."

"i've needed you every day. i've thought 'bout you every day. i've missed you every day. and now that you're here... what you gonna do?"

"stay."

"for how long?"

"as long as you want me."

austin smiles, that smile that shines in his eyes. "well, you'll stay here forever, then." he pauses. "i ain't lettin' you go nowhere."

and then he kisses you again.

it's a slow, tender kiss, full of that kind of calm you find when everything else ceases to matter. you close your eyes, and the sensation is like breathing again after a long time. austin holds you by the waist, sliding a hand up your back, pulling you closer, as if he needs to reassure himself that you're real.

you deepen the kiss, subconsciously testing his reaction. for a moment, you almost expect austin to stop you, because maybe he's tired from filming, but he doesn't. instead, he returns the kiss gently, molding your body to his. you feel his low growl, pulling you even closer, his hands going to your ass.

"aus..." you whisper, feeling your center ache just from the sensation of his hands on your ass, large, squeezing.

he smiles against your lips, sliding his hands under your shirt to grip your hips. he starts leading you backward toward his room, his mouth never leaving yours. he's already hard; you feel his cock pressing against your stomach.

"did you miss me, baby?" he asks between kisses.

you gasp against his lips at his question, feeling his hands on your narrow waist. "every day..." you whisper, and when you reach the room, you pull away slightly from his lips, just enough to look at him. no cap, no mask... and, god, he's so tall and so beautiful, and you've missed him so much...

you drop to your knees.

almost immediately, you feel his hands tangling in your long, dark hair, the same hair he loves to pull when he's fucking you. you start unbuckling his belt, hearing him let out a grunt.

"fuck." he hisses, throwing his head back as you free his pants.

when you free his cock, you almost moan, and you feel your center getting wet. it's big, thick, long, and its veins are more prominent when it's hard. the tip is slightly red and has precum on it. you swallow, staring at it eagerly. then, parting your lips slightly, you start pumping his length with your hand, feeling it throb between your fingers.

you hear him breathing heavily. his hips start to move a little, thrusting gently against your hand. "shit, babe..." he grunts, his voice even huskier, deeper, and you almost come just from hearing him.

you stick out your tongue and he lets out a deep, guttural groan as your tongue touches the sensitive tip of his cock. his fingers grip your hair, not pushing, but holding it as he watches you slowly bring it to your mouth.

he thrusts against your throat and you feel a slight gag, pressing your nose against his pelvis with tears in your eyes. but you don't pull away. instead, you relax your already sore throat and take him deeper, swallowing around the head of his cock. he lets out a loud groan, instinctively thrusting his hips forward.

you look at him with wide, blue eyes, filled with tears held back from taking his cock, and you see him clench his jaw when his eyes meet yours. he groans, his hips moving faster, hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. your lips stretch around his thick member, emitting wet, lascivious sounds.

his member disappears into your mouth, and your cheeks hollow as you suck hard, your hands cupping the base of his cock, masturbating him while your mouth caresses the tip. you swallow his precum again and again, then take it back in until it touches the back of your throat.

apparently, he loses it, because then he grabs your hair tightly and starts fucking your mouth hard: deep thrusts that make you gag loudly around him. he throws his head back, groaning loudly as he penetrates your throat again and again. his testicles slap against your chin repeatedly.

"fuck, fuck, fuck..." he moans, thrusting his hips forward as he plunges his cock down your throat.

you struggle to breathe, your hands pressing weakly against his thighs, not to push him away, but to hold on. your throat convulses around him as you gag and choke on his cock. for a moment, he holds you there, his pelvis pressed against your nose, his cock lodged at the back of your throat.

and, god, don't you love it?

he starts moving his hips again, thrusting deep, deep into your throat. he hits the back of your throat so hard it hurts, but you moan and take it willingly.

austin groans loudly, thrusting his hips one last time as he holds your head against his pelvis. you feel his cock swell and throb as he comes hard down your throat, hot jets of semen shooting down your throat.

you almost come.

he holds your head as he finishes, his cock contracting and pulsing at the back of your throat. he watches from above as you swallow every last drop of his semen, sucking it greedily until it softens and sloshes out of your mouth with a wet pop.

you look at him, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. his cock is still semi-hard and glistening with your saliva. with his hand, he gently lifts your chin, making you look at him with tears streaming down your cheeks and swollen lips.

"good girl."

you melt at his praise, and he gently strokes your cheek.

"get up, sweetheart."

you stand slowly, your eyes still hungry. austin gestures with his fingers, and you raise your arms, letting him remove your blouse, leaving you in your bra. he looks at you silently for a moment, appreciating the bare skin of your stomach and gazing at your breasts, taut against the pink lace of your bra. his fingers slide down your abdomen to your back, unhooking your bra and letting it fall to the floor before moving on to your shorts.

he unzips your shorts and lets them fall to your feet, leaving you standing in front of him in just your soaked panties. you watch him smile smugly at the dark, wet stain on the fabric. if you weren't so hungry, so needy, you'd roll your eyes.

"these too, love." he says, snapping the waistband and waiting for you to step out of them. "and your shoes."

you obey; you take off your panties and boots and step out of them, standing completely naked in front of him. your cheeks burn when you see him looking down at your body. his hungry eyes roam over your body with a mixture of desire and devotion; his gaze glides over your entire body, pausing for a moment on your breasts, your hard, pink nipples. your belly tenses as his eyes slide down the flatness of your stomach to your soft pussy. your long legs feel like jelly under austin's attention

you swallow. "you're still dressed."

he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "you want me naked too, baby?"

you stare at him and, after a moment, you nod.

his eyes soften for a moment, his expression turning affectionate, and you watch silently as he begins to undress. he starts with his shirt; he takes it off, revealing his toned, lean torso. your eyes admire his chest and abdomen, and seconds later, when he's completely naked before you, you exhale. you gaze at him with a mixture of awe and reverence, admiring his body as if he were a god.

and he is. to you, he is.

austin is your god.

you take a breath and, still gazing at him as if he were some kind of god, you approach him, observing his entire body with an overwhelming mix of emotions: love, reverence, awe, desire. when you reach him, you place your hands on his chest, touching him gently, before tilting your head upward to meet his eyes.

he looks down at you, his hands automatically going to your waist as he takes in your small frame compared to his. you know he loves how tiny you are next to him. how easily he can lift you up or manipulate you.

"sweet girl..." he murmurs, looking at you affectionately, even tenderly. his fingers gently caress the soft skin of your waist. "bend over."

you don't hesitate for a second; you obey and bend over the bed without hesitation, presenting your bare ass to him. he caresses the curves of your buttocks before slapping one cheek hard, making you gasp. he kneads the reddened flesh before spreading your cheeks, spitting into your hole.

he slaps the other cheek, leaving the same mark. then, he spits into your pussy, and you feel the saliva drip from your lips. he traces your folds with his fingers, coating them with your wetness before bringing them to your asshole and inserting two fingers without warning.

you exhale, closing your eyes.

"have you been using this, babe?" he asks, sliding his fingers into your hole. you bite your lower lip and nod, moaning softly. you almost hear his smile as he says: "yeah? with the toys i gave you?" you nod again, before feeling him withdraw his fingers. without moving, your eyes follow him as he reaches for an oval anal plug on his nightstand. you swallow at the sight, and he repositions himself behind you. "we can't leave this beauty unused, can we?"

austin presses the cool, smooth plug against your tight back entrance, slowly pushing it inside you until it pops in, opening you up. he turns it on, and you feel the vibrations instantly, making you close your eyes and let out a soft moan. you hear him chuckle and give you another slap on the ass before grabbing his hard cock and rubbing it against your wet folds.

"you're gonna take my cock like a good girl, right?" he presses the tip against your entrance, waiting for your answer. you look at him over your shoulder, your cheeks flushed and your lips parted. "right, baby?"

you nod, pushing back against his cock. he grabs your hips and thrusts hard, filling you completely in one stroke. the sudden penetration makes the anal plug inside your asshole vibrate intensely, overwhelming your senses. austin starts fucking you brutally, using your pussy for his pleasure.

he penetrates you relentlessly, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. he grabs your hair in a fist and pulls your head back as he continues fucking you from behind. the anal plug drives you wild, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

you feel him slap your ass again, still fucking you; hard, fast, like a man on a mission, and the vibrations of the plug send shivers of pleasure through your entire body as your belly tightens and heats. you feel his fingers begin to rub circles on your clit and you cry out into the pillow, clawing at the sheets, but your body pushes back against him, begging for more.

"damn, look at you." austin sneers, thrusting harder, his hips slamming against yours as if he wants to leave marks, to brand you as his in every way. "what would people say if they saw you being a whore for my cock?"

austin has you pinned down, one hand gripping your hair and the other pressing you against the mattress as he penetrates you from behind. your cries are almost heart-wrenching; harsh, filling the room along with the sound of his hips slamming against your ass.

you try to keep up with him, your cheek pressed against the sheets. "fuck, you're so big..."

"say it louder." he grunts, pressing your face into the mattress with one hand and gripping your hip with the other. he thrusts into you hard, mercilessly, watching you crumble beneath him.

"you're so— big— a-us..." you say, your voice shaking, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

"that's my girl." he snarls, leaning down to bite your shoulder, leaving a mark. "pain is good, it ain't? you like it."

you nod desperately, your moans breaking, the mix of pain and pleasure overwhelming. "yes— fuck— yes..."

"of course you do..." you can hear the smirk in his voice. "such a good slut."

your body clenches around him at the degradation. "you... you're everything."

"everything." he almost growls, thrusting harder, his ego swelling with each desperate moan that escapes your lips. "i'm everything to you. you left all your shit behind and came crawling to me, didn't you? such a obedient little thing."

"yes..." you cried, your voice cracking into a sobbing moan, your hips shaking as orgasm washes over you. "yes— aus, yes, yes..."

his hands on you, his dominance over you, his words, his big, thick cock in your weeping cunt, the anal plug—it all brings you to the edge; your hips shake violently as you climax, your cunt clinging tightly to him, to his cock. your screams burst from your lips uncontrollably, sharp and broken, as your whole body shudders, crumbling beneath austin, collapsing on the bed.

but austin isn't finished. he never is.

before you can catch your breath, austin pulls you back by the waist, forcing you onto all fours again, and thrusts hard into you once more. at the sudden intrusion, you gasp, almost sobbing at the overwhelming sensitivity. the plug in your hole vibrates, burning your sensitive walls with that mixture of pleasure and pain that becomes almost unbearable with austin using your weeping pussy.

"wait— please—"

"shut up." he hisses, thrusting into you hard, mercilessly, seeking his own release that seems far from coming. "you can take it. you always can. i trained you for this."

your arms give way, your cheek sinks into the mattress, your saliva and tears mingling on the white sheets as he slams you against the mattress. you tremble, you whimper, every nerve in your body burning, both your holes burning, your body taking him. your legs tremble from the effort of staying upright.

"turn it off..." you groan.

"no, i don't think so."

then he wraps his arm around you, pinning you in a headlock, pressing his bicep hard against your neck as his chest crushes you against the bed, with no way out now that you're trapped beneath him, his full weight on top of you, his cock still deep inside, the plug vibrating nonstop.

at this point, he's not even penetrating you anymore, just thrusting, rubbing his hips against your ass, using your wet, ravaged cunt as if you're only there to satisfy his hunger. his hot, ragged breath brushes against your ear, every moan and grunt vibrating against his skin.

"austin." you sob.

"that's it." he hisses. his arm remains clamped around your throat, keeping you still and upright as his cock penetrates you from behind. "take it like my whore. that's what you are, right?"

you nod as your second orgasm hits you like a fucking freight train: trembling, writhing, sobbing his name into the pillow as your pussy clenches around him so tightly he groans too… though he doesn’t come. not yet. not then, not even now—when you’re so soaked and overstimulated beneath him—does he pull out. he just stays there, still inside you, brushing your hair away from your face, whispering in your ear.

“you did so good for me, baby. so good.”

you moan softly, squeezing your eyes shut. “please turn it off… please, please…”

you feel austin shift and the vibrations stop. you gasp, relaxing, your holes still plugged and his body holding you in place, but at least nothing is moving anymore, nothing is vibrating. austin becomes still again, above you, holding your head between his biceps, and you feel his lips leave a soft kiss on your neck and then on your head.

"that's alright." he says, kissing your shoulder, still hard as a rock inside you. "but i'm not finished yet, baby, so let me just..."

austin doesn't finish his sentence, but roughly flips you over, turning you onto your back as if you weighed nothing. his large, warm hands grip your waist, holding you against the mattress, and he keeps thrusting. you blink slowly through tears, your lips parted, gasping, your chest heaving.

your clit, swollen and aching, throbs painfully and shudders with every thrust of his hips. your breasts bounce with each rough stroke, perky and glistening with sweat, and austin's hands move from your waist to grab your breasts, squeezing them between his fingers as he fucks you hard.

"god, your tits are so perfect. who do they belong to, sweet baby?"

your answer escapes your lips almost in a sob. "y—you, aus, they're yours, i'm yours, i'm— all yours."

"damn right." he smiles, dark, provocative, even a little mocking. "all mine." his hands use your breasts to pull you toward him each time he moves his hips, his cock hitting your cervix with every thrust. "my little slut." the words come from his mouth almost tenderly. "you look so fuckin' good like this... i wanna fill ya up, make you round."

his words, his hands, his body, his relentless cock, the plug in your hole, the image of you pregnant—it's all too much, and you can't stop yourself; you start to cry. tears are released, sliding down your cheeks. it's too much.

"do it... p—please, do it..." you sob, clutching the sheets with your hands. your body shudders with every thrust, overstimulated to the point of delirium.

"look at me."

you obey, your gaze unfocused, your eyes watering, your pupils dilated, your lips parted as you moan. he kisses you then, with longing and desire, stifling your moans as his free hand delivers a sharp slap to one of your breasts, making you shudder. the sharp pain becomes a deep sting as he squeezes your flesh possessively, his tongue sliding between your lips to taste your tears.

"i need— oh... baby, please, i can't—" you moan, almost sobbing as his hips thrust into you again.

"you can." he grunts. "you always can. now just take it."

you moan loudly, your head falling to the side, overwhelmed. your thighs tremble, your belly tightens, your clit aches, and you feel too full with both holes plugged.

austin hovers over you, his palm cradling the side of your flushed, tear-streaked face as if you were made of glass.

"you're still so tight." he says gently, as if speaking to a child. "look at your pussy, baby." you feel his other hand cradle your aching clit. "it's crying. the poor little thing is exhausted and still hungry."

salty drops, tears slide freely down your face as your thighs shake uncontrollably.

"jesus." he curses with a dark chuckle, staring at you without moving; his eyes rake over your body, the wetness in your pussy, the sweat on your breasts, the tears on your face. "you look so beautiful like this."

"it's too much..." you whisper tearfully.

he stares at you for a moment, still cradling your face gently and tenderly, before nodding. "i know. but you don't want me to stop, do you? not really. you like this." his voice is gentle. "i know you do. now be a good girl and keep moaning nicely f'r me."

you let out a sob, but you stop resisting. after all, you don't want him to stop, not really, and he knows it, because he wastes no time before he starts fucking you again, hard, strong, pounding your cervix with every thrust, and all that comes out of your throat are moans and cries, the overwhelming pleasure almost tearing you apart.

"well, aren't you pathetic?" his words degrade you, but you moan and nod, feeling his cock enter your cunt again and again, filling you, stretching you, sliding between your tight walls and hitting your sweet spot every time. "look at you, takin' what i give you like a whore. you look like a stupid bitch in heat."

your third orgasm hits you like a truck: violent, sharp, tensing your entire lower body as you arch your back off the bed. you come with a scream so piercing it makes him groan, your pussy tightening like a screw around his cock, dripping and crying as he slams into you again and again, tearing you open, ripping you apart, manipulating your nerves and clouding your senses.

finally, austin comes hard, thrusting clumsily and roughly into you with loud moans and grunts. his fingers press you against the mattress as he empties inside you, shooting thick, warm jets of semen into your body. all you can do is cling to his arm as he fills you, shuddering at the sensation of being completely claimed. his hand, around your neck, tightens even more as he finishes, cutting off your air for a few seconds, before letting go as he collapses on top of you.

your face is flushed and streaked with tears, your legs tremble slightly, your holes are sore from all the attention, your whole body feels hot, and your nipples are so hard and sensitive, it's almost painful. you feel worn out, exhausted, sore, and yet, you feel better than ever. used in the best way by the only person you want to. austin didn't stop until he got everything out of you, and that, somehow, makes you proud; proud that you gave him everything, that you gave him what he taught you to give him.

austin doesn't pull out immediately; instead, he stays inside you, holding you tightly, as if afraid you might faint at any moment, even though you both know that won't happen. he kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, kissing your lips tenderly and carefully.

"y'alright?" he asks, his blue eyes searching for yours. you nod silently, gazing at him sleepily and contentedly as your slender fingers caress his face. "god damn it." he exhales.

he slowly pulls away from you, withdrawing from your pussy. you immediately feel his cum beginning to slowly seep between your lips and gasp as you feel him remove the plug from your hole, though a small smile forms on your lips as you watch him lean in to give you another kiss. he smiles back, sweetly, and gives you a playful smack on the ass before rolling onto his back, pulling you close so your head rests on his chest.

he wipes away your tears with his thumbs and a reverent look, kissing your cheeks one last time before pulling you back into his arms. "you did so well, baby. so, so well. you're such a good girl. my best girl."

you melt at his praise and snuggle closer to him, finding your place in his arms. your face buries against his chest, and like a little girl, you stay there, nestled against him, seeking his warmth and feeling his arms around you, holding you close and safe against his body. you vaguely feel him tuck the covers in and sigh contentedly.

you fall asleep before you know it.

when you wake up, the room smells of warm skin, perfume, and silence. outside, the australian night is calm, with the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional car on the street, but inside, all is silent except for their breathing. you lie face down, your hair falling over your bare back, your breasts pressed against the mattress. you're eighteen, but in this moment, your body still aching from austin's intensity, you feel older, as if you've crossed an invisible threshold.

he's beside you, half-lying, his head resting on his hand, already awake; looking at you as if he can't believe you're really here. those blue eyes that always seem to undress you more than his own hands. austin has this way of looking at you that makes you nervous, as if instead of eyes, he has x-ray vision that pierces your soul and your deepest thoughts. it's not just desire you see in his eyes, but devotion, an infatuation so obvious that sometimes you want to laugh, sometimes you want to cry, and sometimes you simply don't know what to do but let yourself be lulled by him.

"why are you lookin' at me like that?" you break the silence, turning to face him with a mischievous little smile to meet his blue eyes that seem to sparkle even in the dim light.

he looks down, as if trying to hold back his thoughts, and then meets your eyes again. "because you're... too much." his voice is husky, low, beautiful. "and i still don't understand how the hell i ended up with you."

"hmm..." you murmur, pretending to think. "let me think... oh, yes! i was behind you for months until you noticed me."

"baby, you were sixteen."

"so what? legal for you."

he laughs. "still, i think you're givin' yourself too little credit; i noticed you the moment i first saw ya."

"yeah, but you weren't gonna do nothin' 'bout it, so i had to." you reply cheekily, reaching out for a quick kiss. "that skirt worked really well. and my tits."

"stop talkin' 'bout your tits." he laughs, letting his forehead fall against yours.

you let out a soft giggle, feeling his forehead against yours. "what? you love my tits."

"yeah, in my hands or in my mouth, but not when i'm tryin' to be romantic. it's not romantic to mention them when we're havin' a moment. we're havin' a moment."

"very well." you look up at the ceiling. "you're not sleepin' on them tonight."

"okay, that's rude." he points at you. "they're my girls."

you frown and open your mouth, offended, looking back at him. "excuse me? what about me?"

"you're my best girl." austin tells you in a low voice with a playful smile, but with disarming sincerity.

as soon as you hear his words, and the deep, husky tone in which he says them, you lower your gaze, a little flushed, though you try to hide it by biting your lower lip. of course, you know you can't hide your blush when his smile widens, proud of making you blush.

"you're an idiot, you know that?" you say, giving him a gentle push in the chest.

"an idiot? i don't know what you're talkin' 'bout. i'm perfect."

austin collapses onto his back, the sheets tangling around his long legs. it's almost ridiculous to see him like this, so big, so confident on screen, but next to you he just seems like a boy you want to hug and kiss until he falls asleep on your chest.

you roll your eyes, but you can't hold back the joyful laughter that rises in your throat.

"sure, mr. elvis."

this time, it's austin who blushes, and you smile triumphantly as he laughs, somewhere between embarrassed and amused, his cheeks flushed.

"babe, don't call me that when we're in bed. it's weird."

a mischievous smile forms on your lips as you look at him with a mixture of amusement and challenge. "weird... or hot?"

austin looks at you, his eyes narrowed, a disbelieving laugh escaping his throat. "god, you're gonna kill me before filming is over."

your smile softens.

"trust me; the last thing on my mind when you're fucking me is my grandpa. i'm pretty busy thinkin' 'bout your magic cock."

"my magic cock?" austin asks, barely containing his laughter.

"the best cock i've ever had, yeah."

"baby, it's the only cock you've ever had."

"that doesn't change the fact that it's the best. and magic."

"i can't believe we're havin' this conversation."

"you're smiling too much, so i think you like it."

"i have reasons to smile." he replies in a husky voice, that voice that makes your knees tremble even when you're already lying down.

you look at him silently for a moment, letting yourself be mesmerized by his beautiful eyes. whenever he looks at you, he makes you feel like the only person in the world, and at the same time makes you feel so small.

exhaling silently, you pull the white sheet up to your chin, as if you suddenly need to cover yourself, even though you're quite aware that austin already knows your body by heart.

"like what reasons?" you ask in a low murmur.

austin reaches out and gently pulls back the fabric to reveal your bare shoulder.

"like havin' the most beautiful girl in the world in my bed, after fucking her until she cried."

your cheeks burn.

"exaggerated." is all you manage to say.

"not even a little."

you wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes for a moment, before turning and resting your elbow on the mattress, propping your head in your hand. you look at him directly, straight on, despite the flush in your cheeks. what you love most about these nights isn't the obvious, the physical, but what comes after: the shared silence, the silly laughter, the feeling of being part of a universe that exists only between the two of you.

slowly, you raise a hand to touch his face. you run your fingertips along his cheek, barely touching his jawline, down to his chin, your fake nails gently brushing against his skin. under your touch, he closes his eyes for a moment, letting you caress him. you hear his calm breathing, the rustle of the sheets, the peace in the air.

"i like it when you look at me like that." he says, opening his eyes. his blue eyes immediately captivate you.

"like what?"

"like you know somethin' i don't."

you shrug, as if you don't know what to say. "maybe i do."

he raises an eyebrow. "and what is it?"

"that you're the most beautiful man i've ever seen." you reply, without hesitation.

austin laughs again, but this time he seems a little embarrassed. he brings his hand to his face, trying to hide his smile, but you slowly move it away, looking at him again with a tenderness that almost hurts. you continue tracing invisible lines on his skin, touching him with a reverent gentleness, as if you're afraid of breaking something sacred.

"you know what?" austin murmurs, with that voice and accent you've heard hundreds of times on old recordings. "if you keep lookin' at me like that, i'm gonna have t' marry ya."

"maybe you should."

for a moment, austin is silent. the smile that played on his lips fades. he stops, and you see him blink, as if your answer—so simple, so direct—has completely disarmed him. his hand, which had been resting on the sheet, moves slowly until it finds yours. he doesn't take it completely, only brushes your fingers with the tips of his own, in an almost shy gesture, though his expression is thoughtful.

finally, austin sighs and nods, as if he's made a decision.

"give me a few days."

you blink, confused. "what?"

"now let's take a shower." he smiles again and lifts you out of bed, carrying you in his arms toward the bathroom. "i'll take you out t' dinner."

"pizza?" you ask, excitedly, putting an arm around his neck.

austin kisses your forehead. "pizza."

You were married for duty, noble women always were. Shipped off to the highest bidder at your father’s will.

Marrying a Targaryen prince was an honor, especially to one as good and notably kind as Valarr. Despite being a few years your junior he offered affection easy, from the day you were presented, to your wedding night he consummated your marriage with kindness trying to avoid your discomfort, despite his own inexperience. The months that followed easy, treating you more like a sister than a wife. He slept away from you most nights, but once a month came to your chambers to fulfill his duty and hope to sire an heir.

Yes,Valarr was a good man, he was everything you should have wanted. A noble house, a respected, a position and security within the Red Keep. And yet, in the quiet moments in the dark of your chamber when you lay alone. A traitorous thought curled low in your belly. A yearning for something sharper, darker that you had only read in the books that you and your sisters exchanged in your youth, giggling in the night. A Want.

Now a woman grown, you tried to bury that want and for a time, that was enough.

—————————————————————-

With Lady Jena gone, the weight of her former responsibilities settles onto your shoulders as the next highest ranking lady in the family.

You speak with housekeepers, oversee arrangements, and smooth tempers between ladies in waiting before they can start a war. It is work you find you are well suited for, and feeling more like yourself than you have in the last year.

The court notices. So does your father in law.

As Hand of the King, Baelor’s days are long and his duties vast. Since his wife’s passing, he has thrown himself more into the ruling of the realm as means of escape. Your duties begin to overlap with his more often than either of you expects. First it’s just making arrangements for visiting lords, then its the management of new ladies of court when some marry, your days start intertwining more and more. Not that either of you seem to mind. You find slowly that your meetings extend, conversations drift past their original purpose. He asks your opinion, and then listens to the answer, genuinely wanting the to hear what you had to say, it was a re-refreshing.

The way he looked at you is unsettling at first, a quiet focus that makes you feel as though you are the only thing in the room worth his attention.You tell yourself it is nothing more than respect that he looks at everyone the same way.

After working to plan the upcoming feast for the kings nameday, you show Baelor the seating plans, carefully arranged based on the current ranks and latest family feuds.

“You are good at this” Baelor remarks as you sit opposite, your fingers running through his latest stack of petitions, sorting them out for him, almost by habit now.

“I have learned to plan ahead it is better than to panic” you answer, a small smile on your face, trying not to let the heat rising in your chest show on your face

He hums softly “You would make an excellent Hand” his own small smile painted on his features.

You laugh before you can stop yourself a small laugh and a snort. You are sure your face is bright red now as your eyes catch his. His smile wider now as his mismatched eyes take in your flushed cheeks and laugh, looking awfully pleased with himself for catching you off guard.

—————————————————————

Working closely starts to become more natural as the weeks drag on.

You are in full preparation for the King’s feast, planning the banquet, returning letters and helping co-ordinate the lords. The letter’s require both of your attention, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you lean closer to read the same line. Each time it happens, your breath stutters, just slightly, and you curse internally. He always stills when it occurs, as though aware of the effect he is beginning to have on you. You begin to find, he never moves away first.

At night, you lie in your chamber sometimes beside your husband and stare into the dark. You know that the septa’s say is it sin but your mind betrays you. You think of Baelor’s hands, steady and sure, how they would feel holding you. Grazing your skin as they make their way up your dress, fingers finding where you ached most. Or the way his gaze lingers half a heartbeat too long, his eyes dark like they can see right through you, imagining those eyes above you, dark and hungry as you call out his name.

Guilt settles in your chest, heavy and unwelcome. You pray more often. It does not help.

—————————————————————

As the feast approaches the war between want and guilt still rages low in your belly. Your maids help you dress for the evening, a dress of deep red silk glides against your skin, embodied of dragons sown around your bodice up to the neckline, almost making a heart. You tell yourself you commissioned this dress to honour your husband and his house, even as the bodice is tightened and your breasts are pushed up, you try and believe your lie.

The feast is already in full swing by the time you arrive, the herald announcing your arrival and you head your way to the king to pay your respects.

Music fills the hall, rich and resonant, mingling with laughter and the low murmur of conversation. Candlelight glints off goblets and jewels as you step forward, the red silk of your gown catching the light with every movement.

You are aware of eyes on you. You always are as you smile at ladies and greet lords, you feel the eyes you want most, settle heavier than the rest. You feel his eyes linger half a breath too long before he looks away. You almost don’t realise you are holding your breath.

You bow deep to the king a you make your way to the family table, taking your seat beside your husband who smiles easily at you in youthful affection, before going back to conversation with his brother. That guilt again swirling.

The wine flows freely as the evening wears on, gifts are presented and speeches are made. You accept a cup, then another, warmth blooming low in your chest, loosening the knot of guilt in your stomach.

You feel lighter, conversation comes easily, laughter more readily than usual, you know you should slow down but you haven’t felt this free in months. And like he heard your thoughts, Baelor approaches.

“You look lovely this evening” The words are polite for the surrounding guests, but that does not stop the heat spreading through you at the sound of his voice or the way he holds your gaze.

“Thank you” you reply voice higher than anticipated, suddenly acutely aware of how close he stands, his hand coming to the back of your chair, his fingers a hairs-breath from your bare neck.

You tear your eyes off him, taking another deep drink, attempting to ignore the hammering of your heart or his eyes upon you. The music shifts then, a familiar melody rising as people take to the floor. You turn back toward Valarr, ready to suggest a dance, but Baelor speaks again, quieter now, “May I?” His hand extending to you.

It is a simple question. Perfectly proper, but your body’s reaction says other wise. You hesitate only a fraction of a second before placing your hand in his. Skin gliding against his.

The touch is light at first, formal as he leads you onto the floor. His hand settles at your back, the warmth of it seeps through silk to your spine. He guides you with ease, movements smooth and practiced, as though dancing is another language he speaks fluently.

“You dance well” you say, grasping for something safe, your mind still a little foggy from wine.

“I had a good teacher” he replies, meeting your gaze like he is drawn there. The next turn brings you closer, skirts brushing. His grip tightens, just slightly, as he steadies you, your chest just barely grazing his,

“You’ve taken on much lately” he says, his voice soft as your eyes unconsciously slip to his lips.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Is that concern I hear?” Trying to defuse this growing tension.

“It is a friendly observation” he answers. “I would not presume to know more”

You glance up at him. “You presume very little it seems. Ever the diplomat” you tease.

His mouth curves, barely.

“In truth I enjoy the work” you say the wine allowing the words to slip out easily “I have felt more myself in the last few moons than I have since I came to court” Your gaze coming back to his, the subtle meaning behind your words clear.

His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his eyes, as he spins you into the next turn. Your steps falters, his hand tightens at your back, steadying you, pushing your chest into his, as yours in turn tighten at his neck.

The dance carries on in silence, the sound of your breath mingling.

“This was a mistake,” you murmur, breathing coming heavier.

“Yes,” Baelor agrees but does not release you.

You tighten your grip in turn wine courage finally breaking through restraint you normally hold “Then why does this feel right?” You whisper

The question hangs between you, fragile and dangerous. He opens his mouth, then decides against it. In that moment you feel the cold splash of shame flow down your spine.

As the song comes to an end, you pull away abruptly, heart racing, the spell shattering all at once. “I need air” you manage, voice tight. You flee the floor before he can answer, skirts gathered in trembling hands.

You run through the halls, till you come the empty balcony overlooking the gardens. The dark was like by a solemn few lanterns, a perfect place to hie from the world.

Cold air hits your skin the moment you step onto the balcony, sending chills up your arm. You grip the stone railing, breath coming too fast, the music from the feast faint. You close your eyes, willing your heart to slow as tears build in your eyes.

You hear the doors open behind you. You do not turn. You know it is him.

“Please” you say softly, unsure if you are begging him to go or stay.

His steps are measured, stopping a careful distance away. For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

“What you said” he continues at last. “On the floor”

You swallow. “A mistake” you say your back still to him, your hand coming to wipe the tears before they fall “The wine—” you start

“I do not believe you” he says gently.

You turn then, anger flaring sharp and bright, a shield against the truth. “Then you should” you breathe coming faster.

His gaze meets yours, steady and unyielding. “I should do many things” he says coming closer you as you back up against the side wall.

“I never meant for this” you whisper. “I never wanted to be this woman”

“I know,” Baelor says. He takes one step closer, hand flexing at his sides like it was taking everything in him not to reach out “Say it was nothing” he murmurs, voice low, almost pleading. “Let me believe you when you say it was wine and foolishness, and I will let you walk back inside.”

“And if I cannot?” you ask.

His breath shudders. The admission hangs between you, bare and terrifying.

Baelor's eyes darken, he closes the distance in one swift motion, his body pressing against yours, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of your gown. His hands, one gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, the other cupping your face in contrasting gentleness “Then I cannot deny myself any longer.” he growls, his lips crashing down on yours before you can respond.

The kiss is fierce, all teeth and tongue, devouring the confession that's been burning between you for month. Your fingers claw at his tunic, bunching the material, desperate to feel his skin.

You break apart only to gasp, “I want you” you confess breasts heaving “gods condemn me, but I want you” The words spill out, raw and unfiltered, shattering the last of your restraint. His response is a low, growl as mouth descends on your neck, sucking hard at the pulse point, marking you as his teeth graze the skin.

You arch into him, your legs parting instinctively as his thigh wedges between them, pressing up against your core. The friction sends a jolt through you, your pussy already slick and aching, soaking through your undergarments. Never feeling like this before, your head spinning

His hand slides down to hike up your skirts. Rough fingers find your thigh, then higher, shoving the fabric of your smallcloths aside to cup your mound. He rubs you through the damp cloth, thumb circling your clit with urgent pressure that makes your knees buckle.

He catches you at your waist, wrapping one of your legs around him. You whimper, grinding against his hand, the pleasure like never before

“Please, Baelor.” you moan, not sure if you are begging him to end your torment or needing more. As the plea tears from you, and he doesn't let you decide. With a curse in high Valyrian he yanks your undergarments down, exposing you to the cool night air, then frees his throbbing length. His cock springs out, thick and veined, the tip already leaking pre-cum.

He lifts the other one of your legs, hooking it over his hip, and positions himself at your entrance. In one brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, stretching your pussy wide around him. You cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you bite down to stifle it,

Baelor doesn't hold back. He pounds into you relentlessly, each snap of his hips driving deeper, his balls slapping against your ass with every plunge. You moan against his shoulder before his lips find yours in a desperate kiss

Gripping your thigh tighter, he angles his thrusts to hit that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. His free hand heading the smooth skin of your neckline, unlacing the front of the bodice till your breasts spring free “Gods you are beautiful” he praises, pinching your nipple, twisting until you gasp, then soothing it with his mouth, sucking the peak into wet heat of his mouth, tongue teasing.

Your climax builds fast, coiling tight in your core as his cock drags along your walls, filling you completely. “I'm close,” you pant, clenching around him. Baelor groans, his pace faltering for a second as he seems to decide something, eyes roaming, looking at you ruined and bare before him. He slams in harder, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing furious circles.

“Come for me,” he rasps, his breath hot on your ear. “Let me feel you milk my cock.” The command shatters you. You shatter, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as your pussy spasms, gushing around him. He follows seconds later, burying his face in your neck with a muffled roar, his cock pulsing as he floods you with hot cum, spilling deep inside until it drips down your thighs.

Ever since Baelor Targaryen had wed the young, sweet, insatiably cunning thing with silver hair—blood of his own blood—he surmised he’d need to keep an eye on the time of month if he knew what was good for him.

He didn’t want a son. He scarcely had any desire to ascend the Iron Throne himself, and yet he was bombarded, always, with admonitions, queries, downright pleas to procreate. To produce an heir.

Because of this reality, it wasn’t lost on the man in the slightest why he had been promptly paired off with you

Another inch gliding inside of wet and slippery perfection, and his whole body seemed to shake. Your cunt sucked at him delectably, temptingly, and it was getting harder and harder to keep the need at bay.

“Seven hells,” he cursed, just as his balls kissed the globes of your ass, and he was completely sheathed.

You’d offered him head after that trial at the Tourney of Ashford, if one could believe it. You’d welcomed him home that night with a hug and a kiss, marveling the multitude of bumps and bruises and lacerations he’d sustained in the fight, and then, just as fast, fallen to your knees. It had only taken four or five bobs of your mouth and a couple more kitten licks up his shaft before Baelor had lifted you and thrown you on the bed

And here he was, again, exactly where he’d promised himself he’d never be the week you were ovulating.

“Baelor,” you whined, canting your hips upward to make the slide of his cock that much more maddening and deep. You threaded your fingers through the short gray hairs at the nape of his neck, and when he hadn’t answered you in words, you said, even louder, “Uncle.”

“Hush, my dear,” Baelor implored. Another clench of your velvety heat, and his hips were stuttering again. “Y-You know I am not ‘Uncle’ when I sink this far ins—”

One more fluttering pulse. One more helpless grunt from him. Particulars about when his niece should and shouldn’t say ‘uncle’ were shortly lost to the ether.

You were much too young to be a mother. He was too old to be raising any child alongside you—it was wrong.

The bed creaked and groaned some more beneath you both, while your legs wrapped tight around the backs of his, and his cock plunged repeatedly in and out, in and out. He could feel your essence drooling from the place he had you plugged, and he hated how dearly he loved the feeling of it smearing his skin. Matting the wiry hairs at the base of his abdomen and making him feel, more than any measly Trial of Seven or other bloodshed event he had yet lived to see, like he belonged. Like he were born to serve a purpose.

He couldn’t be so selfish as to do it, though.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

The words hummed through his skull like a broken refrain, and when, at length, your back arched from the bed and your whimpers grew higher and higher in pitch, Baelor took comfort in the fact that you were close—that very soon, all of this would be over with.

“I— I—” you fumbled around for words, eyes rolling back as the wet smack of skin suddenly increased.

“Shh, shhh, that’s a good girl. I know it,” Baelor assuaged you gently. Pressing the tip of his cock to that sweet and special spot he knew would send you careening over the edge and into bliss in no time at all.

His thrusts were quick but as tender as ever; in just these few short months of marriage, the old man had come to learn your body like the back of his hand. He could tell by the way your nose scrunched presently that it wouldn’t be long before you reached your peak, and then his tight, hot, needy, greedy little minx of a wife would be satisfied. At least until the break of day.

“It’s alright, darling. You can let go. Go on then. Come.”

He plunged in to the hilt once again, and you shrieked.

“Baelor.”

“Come for me.”

Nails the shape of crescents clawed deep within his skin, and he could feel you. Squeezing him. Swelling.

“Baelor.”

“Darling, please—”

“I— I— I thought— I thought I’d lost you tonight.”

The words came out in a slurred, frenzied rush. Rather than hitting your high, like he’d hoped, you were releasing something else entirely: a feeling. Fear.

Or terror, as it happened to be.

Eyes widening out of panic, as opposed to the aftershocks of orgasm, startled Baelor abruptly.

Before he could even think: “What do you mean?”

“The Trial of Seven—I could not bear to watch it. I was certain you would be maimed, or—or, oh, I can’t say it!”

“That I might die?”

His movements slowed but didn’t stall entirely. He was still holding you, or cradling you, as it were, and your body was splayed with such abandon. You spread yourself to him but remained glued to his body like a second skin. Baelor only ever knew you to behave this way when he took you to bed. Every other hour of the day, you were as fiercely independent as one could be.

“You never told me—” he started delicately.

“I’d be left with nothing,” you went on, in almost a sob. “If you…passed, I’d have nothing to remember you by.”

As if on cue, he felt his cock twitch. Stiff as a fucking rock and planted halfway inside your heat, he felt a pull like he never had before. Baelor swallowed the thought as fast as it came and resumed his ministrations then, this time reaching down to thumb circles on your clit.

“You’d have memories aplenty, wife, would you not?” He tried schooling his features into something like unaffected complaisance, but the effort was largely in vain. His length was still throbbing with sick ideas.

“And what sort of company should memories be to me?” you huffed. Your own expression seemed bent on petulance for the time being, but your resolve was evidently waning. With the friction of those little shapes, your inner muscles tightened and clenched.

Fighting off orgasm anyway, you managed, quietly, “No, I— I wished I had had a part of you in my belly.”

That made Baelor halt in place.

Cock stretching you very nearly to your body’s limits—he was an abnormally large man, and you had only just learned to accommodate a girth of that size on your wedding night—he froze, as did the pace of his hand.

He spoke your name in a low and warning tone.

You rolled your eyes, as you were often wont to do.

“Don’t speak to me as though I’m naïve, uncle. I understand the purpose of this union as well as you!”

“To strengthen the repute of our House—”

“To preserve our bloodline!” you snapped. Digging your heels into his calves while a soft and strangled breath crawled its way out of your lungs. “Which we…cannot accomplish so long as you withdraw and spill your seed over my stomach or down my throat each night.”

Baelor was taken back by the frankness of your speech; indeed, he’d never heard his niece so uninhibited when it came to the subject of childbearing. You looked as austere as ever.

“If I ever lose you in combat someday…” you went on.

Then you swallowed and blinked harder, and Baelor could hear his heart splintering at the sight of it alone.

“If I could have just something to keep of us—”

While you spoke, Baelor sank in. Resumed.

He stroked your cheek, shaking his head.

“You won’t lose me. I swear by the old gods and new.”

That seemed about as good of a promise as any one man could make. Though no day was guaranteed for the prince of the realm, and there very well might be a time when his life hung in the balance, he could give that assurance: come what may, you wouldn’t lose him

At the same time, your body drew him closer to yours.

Now the warmth between your legs had risen to a near-conflagration, and that sweet, wet, precious tunnel of muscle and quivering flesh pulled at his cock taut as anything. He’d never felt such need, or heat, in his life, and the light that flared in your eyes reminded him just who you were, and where he came from, too.

It’d be a shame to leave this world without a namesake

Pity to rot away into the cold and hardened dirt without having left his mark in some way, with you.

Now to fuse a piece of himself inside your womb and see family grow from it: children with your silver hair and fiery gaze, all sunny and strong and steadfast, too.

The thought consumed him to the point of paralysis—at least in his mind, he was rooted in awe of that idea.

It happened before he meant it to.

Crashing his hips to your own in a kind of desperate, frenetic movement and then letting out a full-throated groan, he emptied himself completely inside you. He felt rope after rope spit from his hot, aching tip with every pulse of his cock, and he didn’t regret a drop.

What he could, and did, lament was how fast it came. Had you gotten the chance to hit climax yet yourself?

The answer to that followed from your cry in almost the same second—lips parting, legs trembling, body convulsing, momentarily, before your eyes flitted up.

You seemed almost incredulous of what you’d just felt flooding your insides as your orgasm washed over you. A little frightened, perhaps, to think your husband had only done this by accident and didn’t want the same things as you. The only way Baelor could think to put a stop to those thoughts, and savor the present moment, was to kiss you. So he did, tenderly.

When your body relaxed, so did his own.

His tongue traced every contour and crevice of your mouth, and in no time, the man had procured solace once more with the simple undulation. You kissed him back with all the force of a woman starved, lips needy.

Only now, it seemed, the wanting wasn’t just physical.

Primal seemed more fitting a word as limbs tangled even tighter together, mouths clashed, and hands reached everywhere, anyplace they possibly could. Baelor remained buried inside you, stuffing you full.

And when the two of you had had to part, eventually, after several dozen eternities that still couldn’t have lasted quite long enough, he beamed down at you.

With a newfound feeling and an unmistakable heat beginning to trickle down your thighs, you smiled back.

“He’s three moons old,” you reminded him one evening with a frown as Aerion watched Maegor sleeping peacefully against your chest, after telling you how his son had to start learning to let go of you. “He needs his mother and I would have him.”

“Three moons old,” Aerion muttered darkly, “and already a usurper.”

Maegor chose that exact moment to sigh contentedly in his sleep and burrow deeper against you, as if mocking him altogether.

The Bright Prince had begun keeping count of your neglection of him. You would visit the nursery first thing in the morning, and should the babe merely blink his large violet eyes and make a particularly pitiful sound, he would refuse the wet nurses and only cease his whimpering when you held him.

And thus, if he cried, you were there.

If he fussed, you were also there.

Spoiled little thing, his son was. What was the purpose of wet nurses if the boy spent half his waking hours attached to you? He really ought to fire them one of these days.

“They said sons take after their fathers, do they not?”

Daeron let out a snicker after draining another goblet of wine, seemingly enjoying his brother’s predicament. “Your son simply makes it obvious to the rest of us how ravenous you are with your lady wife, brother.”

Aerion shot him glare, internally questioning himself why he had agreed to sit down for drinks with his wastrel of a brother.

“I have spent the past three moons exercising a degree of restraint bordering on sainthood, you mongrel.”

That was actually not an exaggeration. Since Maegor’s arrival, the intimacy he once enjoyed with you had become frustratingly few and far between, and he had to think at least thrice these days to take you to bed!

To his credit, he had adhered to the advice of maesters so far— that was to give you more time following the difficult birth.

Daeron stared at him, then barked out a laugh loud enough to startle the maids.

“Gods above, you are serious!”

Aerion threw him a dark glare, as his brother leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fox.

“Well, since you have nothing better to do, then come with me tonight.”

“For what?”

“For a good time, obviously. There is a feast in the city. Music, drink, performers, gambling, a lot of pretty wenches too—”

“Bwah!”

It astounded even you that your babe could be this adorable.

At times, it felt as though you were cradling a happier, guileless miniature of your husband in your arms. There really was no doubt that this child was his.

“He looks so much like his sire, does he not?” You poked Maegor’s plump cheek, and he immediately rewarded you with a toothless grin.

Your lady’s maid sighed with a smile, nearly melted on the spot. “The image of him, my lady. Those eyes and hair especially.”

You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Maegor’s forehead, placing him back in his cradle.

Motherhood suited you far more than you had imagined. The long nights, the exhaustion... none of it seemed to matter whenever your little boy wrapped his tiny fingers around you or smiled at the sound of your voice. You loved every moment of it.

Yet if you were being truthful with yourself, you missed Aerion too. Before Maegor’s birth, your prince had scarcely gone a day without finding an excuse to pull you into his arms, but now your days and nights revolved around your son, and the moments you spent alone together had become increasingly rare.

And lately, something felt... different. Aerion had begun returning later than usual, and he smelled of wine. The first time, you dismissed it, but by the fourth, a knot had begun forming in your stomach. Since when had he taken to drinking?

Then one afternoon, while walking through the castle with Maegor in your arms, you happened upon two servants speaking in hushed voices—

“The princes have gone again!”

“Again?”

“Aye. To the town.”

“The new establishment?”

“The very same. They say the owner imported women from across the Narrow Sea and Essos. They cost a fortune...”

It didn’t take you long to figure out that they were talking about a pleasure house. Your stomach twisted. The princes?

They must mean Daeron, surely? But who was the other prince? Because, there was no way that Aerion was seeking comfort from common whores now—

Then again, the word of his brashness towards the princess consort, Valarr’s wife, was apparently quite well-known in King’s Landing. A princess from Pentos, she was an exotic beauty, meanwhile you...

People rarely described you as beautiful. Sweet and pleasant to look upon, they would say, but definitely not the kind that would ensnare princes at the first sight like she did. Moreover, after bearing a child, your body was no longer quite the same as it once had been.

The thought lodged itself in your mind, and despite every effort to dismiss it, a terrible possibility began gnawing at you. What if he has indeed sought comfort elsewhere?

You hated yourself for even thinking it. But when one night, several days later, you spotted him near the servants’ quarters with a woman adorned with golden ornaments unlike anything worn in Westeros—

Your breath caught when Aerion had both of her wrists pinned together in one hand and cornered her.

A great many things seemed determined to test Aerion’s patience these days.

The councils. His father’s demands. Daeron’s antics. By the time evening fell, a dull ache had settled behind the back of his head, and all he wanted was peace, a cup of wine, and his wife.

Especially his wife. The thought to have you wrap him in your arms was enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders as he strode through the corridors toward your chambers.

However, when he entered it, the warmth he expected was entirely absent. The chamber was darker than usual, half of the candles unlit. You sat perfectly still before the vanity desk, didn’t even turn or rise to greet him.

“Wife?” he asked, stepping forward with a frown. Usually, you favored dark room when you were unwell. “Are you ill—”

“Who is she?”

Your voice was eerily quiet, yet cut through the air so sharply. It was so abrupt that for a moment he simply stared at you, and only after a solid minute did you turn to him, your expression cold enough to frost glass.

“If you tell me now, I may still find it in myself to be merciful and merely send her away. Is it Pentos? Myr? Or perhaps Lys?” The corner of your mouth curved into a sneer. “Lys is famous for its prostitutes, after all.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “What do you imply me doing, wife?”

A surge of anger rushed through his veins, severely taking offense. How could you think that lowly of him?

But whatever retort had been forming on his tongue died immediately, because to his astonishment, there were tears in your eyes.

“I gave you a son. I nearly died bringing him into this world.” Your voice trembled slightly as you rose from your seat. “I know we are not always of the same mind, but how could you humiliate me by bringing a common whore here? Do you intend to flaunt her to me?”

You looked devastated, and more than anything, he hated that look in your face. Who had planted this absurdity in your head?

“You are talking nonsense—”

“Nonsense?” Your voice rose sharply. “I saw you with her!”

This had to end. Suddenly Aerion crossed the distance between you in three strides, and you flinched as his hand caught your shoulder, attempting to pull away, but he would not allow it and forced you to face him.

“Look.”

He lifted his other hand before you. At first you did not understand, then your gaze fell upon the gold band encircling his finger. His wedding band.

Aerion stared at you hard, his violet eyes blazing.

“I have worn this since you put it on me on the day of our wedding, and never removed it since.”

On the day of your wedding, the two of you had scarcely been able to tolerate one another. You blinked as another tear fell, trying to hold yourself together.

“You think I would dishonor you? Shame the mother of my son?” he growled through clenched teeth. “I still could see the blood you shed in childbed even in my nightmares. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Three days after Maegor’s birth, your fever worsened and you fell unconscious. You remembered feeling cold, and the bleeding had the sheets beneath you soaked with red. When you awoke, the maesters were surrounding your bed, and your maids were crying.

But standing tall amidst them was Aerion, who never left your side for the remainder of the night. Later, you were told he had threatened every maester in the Red Keep with death should they fail to save you.

The fury in his violet eyes burned brighter. “Now do tell and enlighten me. What part of that ordeal would make me look at another wench and decide she is worth more than you?”

You were still not fully convinced. “But you... the servants saw you going to the whorehouse—”

Aerion let out a harsh exhale.

“I was retrieving Daeron,” he grounded out, each word bitter. “Father’s orders. The wench you saw me with is his whore. A fortune-seeking dullard, I just banished her from Summerhall.”

“You have been drinking lately too—”

“So now I’m forbidden from having a drink?” A muscle twitched beneath his right eye. “I face constant shit and my foolish brother every day. I can’t even bed my wife when she’s next to me and our son hogs her time all day and everyday, meanwhile she is thinking I’m hiding some whore in another chamber— and now I cannot drink? Tell me, do you actually want me to keep my sanity, or do you want to see me lose it and hang the first man I see?”

Somehow, the way he phrased it made you feel sorry for him. You pursed your lips, looking away. “Sure, have your drink, then...”

“Oh, I fucking will, woman, but first thing first—”

Before you could even gasp, he dived in, crushing his lips against yours.

The anger that had choked the room only moments ago dissolved into an instant, consuming heat. It was a punishing kiss at first, choking the breath out of you, but it quickly melted sensually as his hands roamed the curve of your body.

It sure had been a while since he had his hands on you. A moan escaped your lips when he fondled your breasts and pressed you against his torso, creating a delicious friction.

When he finally pulled away, it was with a heavy, ragged breath. His gaze burning down into your eyes as his thumb gently traced your lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.

“If it were up to me,” Aerion murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, “I would fuck you senseless—”

His expression softened, a rare, vulnerable shadow crossing his features along with the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s taking everything in me not to. The fever after your last labor nearly took you from me, and I won’t gamble with your life.”

“I can take moon tea—”

“That blasted tea will make you sick. You are not taking that until it’s absolutely necessary.”

You blinked up at him, your expression softening into a sweet gaze that completely disarmed him. The sheer innocence in your eyes was his undoing.

With a low groan, Aerion leaned down and pulled you in for another deep, lingering kiss, sealing his lust against your lips, before trailing his mouth downward, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to suck your skin hungrily.

“Who could have known…” His voice was a low, teasing rasp, the words vibrating directly against the skin of your neck, “that my wife is such a fiercely jealous woman that she actually made herself cry?”

He was relishing in this, you realized. When he broke away this time, a victorious smirk touched his lips. “Are you content now, my jealous wife?”

You shot him a look, feeling a heat rush to your face. You tried to muster a glare, but the blush staining your cheeks betrayed you entirely.

“Incorrigible man...” you muttered, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment.

Aerion only laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused—a rare sound for him these days. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his thumb gently tugging your chin back so you were forced to look at him. “Now what else should I prove to you so you will be satisfied?”

“I want Maegor now.”

Your husband arched an eyebrow, exasperated.

“This is absolute treachery,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. “I finally get you to myself, and you immediately call for that little tyrant?”

. . .

A few moments later, the maids entered the chamber, gently putting baby Maegor into your waiting arms. The moment the infant settled against your chest, he let out a happy, bubbling giggle, his tiny hands reaching up towards your face.

Aerion stood unhappily over the two of you, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the display.

“He is fat.”

You scowled at him, tightening your hold over your son protectively. “I love him fat.”

That little boy could be the fattest babe in the Seven Kingdoms and he would still be the apple of your eye. Yet, as your husband looked down at his son, a sudden realization washed over him—

He had always thought the boy took entirely after him, but looking closely at Maegor’s beaming smile, Aerion saw you. The babe had his violet eyes and his silver hair, but the contour of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes—it was all yours.

Now he sort of understood why he also found him adorable.

“Let me hold him,” he said, already pulling the babe from your grasp.

He brought Maegor against his own broad chest. It was a surreal sight, seeing your brooding prince cradling a fragile, soft infant with the utmost care.

Your heart warmed at the sight though, a profound sense of peace settling over you as you looked at the two absolute loves of your life.

Epilogue

The tender silence lasted for only a minute. Maegor, apparently deciding he had tolerated his father’s hold, suddenly squirmed. With a whimper of protest, the babe pushed his small hands against his father’s chest, fighting the embrace.

Before Aerion could adjust his grip, Maegor’s chubby little hand shot upward, unceremoniously slapping right at his father’s face, as well as scratching his jawline.

Aerion blinked, his head tilting back in sheer disbelief at the audacity of his own flesh and blood. He looked completely stunned, before a look of deep betrayal crossed his features as he glared at his son and you utterly failed to contain yourself and burst into a fit of giggles.

Your shop is rather small, but you love it.

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

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

You can make anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.

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

“And this?”

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”

He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp out. “Your grace—!”

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

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

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

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

“But—he just—the entire thing.”

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

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

“Can a cure be made?”

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

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

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

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

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

—✿—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow, heart in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “Your grace—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pet name has you reeling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My prince—”

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

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

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

You gasp out. “My prince, I—”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you whimper.

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

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

“One more,” you repeat after him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—✿—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The prince,” he says pointedly.

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

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

You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”

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

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

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

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

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

———

be nice to the woods witch ❌

fuck her against her shop counter ✅

idiot (need him)

tags 🌿

He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.

Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.

He was at his wits’ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.

The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.

"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.

He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "I…I came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.

You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.

He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.

But he didn’t catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, being…pleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."

The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."

He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.

Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."

Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"

"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.

He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.

And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.

Now, it was morning. The maid’s insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.

"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"

Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.

You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.

All this time, you had wanted him.

He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.

"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."

The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.

The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.

You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.

You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.

This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.

And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.

The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?

"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."

You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"

"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."

But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."

It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.

This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.

Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.

A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.

"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."

He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.

"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."

Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.

"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.

"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."

"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.

"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."

"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."

You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.

"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."

He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.

Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.

"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.

"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."

He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.

But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.

It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.

But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.

Then came the night of the kiss.

It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.

"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.

And then you kissed him.

It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.

Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.

You had kissed him.

This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.

A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.

But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.

Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?

He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.

He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.

Gods be good.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.

Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.

He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.

But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.

Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.

The kisses continued.

Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.

He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.

The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.

It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.

Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.

Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.

He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.

"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."

Your breath caught. "Maekar..."

He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.

"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."

His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.

When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.

You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.

He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.

You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."

"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."

You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.

This, too, became a habit.

Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.

He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.

It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.

You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.

The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.

"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"

"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.

You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.

"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"

The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.

"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you never…" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."

"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.

"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."

He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There are…consequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."

"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."

It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.

You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."

Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.

But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. But…" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."

Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.

"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."

The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.

He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.

"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.

His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.

You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.

"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."

"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."

"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."

Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."

"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."

He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.

"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.

Toji raised a brow, towel slung over his neck. “If you’re sayin’ that ‘cause you think you’re fat, ain’t takin’ you.”

You shifted on your feet, chewing your lip. “But if I just… wanna get stronger? Maybe more stamina?”

He tilted his head like he was sizing you up, then grinned. “Hmm that's nice... If you’ve got more strength, I don’t gotta hold back, y’know.”

"Tojiii... youuu!!!"

“Good girl,” he muttered, giving your ass a smack making you squeak and red as Geto chuckled.

You hugged Toji quickly, mumbling a thank you before scampering off to your room. where, unsurprisingly, Gojo had already invaded your bed. He was curled up hugging your plushie like it was a lifeline, nose buried into it.

“Satoru…?”

“Mhmm?” he cracked open one icy blue eye and grinned. “You smell like heaven. Don’t leave me ever.”

“I won't,” you laughed, sitting beside him. “Will you come help me shop for gym clothes?”

That, apparently, was the magic phrase.

“YOU’RE GOING TO THE GYM?!” he practically flew out of your bed. “I need to supervise. I’m coming.”

You shouldn’t have asked. At the store, it was a disaster. Gojo was yanking crop tops off hangers, tossing booty shorts into your arms, dramatically flinging sparkly sports bras over your head.

“Satoru!!” you hissed, holding a pair of tiny shorts like they were radioactive. “I can’t wear this to the gym!”

“Why not?” he pouted. “It’ll keep the boys away ‘cause they’ll know you’re already taken.”

“Th...that doesn't even make any sense. They’ll stare.”

“Let them!” he said proudly. “Let them die from jealousy!”

Thankfully, Geto came to the rescue, offering you a few sleek, modest and comfortable sets in earthy tones. “These look good. functional too.”

You smiled sweetly, relieved. “Thank you, suguru.”

Gojo looked betrayed. “Okay, what is this? Everyone ignoring me. I bring spice to your life and all I get is disrespect.”

Back home, Gojo plopped onto the bed while you laid out your new clothes on them. “I’m gonna miss you when you're gone,” he said, pressing his face into your thigh.

“I’ll only be gone for a few hours,” you giggled, stroking his hair.

“Exactly. Too long.”

***

The next morning, you stepped out in your brand new gym clothes, shorts hugging your hips, a tight sports bra, and a loose T-shirt thrown on top. you felt a little silly, but excited.

Geto handed you a gym bag with a smile. “Water bottle. Banana. Trail mix. Text me if you need anything.”

“Thank you…” you hugged him, touched by the thoughtfulness.

Nanami appeared, kissed your cheek gently. “Call me if anything’s off. Anything.”

Toji, who had just walked out from the kitchen munching on something, scoffed. “She’s with me, jackass.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” Nanami deadpanned, adjusting his tie.

“Yeah, yeah.” Toji stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth. “Let’s go, doll.”

He took a helmet for you and slung an arm over your shoulders, steering you out the door. You couldn't even wave goodbye before he led you to his black bike. He handed you the helmet and straddled the seat.

“Get on,” he said. “Gotta hold tight though. Might go fast.”

You obeyed without a second thought, sliding on behind him and wrapping your arms around his torso.

“Like a fuckin’ koala,” he muttered, shaking his head fondly. “If I feel your tits pressin’ into me one more time I can't promise if I'm gonna crash us into a wall.”

“Shut up toji!!” you squeaked, as he laughed loud and revived the engine.

“Hold on, princess. Let’s go build that stamina of yours.”

***

Gym smelled like sweat and steel, music pumping through the speakers as you stepped inside with Toji beside you. Instantly, heads turned.

“Yo, toji !”

“Morning, fushiguro!”

“Spot me first, yeah?!”

He grunted a few responses, barely sparing them a glance, his hand sliding down to your lower back possessively. Everyone knew him. He was the best trainer in the gym. Big, broad and confident, the type of man people admired and secretly drooled over.

“All right, baby,” he said, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Let’s see what that soft little body can handle.”

You swallowed hard as he started guiding you through the beginner routines. But the man couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Every “correction” involved groping, his calloused fingers brushing your inner thighs, his palm flat on your lower belly, adjusting your hips with a grip that lingered.

“Stretch, bend… yeah, like that,” he murmured behind you. You bent forward and thump.

You gasped, feeling the unmistakable pressure of his bulge nudging against your core. “Toji…” you whined, cheeks burning.

“What?” he feigned innocence, rocking his hips just slightly. “Form’s gotta be perfect, baby.”

Your knees trembled. He let out a chuckle and finally pulled back. After teasing you within an inch of sanity, he finally let you catch your breath, handing you a water bottle. “Walk on the treadmill for a while, yeah? gotta see a couple of clients.”

You nodded, slightly dazed, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your neck followed by a sharp bite.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he smirked, walking off.

You walked slowly, sweat sliding down your back as you tried to focus on the rhythm of your steps. You took a sip of water, cheeks warm. That’s when you heard someone giggling. You turned slightly and there she was.

Toned thighs, tight gym shorts, sports bra hugging a perfect figure. Her ponytail bounced as she smiled up Toji. He stood beside her, adjusting her posture, saying something too low for you to hear. She laughed again, arm brushing against his. His hands were on her hips, not in a dirty way but just there, showing her how to move, how to hold the stretch. Still, she leaned in too much. Her fingers brushed his bicep under the pretense of balance. Her eyes didn’t leave his mouth when he spoke.

You knew it was part of his job but it stung. Hard. You looked away. Swallowed and then looked again. And that was it.

“Tojiii,” you called, loud enough to carry. His head snapped to you instantly.

“Yeah, doll?” he jogged over, concern furrowing his brows. “You okay? Tired?”

You shook your head quickly. “I wanna go home.”

He blinked, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Doll, … I work here, yeah? Got that girl to train—she’s one of my regular clients. And those two too—” he nodded toward a couple of girls lifting weights across the floor. You nodded slowly, eyes flicking back to the girl who was still watching him.

“I’ll book ya a cab, hmm?” he said gently, pulling his phone out. “Call me when you get back.”

You stepped back and reached for your towel from his hands. “I don’t need a cab. I’ll call suguru.”

His brows drew together slightly. “Huh? wait—”

But you’d already turned, walking toward your bag without looking back. Outside, the cool air stung your skin. You dialed Geto with shaky fingers.

“Honey?” he answered on the first ring. “Done already?”

“Suguu… can you pick me up?”

He was there in ten minutes. You didn’t say a word, just climbed into the passenger seat and pulled your knees up to your chest. He didn’t press. But when he glanced over at the red in your eyes, his jaw tightened. He drove you home in silence, hand resting protectively on your knee. He dropped you home, a kiss to your cheeks then drove off to work.

***

You didn’t have class today. And yet the whole day felt heavier than usual. You tried to read, tried to write, maybe even clean your room but your thoughts kept spiraling back to the image of that girl at the gym. He let her touch him. Let her press up close, even if it was all part of the damn job. You hated that it mattered so much. Hated that he was still at the gym right now. Still surrounded by girls like that.

Eventually, the weight of it made you curl into bed and sleep the day away, your chest tight and mind restless. Evening came. The apartment door clicked open. You stirred only when you heard the shower running. You moved to the couch with the plushie Gojo bought you once. A few minutes later, warm arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you gently from the couch into a lap that was all peace and safety.

Nanami smelled like cedarwood and clean skin. His damp hair brushed your cheek as he kissed your temple. "How was your day, sweetheart?" he asked, voice low and smooth.

“I… just slept,” you mumbled, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, voice barely audible.

He tilted your chin with two fingers. “All day?”

You nodded up at him. "Yeah..."

He hummed. “And how was the gym?”

Your face faltered before you could stop it. Your eyes dropped. You hated that he noticed it instantly.

"What's wrong, love?"

"Nothing," you whispered too fast, trying to turn away.

His voice turned firm. “What happened?”

“I-it's nothing serious—really.”

“Did Toji do something to you?”

Your head snapped up, panic flashing. “No! no, nothing like that—he didn’t—he didn’t do anything.”

Nanami narrowed his eyes slightly. “Then talk to me. What is it?”

You exhaled shakily and looked down again. And then, in a quiet, hesitant voice, you finally let it spill.

“It’s just… at the gym… when toji left me to go train someone else, there was this girl, she was really pretty and she kept touching him and smiling at him and… I know it’s his job but… I felt… so stupid.”

Your voice broke a little as you reached the end, cheeks flushed with shame. Nanami didn’t speak for a second. he just tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear and kissed your temple again.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “He’s a trainer. That’s what he does. It's nothing to worry about.” he smiled.

You nodded reluctantly. “But she was touching him. On the arms. And her laugh was like… flirty. She likes toji. I know it.”

He raised a brow. "Oh? she likes him?"

You nodded, like complaining.

“And who does toji love?”

Your lips parted. "Wh-what?"

"I asked who does toji and all of us love, hmm?"

You blinked, dumbfounded. “…Me?”

“Exactly.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, then lower, down your neck. “You're our girl, yeah?” he whispered, breath warm.

You giggled softly, heat rushing to your chest. His hands moved up under your shirt. “That’s more like it,” he murmured, thumbing your nipple. “My pretty girl getting all upset over this… adorable.”

Before you could respond, the front door opened.

"I'm home," came Geto's familiar voice from the hallway.

You froze in Nanami’s lap as Geto stepped into the living room, a little strand of his hair damp from sweat. His eyes landed on you, then narrowed slightly when he saw where you were.

“Well, well,” he drawled, walking over and crouching beside the couch. “I don’t get this greeting?” he leaned in and kissed your lips gently, fingers brushing your knee. “How was the gym, baby?”

You flinched slightly, eyes darting to Nanami. He chuckled when you gave him a pleading look—please don’t tell him. Nanami raised his brow. “Should I not say?”

You shook your head so fast it was almost embarrassing. “Nooo...!”

Geto's brows pulled together as he looked between you and Nanami. “Okay, what'd I miss?”

A quiet laugh escaped Nanami as he shook his head. “She's been sulking all day,” he said, “ranting to me about this girl at the gym who was looking at toji.”

“Nanamin!”

The realization dawned on Geto almost immediately, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Ohh,” he hummed. “You were jealous, baby?” he teased, tilting his head. “Over toji?”

“I-I wasn’t! I mean—no!”

Nanami leaned in, his palm resting on your thigh again. “Oh, you should’ve seen her. Face all scrunched up the whole time.”

Geto’s hands joined his, trailing up your other leg. “You poor baby,” he murmured. “Did he stretch her out too? like he do to you before he fucks you dumb?”

Your mouth fell open, mortified. “S-stop! You two are being mean…”

They both leaned in, trapping you in the heat of their bodies. “You like when we’re mean,” Geto said softly, licking your pulse point.

“I’m not jealous,” you stammered, pushing at their chests feebly.

“Oh?” Nanami smirked. “Then why are you shaking like that, hmm?”

“I-I’m not!”

“I think you are,” Geto grinned at you. “Should we call toji, tell him how you’re acting like a brat over him?”

“Noooo! you can't...” you squeaked, face burning. You shoved them both lightly and scrambled off Nanami’s lap, your heart thumping. “I’m not jealous!” you insisted, running toward your room and slamming the door shut behind you. You could hear their soft laughs echo behind the door.

“She’s definitely jealous,” Nanami said.

“Agree, agree.” Geto replied.

And you were behind the door, cheeks on fire and your heart thumping like crazy.

***

Toji came home a little later than usual, sweat clinging to his skin, hair a little damp, gym bag slung over his shoulder. You didn’t greet him like you normally did. Didn’t even look up from the couch when he walked past. Not a smile, not a “welcome home.” Just silence.

He noticed. Ohh, he definitely noticed.

The first time he passed you, he let it slide. Maybe you were tired. Maybe you didn’t hear him. The second time, when he tossed his bag on the chair and asked, “You eat anything yet?”, and you just mumbled a “yeah” without even turning your head, his jaw ticked. When you pulled away from his touch later saying you were “not in the mood” he snapped.

And the next thing you knew, Toji’s hand was gripping your wrist as he dragged you inside your room, slamming it shut behind him.

“The fuck is wrong with you today?” he barked, pushing you gently but firmly toward the bed. “Been giving me this cold-ass shoulder since morning.”

You swallowed hard, eyes wide.

“Didn’t call when you got home,” he said, voice rising. “Didn’t reply to a single fuckin’ text. Didn’t pick up any of my calls. You just walked out the gym and vanished. And now you’re actin’ like I did something?”

“Toji, I—”

“No, you don’t get to shut me out like this without telling me what the fuck is wrong.” He stepped closer, hands on either side of your waist, pinning you in place. His eyes scanned your face, furious but confused, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast.

Your lower lip trembled, eyes getting wet. “You’re scaring me…”

Toji froze when he saw your face changes. “Shit. No, No—fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair, stepping back. “Don’t—don’t cry. Fuck, don’t do that. Didn’t mean to yell. Shit. I didn’t even do anything, why are you crying like that?”

“You’re.... so mean,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I hate you.”

You pushed at his chest with both hands, stumbling out of his grip, hot tears streaking down your cheeks. Before he could react, you ran straight to the living room, where Nanami was reading on the couch. You threw yourself into his arms, sobbing into his chest. He held you without question, his arms secure around your waist, hand soothing your back.

Toji came after you, of course. Stopping at the hallway, panting, looking genuinely wrecked.

“The fuck happened to her?” he demanded, eyes narrowing at Nanami. “She said I’m mean. What did I even do? She’s never called me that, not even when I was bullying her cunt like—”

“Toji.” Nanami cut him off, calm but sharp. “For the love of God, don’t finish that sentence.”

Toji blinked, then rubbed his temples. “I didn’t even fuckin’ do anything…”

Geto strolled in just in time to hear the tail end of it, sipping on something cold. He glanced between the three of you and smirked.

“Toji,” he said with a chuckle, “You might wanna consider a career change if this is how it’s going.”

“What?” Toji blinked again, clearly not following. Then it clicked. “Oh.” his voice dropped into a knowing growl. “Ohhhh.....”

He started laughing, low and sharp. Cruel in how accurate it was. “That’s what this was about?” he pointed toward you. “That girl today?”

You didn’t answer, face buried in Nanami’s chest, fists clenched in his shirt.

Toji walked over with purpose. “You really got all bratty over that stuck-up cardio chick? Baby, that’s work. That ain’t fun.” He grabbed you by the waist, prying you from Nanami’s lap like you weighed nothing.

“Toji—let go!” you squealed, trying to fight him off.

“You wanna cry? fine. You can cry on my cock,” he snarled.

He carried you toward your room, ignoring your squirming, ignoring the way Geto was cackling behind him, ignoring Nanami’s slow exhale and murmured, “Toji. Don't be so hard on her.”

He dropped you on the bed, crawling over you, his big frame caging you in. You thought he was gonna fuck you mean out of anger. Instead, he pulled your shorts down and nudged your legs apart, slowly running the thick length of his cock up and down your folds not pushing in.

Your eyes widened. “Toji—”

“Shh,” he cut in, voice smooth and dark. “Let me ask you something, baby.”

His cock slid through your slick folds again, dragging right over your clit. You gasped, trying to close your thighs but his hand pushed them back open. “Want me to put it in?”

You swallowed thickly, face burning, unable to speak. He chuckled, slow and mean. “Just the tip, yeah? That’ll shut your jealous little head up?” he lined himself up and rubbed the tip right against your entrance without pushing in. “That enough to make you forget about her?”

You whimpered, hips twitching.

“No?” he murmured, kissing your throat, teasing the head of his cock at your tight entrance again, not entering. “Want me to really fuck it in? want it deep, or you just want the tip like a good little slut?”

You squirmed, unable to form any words, shaking your head.

“Don’t want the tip?” he smirked, hand sliding under your shirt, palming your tits. “Then what do you want, baby? want me to fuck it in deep and ruin that jealous little cunt so you remember who you belong to?”

“I—I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” he cooed mockingly. “Sorry for what, sweetheart?" he slides his cock up your folds teasing.

"Sorry for saying you hate me?" another grind.

"Or sorry for not calling?" he rolls his hips again.

"Or sorry for being a pouty, bratty, little thing?”

“…All of it…” you whispered, breath hitching.

Toji’s eyes softened just for a second. Then he shoved the tip in. Just barely. Enough to make you jolt and moan. He groaned. “Tight little hole. Fuck, missed this cock, huh?”

You nodded desperately. “Please—Toji…”

He smirked, sliding in just another inch. “Gonna take it back now? that thing you said earlier?”

Your heart stuttered. “I—I didn’t mean it—” another push. “I don’t hate you—!”

“Then what do you feel, huh?”

“I—” you choked out, tears spilling again, “I love you—I love you, Toji, please—!”

He chuckled, finally burying himself all the way in one slow, punishing thrust. “Yeah. that’s my girl,” he whispered. “Now tell me… who’s my good baby?”

“Ahhh.... me,” you gasped.

He pulled out slowly and slammed back in. “Say it again.”

“Me—!”

“Who’s the one who gets all my love and kisses?”

“Me—!”

“Who’s the little thing bouncing on my cock every night?”

You sobbed, head spinning. “That's—!”

He smirked, licking a stripe up your cheek like a reward. “That’s what I thought.”

And just like that, he grabbed your hips and started fucking you for real. Deep, slow thrusts, each one sealing every filthy word inside you. Toji grinned down at you, his cock still twitching inside, his body hot and heavy as he leaned in, voice smug and low against your cheek.

“Jealous little bunny, huh?” he murmured, dragging his thumb along your bottom lip. “Gets all possessive for me? Hmm? Love me that much?”

You nodded furiously, lips parted, breath shaky.

“Oh? Thought you hated me?” he teased, voice dipping as he nipped at your throat. “Didn’t you say that, huh?”

“S-so… sorry,” you whimpered, clutching at his shoulders. “Won’t say it again… I– I love you…”

He hummed, pleased, his cock grinding just a little deeper. “Is that so?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Then… wanna mark me up?” he smirked.

“What?”

“To show that gym chick not to fuck with me, yeah?” he murmured, dragging your hand over his bare chest. “Come on, mark me up like a good little bunny. Start with my neck.”

Your eyes widened, but he tilted his head, baring his thick throat. “Come on,” he growled softly. “Bite me.”

You leaned in, sinking your teeth gently into his skin. He chuckled low. “Oh? you can do better than that. Bite harder, baby—gotta show her, hmm?”

You obeyed, a little harder this time.

“Good girl,” he groaned, voice roughening. “Now my arms. Come on, leave marks everywhere they can see. You want them to see, don’t you?”

Your lips trembled as you nodded and leaned in again. Toji just grinned, letting you claim him. He slowed his thrusts, just enough for you to breathe barely, his chest heaving, your body trembling under his. One of his big hands gripped your jaw, tilting your teary, fucked-out face up to meet his eyes.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low and filthy against your lips. “Next time you feel jealous, you tell me, yeah?”

You nodded weakly, barely able to keep your eyes open. he smirked, cock still buried deep inside you.

“I’ll make sure to fuck the jealousy right outta you. Every single time.”

You remembered those years with a clarity that still ached. The hours spent at Valarr's side. The way your heart had leapt when he sought you out, when he smiled at you, when he trusted you with his fears and his uncertainties. You had thought, foolishly, desperately, that proximity would breed something more. That devotion would be rewarded. That he would look at you one day and see what had always been there, waiting.

He had not.

Aerion was wrong about one thing, at least. Valarr had not deflowered you. He had not even come close. There had been only one kiss, years ago, when you had wondered aloud what it felt like and he had offered to show you.

"To satisfy your curiosity," he had said. "And soothe your fears. That is all."

That was all. A single kiss, chaste and brief, and you had spent years afterwards lying awake at night wondering if he had ever wanted to kiss you again. If he had ever thought about it. If it had meant anything at all.

"What a dreadful waste."

Aerion's voice cut through your thoughts, and you realized he had been watching your face.

"All those years," he continued, shaking his head slowly. His tone sharpened with something that might have been disgust, though it was not directed at you. "Wouldn't you rather have fun with me?"

Before you could answer, he dragged his tongue along your parted mouth, an obscene gesture, and then pulled back entirely. The loss of warmth was jarring.

You heard the click of the lock.

He had crossed the room while you were still in a daze, and now he stood by the door with his hand still on the bolt, surveying the chamber with a new expression. Thoughtful. Calculating. The look of a man who had just conceived of something and was already deciding how to execute it.

"Change," he said.

You blinked. "…what?"

He was already moving toward your trunks and flipping them open. He rummaged through the folded gowns with the carelessness of a man who had never had to pack his own belongings in his life, tossing aside silks and velvets until he found what he was looking for.

"Put this on." He straightened, holding up a dress. It was the plainest thing you owned, wool, not silk, a muted grey-brown. Serviceable. Unremarkable. He found a cloak as well, dark and heavy, and thrust it toward you. "Quickly."

"Aerion..."

"I have decided," he said, as though that explained everything, "to show you something you have not seen before."

"What would that be?"

His mouth curved. "A life outside these walls."

You stared at him. "You are mad."

"Possibly." He did not seem troubled by the assessment. "But you are going to put on that dress and that cloak, and you are going to come with me, and for one night you are going to see what it is like to not be a lady in a cage."

"A cage I am only still in because of you," you pointed out.

"Yes," he agreed, entirely unrepentant. "So you may consider this my penance. Now change. Unless you would prefer I stay and watch?"

You snatched the dress from his hands and pointed toward the door. "Turn around."

He turned, though not before you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

You changed quickly, pulled the cloak around your shoulders and drew the hood over your hair. The woman who looked back at you from the mirror was not a Baratheon lady. She was not a prince's betrothed. She was simply a woman in a plain dress, indistinguishable from a hundred others in the city below.

Aerion turned back at the sound of your movement, and his eyes swept over you with an approval that made something in your stomach tighten.

"Passable," he said. "Come."

He did not take your hand. He simply opened the door and waited, and after a moment's hesitation, you followed.

The passages he led you through were not the ones you knew. They were narrower, darker, clearly meant for servants or for those who did not wish to be seen. Aerion moved through them with the ease of long familiarity, and you wondered, not for the first time, what sort of prince spent so much time in hidden corridors.

The city beyond the Red Keep was another world entirely.

You had seen it before, of course: from windows, from carriages, from the high walls that separated royalty from rabble, but you had never walked through it. Not like this. Not on foot, with the press of bodies around you and the smell of cooking meat and unwashed skin and something sour that might have been spilled ale.

The market was still alive even at this hour, torches flickering in iron sconces, vendors calling out prices in voices hoarse from use. Aerion guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back, a light pressure that steered you away from the worst of the press without ever seeming to direct you.

"Keep your hood up," he murmured against your hair. "Your face is too memorable."

You did not know whether that was a compliment or a warning.

He bought you food from a stall, fried and greasy dough, wrapped in paper that grew translucent with oil, and laughed when you hesitated to eat it.

"It will not kill you," he said. "Probably."

You ate it. It was, against all expectation, delicious.

He showed you the stall where a woman sold ribbons dyed in colors so vivid they seemed to glow in the torchlight. You saw the corner where a man with no teeth told fortunes for a copper penny, and the alley where a boy no older than ten was teaching a dog to dance on its hind legs. The blacksmith's forge, dark now but still radiating heat, the weaver's shop with its shuttered windows, and the fountain in the small square where the water ran clean and cold.

You stopped when you saw the play.

It was being performed on a makeshift stage at the edge of the market, boards laid across barrels, a painted curtain fluttering behind the players. The actors were not skilled, their voices too loud, their gestures too broad, but there was an energy to the performance that drew you in. You grabbed Aerion's sleeve without thinking and pulled him toward the crowd that had gathered.

He came willingly, standing close behind you as you watched.

The play, as it turned out, was not the sort of thing performed in the Red Keep.

It was vulgar. Obscenely, unapologetically vulgar. The plot, such as it was, seemed to revolve around a milkmaid, a travelling merchant, and a donkey, and the jokes grew progressively filthier with each passing minute. The crowd around you roared with laughter. You scrunched up your face.

You turned sharply, intending to leave, and found Aerion already watching you. He had not been watching the play at all. His grin was half-hidden against your hair, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and when he saw your expression he only laughed harder.

"Not to your taste?" he murmured.

"You knew what this was."

"I had my suspicions." He tugged on your hand, drawing you away from the crowd. "Come. Before the donkey returns for the second act. It does not improve."

You were laughing by the time you reached the Red Keep.

You could not remember when the laughter had started, somewhere between the market and the gates, somewhere between the grease-stained paper crumpled in your hand and the way Aerion had nearly slipped on a pile of something unspeakable in the alley, but it had not stopped. Your sides ached with it. Your cheeks hurt. Aerion was no better, his composure utterly shattered, his hair disheveled from where you had shoved him in retaliation for a joke you refused to repeat.

The laughter died the moment you stepped through the doors.

Maekar Targaryen was waiting.

Beside him stood Baelor Breakspear, his expression troubled but composed, and beside Baelor...Valarr.

Your stomach dropped.

"Where," Maekar said, his voice carrying the particular calm of a man who was restraining himself only with great effort, "have you been?"

Aerion straightened, the last traces of mirth fading from his face. "Sightseeing."

"Sightseeing."

"The city is quite lovely at night, father. You should try it sometime."

"Do not play games with me, boy." Maekar's gaze moved to you, taking in the plain dress, the cloak. "You took your betrothed out into the streets. Alone. At night. Unchaperoned. Without guards. Without so much as a word to anyone."

"We did nothing inappropriate," Aerion said, and there was an edge creeping into his voice now. "We merely walked. I only wished to show her the city, she obliged me."

"She wished..." Maekar cut himself off, visibly struggling for control. "You are a prince of the blood. She is a lady of a great house, newly betrothed, and you thought it appropriate to drag her through the filth of the city like a common..."

"Like a what?" Aerion's voice sharpened dangerously.

Baelor raised a hand, stepping between them with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years mediating Targaryen tempers. "Enough. The question is not what was done, but what will be perceived. Aerion, you must understand how this looks. An unchaperoned outing, in secret, at night...it invites speculation. It invites scandal."

"There is no scandal," Aerion said flatly. "There is only a man showing his betrothed the city she will one day help rule."

"And there will be time enough for that after the wedding," Maekar snapped. "When she is your wife, not your..."

He stopped. The word hung unspoken in the air, and you felt your face heat for an entirely different reason.

"She is my betrothed," Aerion said, very quietly. "And I will thank you not to imply otherwise."

Valarr spoke for the first time.

"This is reckless, even for you." His voice was controlled, but there was something simmering beneath it, something that made Aerion's head turn slowly toward him. "She deserves better than to be dragged into your whims."

"Who asked your opinion?" Aerion's hostility flared so suddenly that even Baelor looked taken aback. "Who asked you to weigh in on this, cousin? You, who could not be bothered to notice her when she was right in front of you? You, who..."

"Aerion." Baelor's voice was sharp now. "That is enough."

"Is it? Because I find myself quite interested in why Valarr has suddenly developed such a concern for my betrothed's welfare. A year ago he could not see her beside himself. Now he cannot stop looking."

Valarr's jaw tightened. "I have always cared for her."

"Have you?" Aerion tilted his head, and his smile was not pleasant. "How convenient that you discovered this only after she was no longer available."

"Enough!"

This time it was Lyonel Baratheon who spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a war horn. He had been standing near the back of the hall, silent until now, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes moved between Aerion and Valarr with a calculation that made you nervous.

"You," he said, pointing at Aerion, "will learn to control your tongue and your impulses, or I will teach you myself. I have no objection to a man showing his betrothed the city. I have done worse in my youth, and I will not play the hypocrite. But I do object to a man whose every action threatens to dishonor my niece and my house through sheer carelessness."

Aerion opened his mouth, saw the look in Lyonel's eyes, and closed it again.

"You will not be alone with her without a witness until the wedding," Maekar said, seizing the opening. "That is not a request. It is a command. I will not have this alliance jeopardized by your inability to exercise restraint."

"Father..."

"You are dismissed."

Aerion stood motionless for a long moment. Then he turned, and his eyes met yours. There was frustration, defiance, and something else that you could not quite name, and then he bowed, stiffly, and strode from the hall.

You did not watch him go. You did not look at Valarr, though you could feel his gaze on you like a weight. You simply inclined your head to Maekar, to Baelor, to your uncle, and retreated to your chambers with as much dignity as you could muster.

You barely slept.

The morning came gray and cold, and you rose with the first light, your head aching from too little rest and too much wine the night before. Your maids had not yet arrived. The castle was quiet.

You did not hear him enter.

One moment you were alone, standing before the mirror in your shift, and the next his arms were around you from behind, his mouth pressing hot against the curve of your neck.

"Aerion..." you gasped, trying to twist away. "The command...there must be a witness..."

"There is no one here to witness the lack of witness," he murmured against your skin, "and I will be gone before anyone knows I was here. Turn around."

You turned.

He kissed you.

This time, you kissed him back.

Your hands rose to grip the front of his tunic, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. Your mouth moved against his with an enthusiasm that surprised you both. The taste of him was familiar now, and you chased it, rising onto your toes to press closer, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, his breathing uneven. He looked at you for a long moment.

"Well," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your swollen lower lip. "That is more like it."

Then he was gone, slipping through the door as silently as he had come, leaving you standing alone in the morning light with your heart pounding and your lips still tingling.

part 5: pending...

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