Kieli

The dust on her gown was paid no mind as she peered with unabashed curiosity about the rows of colorful fabric, decorated with the sigils of many great Houses. Her own amongst them, the glittering Baratheon gold that could be spotted clearly even by the pair of doves fluttering high overhead. Bright eyes rested upon the stag that was synonymous with her blood.

The lady had earnestly requested a visit to the lists during each tourney she had been given permission to attend. Her eldest brother had been competing in the jousting events since he was eligible after all, but her wish was never granted. She had sulked and complained, arms crossed as she attempted to reason that she only desired to witness it closer. Steffon had always argued with decisive finality that the spectator’s box was close enough.

And it was not her relation who had sanctioned this visit, long coveted as it was. Although Steffon did trail behind her with a mildly dissatisfied expression smudged upon his visage, frowning beneath the bright sun as he remained a fair distance away, executing his duty to chaperone her properly. At her side, pointing out the knights belonging to each tent and whispering of their past performances within the lists, was her betrothed.

The title was still strange and foreign in her mind; the term was somehow semantically opposed to her perspective upon herself. The whirlwind of occurrences that had led to the engagement had swept her into an uncertain sky filled with blustering winds, and she had not settled her feet upon the ground since. Amongst the clouds that she fell past was Valarr, bathed in brilliant spring sunshine, while she remained soaked in frigid rain.

“Your brother has asked to speak to me before the jousting begins,” The change in topic drew her eyes away from the hustling of preparation around the tents and to the prince. A smile teased about his lips and was accompanied by a gentle tugging of his brow. “Should I be worried?”

The ghost of a girlish grin danced with light mirth onto her face before she spun it into a wry expression.

“Of Steffon?” “The inquiry was tinged with warm familiarity, the lady both amused and faintly embarrassed. “No, I believe he has come around to the betrothal as much as could be wished.”

The prince hummed in contemplation, gaze wandering to the lists in a manner that was too intentional to retain the casual quality he sought to convey. After a quiet moment, his attention was turned to her once again.

“And you, my lady?” It was a hesitant question, posed with an indifference that did not reside in his eyes.

Lady Baratheon’s lips parted and then closed at once. She attempted to speak again, but found she did not know what it was she wished to communicate to the prince regarding her thoughts upon their betrothal. It was far too complicated, in her mind, to provide a simple, courteous answer. And it was likely unbecoming to admit to a prince that one harbored conflicting emotions upon such an honorable and prestigious match.

As they continued forth gradually, the lady realized she was taking far too long to say anything at all. Scrambling for a verbal path to avoid responding directly, she simply gave Valarr a tiny shrug and a lowering of her shoulders.

“I am most grateful you asked my presence here this morning,” She could have winced at the bumbling awkwardness she advanced forward with, evading the question with all the tact of a wild boar. Yet her passageway through the brush of the intricate matter had been carved and she proceeded with any amount of composure that she could manage to muster. “I have been asking to venture down to the lists during the first day for years, yet no one has had the desire to entertain my request.”

If Valarr was disappointed in her skittish evasion, he had the noble disposition to prevent it from manifesting across his face. He merely dipped his head in acknowledgement, a pleasant cordiality decorating his countenance as he directed his attention amiably to the colorful pavilions, their flags waving languidly in the pleasant breeze. “It is certainly a lively sight.”

Inclined to prevent the conversation from circling around to a heavier subject, she spoke of the first thing to sprung into her mind.

“Nay, you needn’t worry over Steffon. Unless you face him in the lists, in which case he might express his emotions there instead,” Her head tilted as she considered her words, a thoughtful edge to her gaze before her eyes widened and she turned to Valarr with a sheepish look. “Nothing unbecoming, of course, but I imagine he would be keen to prod you more thoroughly than he would before.”

As the eldest son of a paramount House, Steffon had been given the honor of entering the lists upon the first day of the jousting since winning his first contest. He was the pride of their generation, as the siblings had no cousins, and had gathered quite a reputation as a fierce knight and challenger. It was no question that he had been named heir after their uncle Lyonel and his wife had welcomed no children. The lady was always glowing with abundant excitement when she watched him unhorse opponents during tourneys.

When she noticed the strange expression upon Valarr’s face, her own fell and she winced softly. “Truly, I am certain he would not – I should not have phrased it as such… “

Trailing off hopelessly, she cursed herself internally for not awarding more thought to the words that carelessly rolled from her tongue. Upon seeing her dismay, the prince shook his head and offered her a comforting gaze. “It is not that, my lady. I am sure your brother is a most honorable man.”

Valarr exhaled slowly, a shadow passing over his expression as he stared down at the dirt beneath them for a moment. When he spoke again, there was a sharper edge to his words, yet it seemed not to stem from anything said by the lady. “I only do not imagine I shall face him in the lists at all. My father would not allow it.”

At this surprising information, the lady tilted her head quizzically. Her face caught gentle rays of morning sunlight as she shook her head, confusion chasing away any residual concern she had been maintaining.

“Because we are to be married?” She asked quietly, misunderstanding lingering in the brightness of her eyes as she walked beside the prince.

“Because he is too talented a knight,” Valarr’s correction was gentle, yet still retained that slightly bitter quality. Frustration drew his brow lower. “And all I am allowed to face are those who are sure not to harm me.”

Her gaze remained upon his face, understanding at once that the edge to his voice was intended to be aimed at no one apart from himself. The reasoning was sound – he was the heir to the heir, destined to become the king. It would be disastrous if something were to befall him in an ostentatious event such as a tourney. Garen had injured his arm twice during jousting events and still bore the scars. She had watched men bleed out in the lists, dying by choking upon their own crimson blood that bubbled up through their mouths. It was a brutal bit of theater.

Yet as a man, it must hurt his pride to know his victories were predetermined. Her expression grew solemn.

“I do not suppose you could petition your father to change his mind?” The lady suggested in genuine concern, wind rustling her hair. She reached up to brush a strand of it that had fallen from the arrangement carefully crafted by her ladies’ maids. Organized so elegantly, only for her to wander about the dusty grass in front of the tents. “Although I would not wish to see you harmed.”

It was added as a quiet afterthought. The concept of Valarr shedding blood over the dirt of the lists made her stomach turn. She was not one to be squeamish over injury, but the illusion unsettled her greatly. Valarr’s expression had melted into a gentle smile at her troubled frown.

“Ah,” He murmured, leaning towards her to fix another loose portion of hair. Her chest constricted at the simple touch, eyes growing wide and unsure as they darted between his own. “I would not mind suffering a few wounds if it meant you might deem me brave and honorable.”

Her lips were wet as she parted them, heavy with the thick honey of sincerity that dripped from them in sticky sweetness.

“I do.” It was whispered like a closely guarded secret, a subtle reverence hesitating within her expressive eyes. The sun that cloaked their figures in gentle daylight illuminated the warmth bringing visible rosiness to her round cheeks. Valarr was momentarily robbed of speech as he blinked back at her, equally as absorbed by her being. Her eyes flicked down to his lips, longing tugging her insistently forward as she felt the heat upon her face spreading.

It was only the interruption of Steffon’s voice, informing her that he needed to prepare for the jousting, that woke her from the enchanted reverie. The prince cleared his throat politely, revealing to her that his father had requested that she join him while watching the challenges. Surprise flashed across her face, but Valarr was quick to reassure her that Baelor only wished to speak to her at greater length since he had not had the chance to before the betrothal. After wishing both Valarr and Steffon luck in the jousts, she departed to find her place beside the heir to the Iron Throne.

Sitting beside Prince Baelor meant that she could not shout nor cheer as raucously as she typically did at such events. In stark contrast, Lady Baratheon sat as straight and as still as a garden statue, wondering in vain what topics her mother would deem appropriate to discuss in front of the future king. She courteously commented upon the good fortunate of the clear skies, and the quality of the food served at dinner a few days prior. Baelor engaged in the conversation politely, yet his own questions soon turned to her education and her upbringing again. For once she was grateful to have been given a fan by her ladies’ maids, as she found herself struggling to manage the pressure of appearing as poised and docile as she hoped. She was fluttering it with a pained expression upon her face as she tried to explain the last thing she had sewn – she could not even recall the concept of it in truth – when the elder prince gave her a look that could only be described as graciously pitying.

“You need not trouble yourself with such details, Lady Baratheon,” Baelor offered the information as stable conversational ground for her to tread upon. His countenance was unexpectedly gentle as he gazed upon her. “My son has told me that your interests lie outside the realm of such activities.”

The lady’s face grew warm at this, concerned over what tales her prince had told his father when she was not present. Baelor knowing what had transpired between her and Aerion was more than enough to paint her as unruly at best and vicious at worst. “Has he?”

A hint of amusement sparkled in Baelor’s eyes. It was the same glimmer of delicate hues that Valarr looked upon her with, and the undeniable resemblance calmed her markedly. “Indeed. He was quite happy to go on at length over your intellect and strength.”

This only served to embarrass the lady further and she shook her head. Even so, she felt the pressure in her shoulders dissipate into the air, leaving her lighter and far less stiff.

“That is very kind of him,” She murmured softly. A quiet uncertainty had landed in the hollow of her chest, fluttering its wings after a short flight from her. “I imagine I am not quite the bride envisioned.”

Baelor considered the lady thoughtfully for a moment, his knowing eyes perceiving far more than she realized.

“It is a curious thing, arranging a marriage for your child,” The prince said finally, a heavy weight to his words. The lady’s head tilted as she listened, attention caught by the noble manner of speech and its genuine quality. “You wish them all the happiness in the world yet there are duties that must be seen to. I imagine your parents experienced a similar dilemma.”

Her parents’ faces flickered through her mind, and she felt a pang of longing. Whilst her father was not one to dwell upon matches, it had been the dream of her mother to secure her the perfect one. They had argued over it at length, leading to late-night yelling and many a slammed door. She had wanted to remain in the idyllic fantasy world where her freedom was eternal, a never-ending cycle of sunsets over open ocean. The news that the lady was to marry a prince would bring their mother to tears, and she wished suddenly she could speak to her, and confess things that worried her.

“I must admit, I was surprised your uncle agreed to uphold the engagement,” Baelor’s contemplative musings pulled her from her homesick yearning. “After he refused when I suggested it years ago.”

The first challenger was announced down in the lists, but the name went unheard by the Lady Baratheon. She had turned in her seat to stare at Baelor with a look of utter bewilderment upon her face, etched into her brow and the scrunch of her nose. She shook her head slowly.

“I do not understand, my prince.” Her voice was lowered, as she searched through the receptacles of her memory. Many proposals had been discussed between her parents and her uncle, all of which she herself had voiced her dismay over. Most were other lords of the Stormlands, seeking to solidify their relationship with House Baratheon. Once she had denied, Lyonel would hear no more arguments from her father or mother upon the matter. No mention of a royal engagement had ever been made to her knowledge.

“I doubt you would recall, you would have been quite young,” The prince informed her, gazing at her with refined intrigue as he remembered. “Valarr had not yet reached ten. I had believed such a union would weaken the Blackfyre support in the stormlands.”

The war had been brief, but she recalled the burgeoning tension within Storm’s End like a distant nightmare from her youth. She had not imagined her existence was of any consequence to the crown during it. Faint shock struck like white lightning in the storm clouds of her eyes.

Baelor shook his head, his brow knitting to reveal he still found the response intriguing. “But your uncle said he would not betroth you to anyone until you were old enough to discern their character yourself. Not even to a prince.”

Given the rare and valuable gift of choice, the Lady Baratheon had unknowingly found herself entangled in a betrothal already offered to her. And while it was the character of a stranger her relations had worried over, perhaps it was that which she harbored in herself that was the true concern. Viciously wild, greedy and barely caged. Hardly a match fit for a prince as noble and kind as Valarr. Her chest tightened with an inhale of breath that entered her lungs harshly.

The tightness did not ease as the jousting continued and worsened significantly with the appearance of Aerion in the lists at the final challenge, his figure washing in like an ill-fated tide. A spectacle of bygone Targaryen power, an ode to ancient ruin and ash, his armor an elaborate costume as he paraded about on his horse. The horns of his helmet were twisted and gnarled beyond any conception of a dragon, fashioning him into an alien and infernal creature of endless night. Silently, the lady watched. The requiring of Baelor’s nod of approval, the taunting show enacted before Valarr. Her eyes flickered to narrow slits as Aerion’s horse remained before his cousin’s pavilion, echoes of the injuries she’d envisioned upon Valarr earlier that morning haunting her mind. Nails dug into the tender flesh of her palm; she did not wish to see Valarr at the other end of Aerion’s cruelty. It stirred the dormant fury lurking within her chest, having been reprimanded and caged after its rampage not long ago. Valarr was not Aerion’s to lay hands upon, regardless of their shared dragon’s blood.

Aerion’s target shifted, violet eyes landing on Ser Humfrey Hardyng as his chosen victim. There was no other term more appropriate for the one the prince chose to challenge. Her icy eyes swept across the stage as the actors took their positions upon either end, curtains raised. The roaring of the crowd, whipped into an excited frenzy from all the morning’s action, knew naught of what was about to occur. In the darkest corner of her mind, the outcome came to her like a vision from the inky depths of a crystalline sphere carried over from the Free Cities. Bloodthirsty and privileged, Aerion would claim his gory prize outside the realm of honor and righteousness and justice. The commandments of the Warrior held no authority over the consuming flames of his pride.

The first pass was the prince toying with his prey. When his crimson lance tilted downwards before the second, it left the ghost of the Stranger’s sickle in its wake. What transpired was no accident; she did not entertain the innocent notion for a moment. The gasps and screams of shock elicited from the gathered crowd at the gory sight of Ser Hardyng’s horse crying out from the lance lodged in its neck did not echo upon her lips. When the horse fell, crushing the leg of its rider, another round of horror filled the tense atmosphere. Her lips wrenched into a tight frown. Baelor had grown rigid beside her, disappointment flashing in silent frustration across the elder prince’s face as he ran a hand over it.

The lady was cornered. It was a dangerous position to put one who was predisposed to violent acts in. The rustling at her tent’s entrance had led her to cast her gaze naively over her shoulder as she freed her hair from the pile it had been pulled into. Her lips had pressed together, expecting the company of one of her ladies’ maids. She was greeted instead by a ripple of ruby and charcoal, the fabric of a cape stained with drying blood swaying as the flap slipped closed.

Her eyes held the prince’s own in a tight entwining, narrowed and faintly vexed by the audacity to intrude into her sacred haven.

“I will scream.” She said simply. It was contradictory to her nature, yet she was growing exhausted by the threat brought about by his mere presence. Her expression remained dull and uninterested, despite the thudding of her quickened heartbeat. Agitation and adrenaline pulsed lightly in her veins, tempered only by the squeezing of a closed fist around a golden pin that bit into her fingers. Everything sinful in her stirred with his arrival, beckoning out things from shadowed corners and locked rooms.

“Then everyone would know I was here,” Aerion’s whisper was soaked with cruel delight, the prospect of dishonoring her so entertaining that he could not contain the pleasure in his mind alone. His head tilted, his wide, insatiable gaze consuming her in eerie enthrallment. “What will you do then?”

Lady Baratheon turned her back to the prince for a but a moment. When she caught sight of her expression in the shining reflection of the circular mirror before her, she did not recognize herself entirely. The person in the glass did not align with the delicate arrangement of the dressing table, jewels and combs and trinkets scattered beautifully atop the wood surface. Her heart felt the tightening of a thousand thorny vines constricting around the fragile organ. Then they were burned away, shrieking and hissing, by the purest thing she’d ever known. The fury that was hers. It could not be taken from her. It could not be ripped out any more than her heart could. It would blister the hand that tried.

“Perhaps I shall kill you now and be done with it,” Ridding herself of polite facades, she bore the truth of her thoughts to Aerion with sharpened, simmering eyes. The possibility played out with the animated clarity of a storybook narrative each time she blinked slowly, matching his uncanny gaze. “Perhaps I will dig a hole right here in this tent and put your body in it, and no one will discover it until the tourney camp is long gone.”

The words might as well have been blasphemy with how Aerion’s jaw ticked. They were certainly treason, in its simplest form, yet the two were past such conceptions. His fists curled in upon themselves, turning white from the strain. Lady Baratheon’s visage did not waver, her resolve smoldering low as the smoke of it rose to her eyes. Yet he did not lunge for her as she believed he might, nor did he return her threats with revolting ones of his own. His eyes bore into her, silently imagining all the terrible, horrendous things he could do to her. She knew it despite the absence of words.

The quiet stretched onwards. Long enough for her to recall the brutal scene she had witnessed earlier, and long enough for her to dwell upon the significance of the tiny detailing she had stitched into the lining of the memory. The roar of the outraged crowd, storming the lists in a rage after what Aerion had done. The stones thrown, the disgust and hatred of hundreds speared in Aerion’s direction. Baelor’s disgust, and Aerion’s unceremonious dismissal from the field.

Lady Baratheon turned fully in her chair, the anger in her eyes shifting, changing, becoming something other.

“Why do you seek me out?” The question tugged at the silence as pointedly as one might pull away a spider’s lace web, white silk clinging to outstretched fingertips. She might yet suffer its stinging bite, venom sinking from the prince’s fangs into her skin leaving her body to wither and rot. Aerion’s lip curled in disgusted scoffing at her inquiry.

“Because I wish to take what my cousin thinks is his.” It was infused with all the malice expected, biting and jagged in its cut.

There was a moment when she believed him wholly. And a succeeding moment when she did not.

“No,” She murmured lowly, eyes observing his figure in scrutinous examination. It had puzzled her unconsciously, the contradictory nature of his vile actions and grandiose presentation, the underlying discordance of a clashing tune. “That was why you followed me that first night. But it is not why you are here now.”

The dim light of the single lantern upon her desk illuminated the anger upon his face, the muscles of his forehead twitching from the tension in his body. The corrosion had begun, stone against a weathering storm. Stone, which was not as eternally immobile as the scholars waxed poetically in metaphoric prose. The lady pressed on.

“You’re displeased with how your spectacle today was received,” The musing was drawn out, languid speech as she tested the glacial waters of his willingness to wait. An icy plunge into choppy waters never scared her. “I won’t praise you for it.”

This prompted a quiet growl from Aerion’s lips, his shoulders drawn as tight as a readied bow. The following words lashed across the cold, dark tent at her in hissed anger, as if a whip could be formed from them that would redden the skin of her cheeks.

“Why would a dragon need praise from a doe?” The prince nearly trembled from his rage, from the absurdity of the mere suggestion. Piercing eyes surveyed him with intense consideration, fascination sparking in imperceptible bursts. This was raw and wretched, not the pleased spite he normally spoke with. “You are nothing but prey.”

It nearly roused her to action, her body leaning forward in her chair from the instinctive desire to cross the space to hit him, to remind him what damage she could wreck upon his body. Her hand flexed around the back of her chair, and she choked down the spindly limbs of the shadow crawling up her throat in exchange for a single, smoking correction. “A stag.”

Aerion’s wrath was momentarily moderated by a sardonic breath, mirrored in a callous grin and scornful words.

“Not you,” The prince’s typical cruel tone returned, comfortable in the space she had provided him to accost and mock her as he craved to. A position where he could tighten the noose of her womanhood around her neck was a familiar one. But she had many years to learn how the rope felt, its slow constraint. It drove her mad, but the skin had hardened just enough. “No matter how violent you are.”

And while he tugged upon that which she handed him, she had, unknowingly to him, laid a trap of her own. It achieved nothing but the satiation of her own curiosity, yet she proceeded nonetheless.

“Not violent enough to take pleasure in your needless bloodshed.” She did her utmost to adopt a disinterested quality in her expression again, gazing down her nose at the prince across the tent, cluttered with her trunks and the bed that had been arranged for her. The carpet beneath her feet seemed to grow gloomier as Aerion gritted his teeth, the carnal anger returning with a brutal vengeance. And then, beneath that, the undercurrent of turbulent emotions she had her sights upon.

“It wasn’t needless,” The prince spat. His venomous glare was enough to unsettle her, the hairs on the back of her arms raising. She barely suppressed the urge to rise, if only to be at an even eye level. “I earned it. It was my right.”

Her chin tilted in antagonizing defiance, intentional and measured. “Our opinions upon the matter contrast, then.”

Aerion would suffer no more of her perceived insolence. The rapid crossing of the distance between them had her hand reaching into the open drawer of the dressing table, fingers tightening around ivory deftly. “You think because you turn away from it that you are different than me?”

The lady was still as Aerion loomed over her, chest heaving from the anger that she had incited from him. But it was shock, not mirroring rage, that refracted in shattered edges across the lines of her face. Each thrum of her heartbeat resounded loudly in her ears. Too many had passed before her lips parted, the surprise trickling like melting wax into distant disbelief.

“I am different than you.” The whisper was directed both to herself and the prince in breathless mystification. Darker voices had lingered in her ears in the midnight hours, dismal wisps of black smoke that christened her monster. Violent liability, struggling in a ceaseless battle against that which reveled in the pleasure brought about through blood spilled by her own hands. Her visage shifted as she wordlessly attempted to rationalize the falseness of the equivalence presented to herself.

He had misspoken. Indicative of an internal unraveling, of the fraying edges of what had been woven so tightly for so long. It surprised and unsettled him as much as it had her, the uncanny slip of his ruthless tongue. A moment of cognitive dissonance in his mind, sparked by the reflection of his own idolized self in the violent gleam of her eyes. Repulsion carved its way onto his face, his breath warm as he growled in unbalanced frustration.

“Of course,” His words vibrated with such compressed fury it was a wonder his heart could sustain it. “You are what the dragon feasts upon.”

The distancing brought about by his correction existed only in the verbal sphere. Aerion’s body was a damning eclipse above her, descending from the skies like the beast he claimed to be. Such fanciful and dangerous delusions, ones that bled fatally into his conception of reality and of her.

The prince choked on his next words; his face contorted in angry confusion. “But you –”

All the air had drained from her tent, leaving the enclosed space agonizingly suffocating. The lady could not distinguish a single noise from the outside world, no matter how loud she knew the encampment to be. Aerion was writhing under the weight of his frustration, of the conflicted tangling of emotions, both childish and complex. She had become a paradox, a distorting piece of glass in his hands. It tormented him almost as much as their comparison had horrified her. The storming of the lists replayed in her mind, muffled screams of anger interrupting her turbulent thoughts.

In the face of such bitter self-loathing, tormented upon the other side of the coin from him, Lady Baratheon reached for the familiar. She needed to hate him, as she had, as she did. Her hand dug so tightly into the ivory hilt of the knife that the imprint of it disturbed the skin of her palm, the impression of the assailing knight and the princess who had been taken.

“Aerion,” His name was acid. “You should leave.”

It was too close to an order. The transgression of speaking to a prince as such would not be permitted by him.

“Don’t presume to make demands of me.” Aerion snarled. She could feel his breath upon her face. No sooner did the weapon he gifted her leap to his throat, steel biting into the soft flesh of his neck. Her searing eyes held his. A thousand ways to kill her burned into his own, yet none of the sick imaginings mattered when it was she who brought death to their entanglement. It lingered about his pulse point, bony hands outstretched in greedy wanting as it waited hungrily for her to lay a royal sacrifice upon its altar.

She let out a quiet hiss, her own lip curling. “Must we do this once more? I grow tired of your games.”

“They are not games,” Aerion began to reach for her wrist, but she forced the knife further into his skin. A single droplet of blood sprung forth, jumping to the steel like berries ripening under a setting sun. As her chin lifted meaningfully, he froze. He was seething. The words that fell from his lips were, as hers had been but moments ago, spoken to convince both her and him. “I am the dragon.”

The prince had been within her orbit for too long. He’d again become a stray star, catching fire as he was drawn in by gravity’s absolute pull. The discordant misunderstanding between them had adopted a quality apart from horror and disgust. As it had been in the clearing, it hid in the shadow of the familiar beasts of rage and adrenaline. Amethyst eyes were narrowed, the golden likeness of her lantern light bleeding into them. And her own reflected the red of his cape, crimson pooling into them like an open wound. She could kill him. She would do it.

“Aerion.” It was impossibly quieter, a request rather than a demand. A simple asking within a single word, the mercy uncharacteristic of her. But he had warped her perception of herself and of him. In her quest to delve beyond the surface of what the prince presented to her, she had found that hatred was not the only emotion he roused from her. Yet it was not the triumph he craved either; she would not grace him with adoration and praise. It was indescribable, akin perhaps to pity but not as gentle nor forgiving. The condemnation her gaze accosted him with was only marginally softened by the way his name broke upon her tongue.

Settling for a pyrrhic victory – ignoring the knowing perception in her eyes – Aerion seized her lips with his own.

The prince kissed her like he longed to kill her slowly. Each joining of their lips was a sinister promise, another way he dreamed of draining the blood from her body and leaving her flesh to decay in the dirt. The act was also a demand, a demand to been seen, to be felt. It might have been a claim, did the knife not remain at his throat, pressing up until it stung the fragile skin below his chin. The prince was mindful of the threat she would carry out, and thus each press of his lips was both cautious and cruel. Yet the act satiated nothing: none of the hot ache that coiled in her stomach like a serpent, nor the melancholic desire to be understood.

The dark chasm they danced within both separated them and swallowed them whole. Aerion’s lips were as intoxicating as liquor, with the sour aftertaste of resentment, and he was hungry in his conquest. He retained the sense not to lift his hands to her body, not when she kept the offering he had made to her so close to cutting him. When his tongue forced its way past her lips, heat burned within her as insistent as any rage. When she repeated the action, mirroring it readily, a small noise left Aerion’s lips and the pleasure it stirred made her own curl bitterly against his before she bit into the softness of his lip, the way her lovely ivory weapon did to his skin. She wanted to taste blood, but she did not draw it forth.

A sharp breath passed between them as she drew away, an impassive expression falling over her face. When her knife fell away from him, Aerion raised his arm as if to strike her. Her furious eyes rose to meet his, daring him to end it once and for all, his hand hovered in the space between them. And then, like a restless spirit, he was gone. The flap of her tent rustled in his wake as she closed her eyes. The knife in her hands fell from her open fingers to the carpet below.

Lady Baratheon had already hurriedly downed two brimming goblets of wine when she decided it was necessary to reveal the truth of her relations with Aerion to her betrothed. The lively circus of the Baratheon tent’s evening entertainment had not dulled after days of drinking and dancing, and she was grateful for the chaotic madness of it all. Distressed and unsettled by the events of the afternoon, the familiar revelry allowed her an ironically stable environment to contemplate what had transpired again between her and the cruel prince. As she side-stepped a drunken lord who staggered past her, an expert at the maneuver after many late nights at her uncle’s legendary gatherings, her eyes narrowed upon the man occupying all her thoughts.

It was fortunate for her that Steffon had retired to bed for the evening, as she was left with three spectacularly intoxicated guardians, none of whom were paying her any mind. The prince, who she had courteously invited to join in their celebrations after the evening’s meal, had wandered into the golden tent right as she knocked back the remainder of the burgundy liquor from the Arbor. She slammed the cup down, startling the ladies to her right who were giggling over a young lord of House Estermont. As the lady pushed her way through the crowd, she caught and yanked Tommard behind her, interrupting what seemed to be a riveting conversation with the same red-haired woman he had been dancing with a few days ago.

“I was talking to her!” Tommard exclaimed, stumbling behind her and slurring his words with indignant disbelief. She did not bother to cast a glance over her shoulder as they narrowly avoided being doused in alcohol by a man swinging his mug high into the air and joyously singing along to some vulgar tune she had heard one time too many. The crowd around them was not easily maneuvered, sweaty bodies bumping into the lady as she made her way through the throng to reach Valarr, whose appearance had not yet been noticed by the gathering of drunkards amassed beneath the massive tent. The prince opened his mouth to greet her properly, but before he could speak, she had grabbed the sleeve of his tunic as well and dragged both men out of the entrance.

As Tommard registered the prince’s presence and attempted a belated bow, nearly falling face first into the grass below them, the lady rolled her eyes to the night sky above them and hoisted him up.

“You are going to be sick,” She warned reproachfully, hoping it would not be at that very moment. “Stand up straight.”

The Baratheon tent was not alone in its unruly rowdiness, as shouting and cheering carried over from nearly every nearby pavilion. It filled her ears as she dragged both her brother and her betrothed, the latter of whom had followed silently and willingly behind her, around the back of the main tent and towards the smaller ones. When they reached her own, she opened the entrance to usher Valarr inside before the prince could bring up tedious matters such as propriety. As the flap fell closed, she spun around and put her hands upon Tommard’s shoulders.

“You owe me.” Each word was enunciated meaningfully, her eyes big and solemn as she looked at him. It took Tommard a moment, in his inebriated state, to fully comprehend what she implied.

“No.” He began to protest in horrified shock, but she had no time to sit there and squabble with him.

“Yes.” Lady Baratheon affirmed firmly, squeezing his shoulder before she whipped a deeply unfair threat from her arsenal and aimed it with lethal precision. “Go ensure that no one is leaving the tent to come this way, or I will tell Flynn you lay with Mery before they were married.”

Tommard’s mouth dropped open in almost comical shock, accosted by his sister’s weaponization of the debt owed. She had stumbled upon a rather unfortunate moment a year prior, before it was known that Mery Morrigen would be marrying their brother. The secret had since been kept, but she had warned there would be a price to pay one day. And the time had come to pass, illuminated by the full moon that shone brightly above their heads and the torchlight that blazed heartily throughout the camp.

“I cannot leave you here with that man!” He fumbled for words, shaking his head incredulously at the absurd notion. She provided him with a dull look in return.

“That man is to be my husband, and I need a moment to speak to him privately,” She had already spun him around and begun ushering Tommard off, knowing well he would not argue further in his drunken haze, especially considering that she had come to exchange one scandalous secret for another. “Now go.”

“You are wicked.” Tommard grumbled over his shoulder as he stumbled back towards the main tent. She let out a loud sigh, watching him wobble and wondering how effective a guard someone who had consumed more drink than food that day could be.

“Don’t I know.” The murmur was whispered to the stars above, twinkling watchfully in the inky darkness of the vast heavens. Her eyes cast to them before she turned and entered her tent.

Valarr, for his part, had stood patiently and perfectly still the middle of her tent as to not disturb anything. Although it was not as if anything could possibly be more disturbed than it already was. Two of her grand wooden chests lay half open, gowns of golden and cream and buttercup and amber spilling out in satins and silks and brocades like vibrant waterfalls onto the carpets below. Jewelry caught the delicate light of the glowing lanterns, their flames reflecting in shimmering sparkles off the mess of pearls and gold that lay within her open trinket box. Others had been scattered haphazardly across the dressing table. Her sword, the magnificent stag head at its hilt, lay glittering across the end of her bed amongst the dark furs. A hair comb had slipped from the table and fallen onto the rug beneath, alongside a pile of pins that she had plucked from her head and discarded without any thought to where they might end up.

Her breath snagged in her lungs as her gaze fell upon him. She had acted rashly, orchestrating this private audience with the prince because of the disorder of the emotions sparked by the day’s events and their sudden and swift betrothal. Yet it was deeper than that, a flow of tumultuous rapids within her being that mirrored what she had been digging for within Aerion. Uncertain eyes glisten with hesitance as she lingers in the entryway of her own tent like it is a space belonging to a stranger.

The prince gave no indication of urging her to speak, yet his eyes had settled upon her in clear wondering. Hers fell upon the singular silver section of his hair, glowing faintly as it caught the candlelight from the lanterns.

Realizing she owed Valarr some semblance of an explanation as for why she had brought him here, she parted her lips and attempted to fashion a comprehensible assemblage of words. Her attention leapt around the room like the fluttering of a startled bird’s wings.

“I had wished to,” The lady stumbled awkwardly over the phrasing, wishing in desperate frustration that she held more experience in discussing matters such as this. Delicate topics were never safe in her hands or upon her lips, not when she was so prone to causing damage. She inhaled sharply and pressed forth determinedly. “I would like to discuss something concerning our betrothal.”

There was shift in Valarr’s expression that was so subtle it was nearly imperceptible. It rippled like across his visage like the effect of a butterfly’s wings over the surface of a pond. With a small inclination of his chin, his eyes lowered for a moment to the ground before they rose to hers.

“Of course, my lady.” The steadiness of his tone did not waver. She nodded at once, the action quick and fidgety, as she folded her hands in front of her. Her fingers pulled at the fabric of her gown unconsciously.

Her eyes had resumed their restless wandering, darting about every inch of the space as they landed upon any corner of the warmly illuminated tent aside from where Valarr stood. The lady could not recall the last time she was so unsure about speaking. It was such a childish, silly thing. Completely opposing her usual manner of being. So frustrated did she grow over it that she took a long breath and forced her eyes to remain upon the prince, squaring her shoulders. Lifting her chin, she brushed aside her hesitance and spoke as plainly as she could.

“It is important to me that we are honest with each other,” She paused for a moment. Her head tilted as her mouth opened once more, a reluctant expression decorating her countenance. “And I have not been entirely transparent with you about...”

Her voice trailed off as her eyes fell past Valarr to the ivory knife that peaked out from the open dressing table drawer. She blinked at it blankly for a moment, before she looked at him again and finished speaking. “…about what occurred with your cousin.”

The change upon his face was not as elusive this time. His brows knitted together and dropped lowly over his eyes, which flashed in immediate agitation at the very mention of his kin. There was hardly need to specify whom it was she meant. A hundred concerns seemed to assault Valarr’s mind at once, his eyes falling from her as his posture grew rigid.

“Did he hurt you?” The inflection upon the word rendered clarification unnecessary. She knew what the great fear stirred by her words was. As dangerous as her violence had been, the lady, solemn with the weight of knowing, would suffer the consequences of it rather than suffer the way women so often did. She was fortunate enough to have that choice, and it did not go ignored nor unappreciated.

“No, it was not like that,” Lady Baratheon assured him quietly, the recollection of the what-ifs drawing her still for a moment in somber reflection.  Her lashes ghosted atop her cheeks as she stared at the patterned carpet beneath her. She inhaled another uncomfortable breath. “But he did kiss me. And I, admittedly, did return the gesture.’

She sighed, frustration welling up in her chest. “And then this afternoon, after the disaster at the lists he came to me. And I allowed him to kiss me again.”

 When she looked to him then, the portrait of a picturesque prince was not what she saw. There was an invisible war being waged, vestiges of the conflict appearing in miniscule flashes upon his face like the lights of a ship through a dense mist. It glinted in his eyes, narrowing then opening again, and in the tension flitting to his jaw as he swallowed thickly. Quite some time passed before he spoke, and when he did, it seemed the words caused physical agony as they gained form.

“Do you love him?” The prince’s asking sparked an opposing sting beneath her ribs.

“No,” It was so instantaneous it could not have been anything but truth. Her eyes darted up to the fabric above their heads at the notion, lashes set aflutter. “Seven hells, no.”

The Lady Baratheon had never afforded much thought to the concept of love. At least, not to the romantic love that was spoken of in sweet song and lengthy sonnets. Her mind had never been filled with fantasies of a heavy cloak atop her shoulders and woven words of promises kept until death. But she did not imagine it took similar shape to anything she felt for Aerion.

Valarr appeared partially pacified by this, yet restless agitation still clung to his edges. She had never glimpsed him so unsettled, save for when Aerion had first looked upon her. The flame in one of her lanterns flickered out. It gave her something to do, and she crossed the space to her dressing table at once to open the glass door of another. As she lifted the wax candle from it, the heat jarring upon her skin, he spoke again while she moved to relight the candle whose flame had died.

“Do you desire him?” Her back was turned to the prince; she could not see the look upon his face. As the fire from one candle jumped to the other, the dark wick catching, she stilled.

“No,” This denial was not as immediate. The wavering of the small flame shone in her eyes as she considered the question. Desire, she had afforded more thought to, and perhaps the word could be employed in description of something that had transpired between her and Valarr’s cousin. As with many of the concerns that had begun to plague her mind since arriving in Ashford, it was not so straightforward. “I do not think so.”

The prince’s voice faltered briefly. She heard him begin to speak and then pause, as if banishing the words from his mouth. Closing the small door of the lantern, the lady turned again. Even in the dim ambient lighting, remnants of considerable effort were evident at the sides of his eyes. After another internal struggle, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, a strained question was asked in response. “But you are unsure?”

At this, Lady Baratheon’s expression grew a little perplexed. She winced softly, wondering however to express her opinion open the manner in proper terms. Her gaze grew slightly pained as her face twisted weakly, pursing her lips for a moment before trying to dance around the awkwardness of the matter.

“I am not sure of much that concerns … “ The squinting of her eyes grew as her mouth remained open, finding herself unable to assemble a collection of words that would not cast her in a scandalous light. She was not wholly ignorant, understanding the basic principles of desire and lust. The act had been explained to her by her mother when she became of age, the diction employed rendering it wholly unappealing upon paper, and then when she had grown older, she had become aware of her uncle’s vast interest in all activities pertaining to such pleasures. Evenings spent attending lavish Baratheon festivities meant she was no stranger to stumbling upon all sorts of debauchery. It intrigued her, and she had felt it herself, but the physicality of it was beyond her realm of experience save for the pleasure she had found herself in the late hours of the night.

As she mulled the matter over in her mind, she failed to notice how long Valarr was silent before he replied.

“It is not entirely uncommon for parties to seek …” When he did speak again, her attention returned to him just in time to notice the way his hand curled into a tight fist before he released it, fingers flexing slowly as if the act wounded him. “…pleasure outside the marital bed.”

This again, was no foreign concept to her. She had seen her uncle’s parade of lovers, the excitement and pleasure it brought him, the thrill of something new. It had been a notion she had entertained in the past, when she had feared marriage to a lord who was ancient or hideous or cruel. Her betrothed, enveloped in illuminating candlelight and attempting nobly to remain composed despite the dark emotions she had noticed churning in his eyes, was none of those things.

The thought of him being touched by another made her blood boil, the wrongness of it sickening her at once. Not for any sacred vow that would be spoken before a Septon, nor the duty and honor meant to be imbued into the joining of man and wife. This, in contrast to all else that troubled her, was perfectly, primally simple. Valarr belonged to her.

“I do not want that.” The confession was quiet, but certain. Steady eyes held his as she watched his hand close into a tight fist again at his side.

“I do not want that either.” This was whispered back in an equivalent admission. Her chin rose at his response, considering the prince silently. There had been glimpses of this when she had been alone with him at Ashford Castle, as he had bandaged her injuries and addressed her plainly. Duty and desire seemed to sink their claws into her prince and pull him apart. She could see him doing his utmost to remain together. Lady Baratheon was not going to aid in that endeavor.

“What do you want?”  It was a slow-spoken question, direct and not pretending to be anything but. There was a flash of exasperation across his face, as if to silently argue with her for making the task of maintaining a princely front more difficult. It disappeared but a moment later, yet had raptly captured her interest.

“I want to perform my duties as your husband,” Intent eyes caught the way his jaw had tightened again. He shifted, his closed hand white from strain. The words were the last dying torch of a noble crusade led in the name of responsibility. “I want to be good to you.”

The lady gave a soft breath of frustration, closing her eyes for a moment before fixing him with a stern gaze. “Valarr, if you are to be my husband, I require honesty when it is only you and I. In front of others, I understand it must be a certain way. But when it is only us, I cannot do –,”

She cut herself off with a riled wave of her hand, eyes rolling. “– Polite pretenses or shallow propriety or beautiful falsehoods spun for the sake of appearances. I would have the truth from you, no matter how sharp it may be.”

They were both still. She shook her head, the action damningly deliberate.

“What do you want?”

The blanket of silence that fell between them was smothering. It was etched into the details of his face, tiny changes that she could now read as plainly as written language. There was frustration in his eyes, annoyance at the corners of his lips, tension the light gritting of his teeth. His shoulders were tight, the vein near his temple more prominent. Her eyes widened, fascinated again.

Minutes passed before the battles he had been fighting within himself ceased with gradual decisiveness. His eyebrows lifted and a strange look came across his face as he obliged what his lady demanded of him.

“I want,” The slightly mocking edge to the repetition did not offend her, instead stirring something low and warm in her stomach. She could almost feel the dilation of her pupils as her eyes consumed his figure. “To show you that bastard could never pleasure you the way that I could.”

The breath was snuffed from her lungs at once. She would not have looked away if the fabric of the tent around them went up in fatal flame, her gaze magnetized to his being.

Valarr continued, his rolling tone low. “That he is too selfish to even dream of undoing you as I plan to. I want to bring you to such ruin that you cannot remember any name but mine.”

When he stepped towards her, breathing became an act that required considerable effort. He shook his head, half in disbelief that she had pulled such words from him and half in frustration over the depth of emotion she had caused in the first place. “I want you to be mine not because you must, but because you cannot so much as entertain the thought of being anyone else’s.”

The prince stood before her then, gazing down at her with such clear hunger that it brought an unconscious curl to the edges of her mouth. Her eyes had brightened, alight with wonder as she watched the way his lips parted so slowly that restraining himself seemed to cause anguish.

“I want,” He gritted the words out through his teeth, a low rasp to them. “To prove it to you.”

The grin upon her face had sweetened and spread, signifying her blatant delight. Her reply was instinctive, entangled in her challenging nature, the phrase leaving her lips before she truly understood what she was proposing.

“Then prove it.”

Valarr had removed the space between them before she could utter a single word. His lips crashed into hers like the ocean waves that used to topple her over, soaking her in seawater and salt. Except it was heat that rolled across her, igniting in wayward flame across her mouth as his lips met hers hungrily, delving insistently further as her eyes fluttered closed. Something in her lower stomach tightened when his tongue ran across her mouth, pulling her lower lip into his own before his tongue slid past the plush skin of her lips and she melted.

The prince was everywhere. All over her mouth, his scent of amber and spiced oils filling her nose, his hands gripping her hips with such force that she would not be surprised if it left marks even through the fabric of her gown. They slid up her body as he kissed her, tracing a path up her sides and over the curve of her breasts. She opened her mouth at this, and he took it as an opportunity to deepen the kiss further, as if he could devour her whole.

And Valarr kissed her with such fervor that one could imagine he was trying to rewrite the past, erasing the timeline in which another had attempted to consume her the way he did. He inscribed his own claim upon her mouth as if he could perform damnatio memoriae and condemn the ghost of Aerion’s lips to the eternal nothingness where all that history had forgotten resided. As his lips met hers again and again, the wetness and heat of it began to pool between her thighs as well. The warmth of the tent had shifted from comfortable to burning, and when his hands – which had risen to her face, cupping it fiercely, fingers pressed into the softness of her cheeks – then slid into her hair and pulled, a surprised gasp slipped from her at once.

It startled Valarr enough to cause him to draw back from her, his enchantingly brilliant eyes flicking between hers in narrowed concern that he overstepped, that he had misunderstood when believing her desire matched his own.

Her head, which had rolled back to gaze up at the way the lantern light swam in languid swirls across the canopy of the tent when he’d tugged upon her hair, lowered to meet his gaze. She was smiling brilliantly, lidded eyes blazing with want and lust, her lips shining and red and wet from his starved conquest. The lady was absolutely thrilled, her body craving more of the sliver of pleasure he had delivered, as he had sworn to. The moment he saw, a snarled growl ripped from his mouth and the prince all but lunged for her.

His hands were all over her again, taking fistfuls of her gown as if he could tear the thick fabric from her body as he knocked her back onto the smooth furs decorating her bed, her back hitting the feathered mattress which such force that she gasped again into his mouth. Valarr swallowed it up at once, before one hand lifted to firmly cup her jaw and raise it, her eyes rolling open in an exhilarated haze as his lips began to trail down her cheek, his tongue running along the side of her jaw before he placed messy, wet kisses to it. Each time his lips met her skin it was as desperate as the last, his hands nearly shaking with the need to have her the way that he finally did. Her fingers entangled in his hair, tugging and pulling as he had done, the fistfuls of dusty brown and silver gripped tightly in her closed palms like lifelines. It was soft, the strands like the finest of silks, and as his lips latched onto the juncture beneath her collarbone, she yanked on it once more. Another small growl was earned from this and a soft breath of her amusement glided into the scalding air of the tent.

His eyes flicked up at her, glimmering sharply as if she had issued him a verbal challenge, and her core pulsed at the sight of the heir of the heir to the Iron Throne looking so thoroughly frustrated and ravenous. His lips curled in wicked warning and then reattached themselves to her throat, the edges of his teeth brushing against her skin just enough to allow her to glimpse the sting of them. As her attention was seized once again, his hands had lowered to her hips, gathering the cascading fabric of her skirt and bunching it up to hug her waist.

A louder noise left her mouth when she felt his fingers brush against the skin of her stomach, before they curled into the fragile material of her smallclothes and began to guide them towards her thighs. The breath sounded more like a whine when his hands graced the sensitive area of her legs. A prideful smirk leapt swiftly to his mouth at this, and once he had pulled the fabric far enough, he gripped the plush flesh of her thighs, fingers burrowing into the softness as if to leave the imprint of his hand behind.

He had slid down her body so smoothly that she did not truly comprehend where it was that he was going until the dark strands of his hair were near her skirts. The kisses he immediately began pressing between her legs were equally as ardent as the ones to her mouth and littered upon the expanse of her flushed skin. Valarr’s hands were still kneading into her thighs as he pulled them apart, kissing her like a man who’d never be satiated. Her mind went blank.

She was making sounds, of that she was certain, but the volume and nature of them she could not determine. All she knew was that the prince’s tongue had began swirling around her pearl in circular patterns that had her stomach clenching. Her thighs might have trembled if Valarr was not holding onto them so firmly, keeping them spread as wide as he could in order to lick into her deeper. He moved his hands lower, squeezing the pliant flesh of her ass as he lifted her hips to have easier access to her.

Lady Baratheon had never known pleasure like this, rolling over her with the warmth of a sparkling summer tide with each dip of his tongue and press of his lips. One of his hands had risen up her body, smoothing over the planes of her gown and squeezing at her breasts through the dress, before his fingers ran lightly against her swollen, parted lips. His thumb brushed against the top one while he licked anywhere he could fasten his lips to. Her back had risen from the mattress, arched as the golden glow of the tent faded in and out of vision in a delirious carnival of light.

“My name,” Valarr whispered into her cunt, his breath warm as the thin, gleaming string of saliva connecting them broke. She moaned as he nosed another long kiss to her, his tongue dancing across the spot that made white stars descend down from the night sky and twinkle behind her eyes. His own were burning. A possessive fire had crept into them like a beast that had been lurking patiently in the shadows, waiting. She, beastly in her own, furious way, reveled in it. “Mine.”

And when he reattached his lips to her and sucked with such sinful passion, the Lady Baratheon, who never in her life had taken an order without rolling her eyes, did as she was told at once.

The prince’s name left her lips in a desperate incantation, a ritualistic prayer that wore the cloak of something sacred. Her smile had twisted and crumpled into a soft frown, her lips parted as she tried to breathe. It had grown difficult as she rocked her hips against his mouth, a low tugging in her core as Valarr’s tongue had ventured back up to the bundle of sensitive nerve endings and suckled.

When his name broke upon her lips and she whined again, the prince cupped her cheek softly as her figure lifted forward, curling towards him. She shattered upon him like falling glass. Valarr muttered soft curses under his breath as her entrance contracted and her wetness grew, eagerly lapping it up with his tongue before rising to collect her and all her jagged edges into his arms. The first kiss was pressed to her forehead, and the second to her lips. She could taste herself upon his mouth. The realization brought an entertained smile to her tired countenance.

A pleased one appeared upon his own, and the prince rested his forehead against hers as the lady laughed softly.

note: ignore that this chapter is over twice as large as the rest of them. i lowkeyyy do not enjoy writing nsfw content but it felt necessary so sorry if its not great. surprisingly it wasn’t the most difficult part of this chapter tho? shoutout to two lines of dialogue between her and aerion that had me struggling for days. i feel like my aerion sections are so abstract compared to the other parts of this work idk. like perhaps he is a point in a love triangle. but perhaps he’s an external stimulus that her self-perception is being warped through like a kaleidoscope. big fan of juxtaposing things that are mirrored and things that are complementary. also if you’re reading this as an oc fic i call her lenore when i’m drafting. lowkey debating her name making an appearance next chapter but i haven't decided yet. and ofc thank you to everyone who commented and interacted with this work!!

The abstracted nature of her unfamiliar likeness drifted through her mind in dreamlike recollection during her abnormally arduous journey back to Ashford Castle that morning. Accompanied this time by her uncle Lyonel and her eldest brother Steffon, she had not had enough time to explain the tale that had befallen her before the summons came from the royal family. In the brief moment she had, it had been in her best interest to stress the delicacy of the situation and her own wrongdoings. The disappointment in her brother’s eyes had seized her stomach with guilt and shame. He had scarcely spoken a word to her, save to demand verbal confirmation that Aerion had not harmed her any more than that which his eyes could deduce. Then he was gone in a silent whirlwind, blowing out of the tent with the intensity of a blistering summer gale.

Lyonel had offered curious queries, attempting to decipher more of the puzzle his wrathful niece had presented to him, but not much more was spoken of the matter as they headed off in a hurry. Her uncle merely shook his head with a wry smile and tapped her cheek gently.

The value of her voice was appraised and found lacking in the eyes of the men deliberating her fate.

When her uncle and brother were brought before the elder princes to discuss the matter of her illusionary betrothal, the lady was consigned to linger in the hall. A wraith meant to haunt the corridor whilst her future took definitive shape by hands that were not her own. As the great wooden doors slammed shut, her eyes bore into the solid oak in futile vexation. Always a step behind, always wanting.

A nipping breath of chilled air slithered its way across the expanse of her exposed collarbone, covered only by a delicate golden ornament. The quiet cawing of a raven echoed from an open window. Casting her gaze over her shoulder, her eyes sharpened to tight slits when she realized that she was not the only apparition to dwell in the hall, banished from the happenings occurring on the other side of the guarding wood.

“You,” The word was a cautioning whisper, spoken with poised assertion as she turned with drawn deliberation to face the prince’s figure fully. Lessons in temperance had been learned, yet she would not cower nor cry for aid. “Are not to come near me. Your uncle said – .”

“I know what my uncle said.”  Aerion’s reply was an insouciant dismissal, the cavalier splintering of her ponderous silence. Lady Baratheon hated to be interrupted. If only her slippery hands around the snowy skin of his throat had done more damage than the delicate bruising she knew to be blossoming beneath his ruby collar, the spoilt fruits cultivated by her violent labor.

“If I wanted to suffer his words again, I would seek him out,” When his shadow drifted across the grey stone floor towards her, she remained as still as if she were fashioned from the same substance. Violet eyes trailed across the curve of her jaw and anchored themselves upon her lip, devouring the reddened wound with hungry intrigue. Each word spoken to her was provided with intentionally pointed enunciation, stinging her mind with the sharpness of silver needles. “But I am speaking to you.”

A thousand words circulated the library of her mind as she paged through her thoughts with swift haste, each one crueler than the next. She longed to strike first, to bite into him with verbal daggers before he could unveil his own assortment. As his eyes remained upon her lip, searing memories of the heat of his tongue brushing over the cut flickered through her mind. Yet under such precarious circumstances, she was compelled to bestow upon him only the thinnest veil of indifference she could shroud herself beneath. “I imagine you are not satisfied with my punishment.”

“No.” The immediate nature of his reply gave her little time to settle her spiking pulse. The very flow of her blood grew agitated and restless the longer she spent in his presence. Her chin rose fractionally.

“What would you demand of me then?” Wrapped in the pretense of even indifference, the distinct challenge in the words was dangerously contradictory to her endeavor to remain composed and docile. His threats from the evening before were not forgotten, nor was his failure to see them to fruition. “My eyes, as you said before?”

Her piercing gaze did not drop from his figure for a moment, the eyes whose fate remained in question alight with sharp perception. Every blink was a flash of lashes; if this dragon intended to sink his claws into her again, he would find the undertaking just as difficult as it had been last time their bodies had entangled in the rain and the dirt and the grass. Lady Baratheon considered Aerion with a measured tilting of her head.

“No,” The decision was reached with the recollection of each whisper and tale spun by gossiping tongues and perpetuated by curious ears. “It is tradition you would call for. My hand would be your chosen payment.”

The electric silence elucidated the truth in her deduction. When his lips finally parted, the refined blade of his voice dug into her. The cut was clean. “I dreamt of that, yes.”

It was a known desire, one that did not surprise nor frighten. If he wished for appalled theatrics, the lady had none to entertain him with. She merely extended to him the faintest expression of apathy.

“Only spilled blood would please you,” The murmur crackled with charged tension that ricocheted between them and found temporary residence in his eyes. “It would seem this is known to most.”

“As it pleases you,” The prince ran his tongue over his lip like he could taste her blood again, relishing in the vibrant memory of it pressing into his mouth. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment before they reopened to assess her with a curling sneer. The action sparked a tightness about her stomach, hot and insistent as it curled. “But that is not as known.”

The reminder of her own twisted pleasure did nothing to soothe the uneasiness in her chest, not caused by his company but her own endless investigation of the nature of her very soul. Her frustrated gaze found little solace in the ground beneath her.

“Fascinating.” Her attention cracked like a whip up to his approaching form, accompanied by the superfluous mockery dripping thickly from the single word. Aerion’s gaze had turned contemptuously observant, studying her visage and figure with wicked amusement. “When you’re stuffed into that ridiculous pile of satin, one wouldn’t guess what a vicious thing you are.”

In dramatic juxtaposition to the rain-soaked tunic and trousers Aerion had been raking his nails across the evening prior, Lady Baratheon had been hastily whisked into elegance befitting of her title that morning. Her hair piled atop her head with tight pins, her body fitted into a gown of muted golds and creams, the beading embroidered into the fabric at her chest catching the light with glittering hues when she so much as took a breath. She had found the dress beautiful, in truth, but wondered over her own belonging in it when her mother had first had it made for her. The prince’s sardonic grin did not aid in the internal quandary.

“That secret seems to remain the only thing you have gained from all of this.” She returned in a tone frosted with midnight ice. Aerion need not think her beautiful; he only needed to remember how her hands felt wrapped around his neck. “A true pity, my prince. The injustice might bring me to tears.”

“Isn’t it?” The prince’s offhanded candor was tinged with the all the sweetness of rotting plums. Eyes of the same shade flash sharply as they sliced across her own. “But mutilating you would be waste, in truth. Almost as much of waste as wedding you to my boring cousin.”

This, the lady would not entertain debate nor commentary upon, not with him. She quickly vanquished the lingering ghost of his lips upon her from her mind. “That has been decided.”

“Not by you,” The contemptuously pensive manner Aerion spoke of her betrothal in stirred the embers of the anger she nobly attempted to relegate to a low simmer. A burst of pain blossomed in her mouth as she physically dug her teeth into her tongue to prevent herself from speaking. The prince’s grin widened, cruel pleasure shining brightly at the evident irritation provoked from her, and he continued with his taunting bit of theatre. “No, Valarr might have our fathers convinced of his noble façade, but I know the truth. I have seen it in the violence of your eyes, you are no man’s darling bride.”

The task of remaining poised was a demanding one. Likely impossible, were she not painfully conscious of her relations upon the other side of the door behind her. If the conversation descended to blows once again, despite her eldest brother’s silent fury that morning, Steffon would do far worse to Aerion than she had and there would be no one to save him as Valarr had saved her. Her eyes seethed, yet the wrath did not seep down into her tongue. “That changes nothing.”

As she steadied herself, Aerion’s annoyance over her dull responses became apparent. Irritation grew at the creases of his narrowed eyes like dying vines of ivy while they searched mercilessly for a glimpse of the girl who’d exchanged blood with him beneath a sky split open. After some time, the prince’s brows raised and he tore his attention from her as he reached into the fabric of his sleeve.

“I have a gift for you. A congratulatory offering for your betrothal.” Suspicion had already begun to coil rottenly in her chest when the shape of the knife became wholly visible. Lady Baratheon drew back at once, cursing herself fiercely for leaving her own behind at her brother’s order. Damned by the uncertain situation she was in, the lady had resolved to swallow her burning pride and burst through the doors behind her when Aerion’s pleased grin returned and he flipped the sheathed knife in his fingers. The hilt was extended to her.

She glared at it skeptically before Aerion huffed an annoyed sigh. “Were I to stab you, you wretched woman, I would not make it this convoluted.”

In her ideal fantasy world, the lady would take the knife the mad prince offered to her and stab him herself. As she was bound to a reality not sculpted by the wishes of her fury, she instead stepped to him slowly and took the hilt of the sword within her grasp. Aerion watched her with ravenous interest, allowing her to pull the knife from his hand.

It was no common mercenary’s weapon. Both the sheath and hilt were composed of a cream ivory, carved with intricate miniature detailing. She had seen similar compositions upon a comb gifted to her uncle by a lover from Pentos. The man had claimed the material hailed from Sothoryos yet was carved in a tradition reflecting foreign tales spun of Westerosi courting. A meticulously carved dragon’s head slid beneath her palm as she spun the knife gently to better hold the hilt, a ruby shining as a watchful crimson eye before disappearing into her grasp. The remainder of the sheath depicted two smaller figural scenes, both featuring a knight and a woman dressed in elaborate costume. Within the first, the princess raised her hands in refusal while the knight approached with outstretched sword. The second conveyed the two seated, within each other’s embrace. Her chest tightened and a shadow passed over her countenance.

“It is too romantic and feminine a weapon for a man,” The lady did not look up at Aerion as he spoke, her eyes remaining fixed upon the sheath. A light breath of sarcastic mocking left his lips. “I shall find some amusement imagining you holding it to my dear cousin’s neck.”

Right as she chose to grace him with icy reply, Lady Baratheon heard voices drawing nearer to the wooden door. No sooner did Aerion disappear down the corridor and the weapon slid into her sleeve. Taking a long breath, she readied herself for the presence of the princes and her kin.

As negotiations had been decided, the entire Baratheon name was offered an invitation to return to Ashford Castle that evening for a dinner to celebrate the joining of their Houses. Lady Baratheon desperately attempted to get her brother Steffon to speak to her during the remainder of the day, yet the eldest of the siblings was no less stubborn than she and remained pointedly silent.  By the time they had settled into their chairs for dinner, she had not heard even a single word from him. Garen had been irritated with the situation initially as well, but after a brief conversation with Tommard, had come around rather quickly to the idea of the betrothal. The lady was grateful Tommard had stepped in to speak on her behalf and certainly owed her brother a debt for it.

House Ashford was in attendance as well, the Lord and Lady and their three children, all extending courteous congratulations on the engagement. Lady Baratheon was not ignorant to the look of contempt given to her by young Ellyn Ashford, whose name day the tourney was held in honor of. The lady knew it was well deserved – she certainly had not meant to take attention away from the girl at an event held in her name, and yet it had been done. She was entirely in the wrong, intention aside, and resolved to apologize to Ellyn when a moment presented itself.

Those gathered from House Targaryen were not many. Princes Baelor and Maekar headed the table, with Valarr sat to his father’s right. Aerion was notably not in attendance, nor were any other of Maekar’s children, although the lady had overheard whispered rumors that two of his sons had been missing for a few days’ time. Her eyes had met Valarr’s when she entered the main hall of the castle, yet there was not a moment to speak to him before she was directed to sit beside her brothers, too far from Valarr to engage in any conversation that was not participated in by the entirety of the table.

And so she spoke politely when addressed by Baelor, answering simple questions about her upbringing and her interests. She tempered the truths to appear as ladylike as she could, having to kick Tommard subtly beneath the table when both he and Garen attempted to hide their amused smiles in their cups while the lady said she was fond of the harpsichord. Steffon remained stoically silent and her uncle Lyonel delightfully entertained by the entire ordeal. The mundane pleasantries were endured for a majority of the dinner, until the musical accompaniment arrived as entertainment and Androw Ashford agreed to his sister’s whispering insistence to dance.

Lady Baratheon was attempting to maintain a neutral look on her face as Garen recounted the only time he had ever fought in a true battle to the elder Princes, the events sounding much different than what had been initially told to her. When Garen spun the story of falling off of his horse to sound as if he had been fighting off ten men when the incident occurred, she had to cough softly to prevent laughter from escaping her lips. It was then that Valarr spoke softly to his father before approaching her. As he held his hand out to her, inviting her to dance, her eyes leapt to his in appreciative relief.

“Forgive my interruption of your dessert,” Valarr whispered in a hushed tone, his eyes lingering on her face while the warm candlelight from the table illuminated her cheeks as she turned to him, hand resting gently atop his. “I would have to all but yell across the room to speak to you.”

The lady shook her head amiably, now able to let out a small breath of laughter as her eyes glittered with poorly repressed amusement. Valarr’s other hand settled comfortably onto her hip, whilst hers lands gently upon the curve of his shoulder. “No, your timing is perfect. Had I been forced to listen to any more of that embellished falsehood I would have laughed at my poor brother in front of your father and felt terrible for it.”

The prince’s easy smile brought a flushed warmth to her face with such simplicity that it surprised her. As he guided her beside the Ashfords in the center of the room, the lady’s gaze remained upon his face with soft curiosity.

“And, I must admit, I am eager to see you dance.” Valarr confessed, as his fingers curled gently over the fabric of her gown. Her own pressed softly into the material of his cape in response, eyes darting uncertainly down to his lips before retreating to the safety of his eyes. To the accompaniment of the languid melody of strings and a hundred delicate flames, Valarr led her in their dance.

“Why would that be?” Her question was quiet, genuine confusion decorating her visage as she had not come to expect jests made at her expense from him. The galaxy of hues composing his eyes held no indication of anything apart from sincerity as she turned gracefully, his hand steady beneath her own. They shone with enchanting variation in the shadowy warmth of the hall, and she was a sailor lost amongst their waves once more, all that was around them faded to dim voices and low light.

“I imagine you are quite exceptional at it,” The hushed murmur was bathed in tenderness, yet his brows drew low when he saw the faint surprise flicker across her face. His voice grew impossibly quieter with intent concern. “Have I assumed incorrectly?”

Words eluded her momentarily as the lady gathered her thoughts, her head tilting delicately to gaze down at the shining crest on his cape before she lifted her chin gradually to meet his eyes again. Her brow furrowed in endeared, conflicted affection.

“No, it is only …” Her voice trailed off, replaced by the sweet tune. The prince did not spur her to speak at once, remaining attentive to her whilst guiding her smoothly about the space beneath the ornate lighting fixture above their heads, the candles reminiscent of golden stars. A smile chased away the contemplative frown that had ghosted about her lips. “People often assume I have no interest in it, since I enjoy sparring and riding.”

The young lords of the stormlands had long since envisioned her as a potential bride, given her prominent name. Yet at gatherings, it was rare she was asked to dance despite this obvious interest in securing her as an advantageous match. Only when insistent mothers forced them would a lord attempt to offer, and she, sensing the truth behind their actions, would often deny. It left her with an unpleasant taste in her mouth, and the other young ladies would sigh and lament what a pity it was that she did not want to partake in anything ladylike. She had always been content enough to shake her head with a smile and wave them off to dance encouragingly.

The truth was, she had enjoyed dancing very much. And she was talented at it, always quick to learn a new step and adjust to an unfamiliar melody. It was only not as straightforward an endeavor as she might wish it to be.

“These people clearly have never fought with you then.” The prince’s words gently dispersed the conundrum she had been toiling with since she was old enough to be considered eligible for marriage. She gave him a wry look, eyes brightening.

“One who is so graceful and fluid in motion,” Valarr continued, lifting her arm above her head to spin her around leisurely. Her lips curled into a sweet smile as he drew her into himself once more, their bodies closer than before. His hand had moved to the small of her back. “And so brilliant as to differentiate styles of fighting at first encounter, must be an extraordinary dancer.”

Lady Baratheon gave Valarr another look, yet she could not prevent her smile from blooming fully upon her face as it tilted towards his own like a flower that sought the afternoon sun.

“And am I meeting your expectations?” She whispered, grinning as Valarr laughed quietly. Ardent admiration flooded his gaze as his thumb pressed gently into her dress, a light giddiness springing to her chest.

“Exceeding them,” The genuine amendment pleased her ears far more than the romantic notes plucked across dainty strings drifting over from the musicians. She curled her fingers atop his palm softly. “As you always do.”

The remainder of the evening was spent dancing; the pair of them exchanging whispered tales of their upbringings and memories long kept to themselves. The lady learned of his brother Matarys, and his mother, and she in turn exchanged stories of her own parents and of Flynn, the brother who had not attended the tourney. She spoke of the adventures of her childhood by the sea, of the trouble she would find herself in, of what expeditions her brothers would lead her on. Valarr expressed in quiet musings his own desire to please his father, the tension between the cousins of his generation, peaceful moments spent hunting with his brother in the Kingswood as the sun peaked through the emerald leaves above their heads. Every word spoken captured her attention raptly, as she came to understand what it was that had shaped the prince into the young man who stood before her. She longed to express her own worries in equal honesty, yet the words grew sour upon her tongue, and she swallowed them back in exchange for another entertaining narrative of her uncle.

When the dinner ended, she found herself disappointed to part from Valarr, if only for the evening. When he raised her hand to his lips, the warmth it elicited from her curled up her arms and over her chest in hot tendrils, spiraling up the side of her neck and settling onto her cheeks as she bid him goodnight in a voice that was far airier than she intended. The strangeness of it left her reeling.

“Has something fallen into your cup?” The voice disturbed the still water of her thoughts as she stood beside the head of the table in her uncle’s tent. The dinner had been a glorified beginning to a night of raucous dancing and drinking for Lyonel Baratheon, and all of the siblings had remained to decompress after the formal gathering with the Targaryens. She had been lost in a lake of contemplation, eyes descended absentmindedly into a goblet of wine, when she heard Steffon address her.

She bestowed upon her eldest brother an exasperated look, raising her head with stubborn pride.

“Have you finally decided to speak to me again?” The inquiry was challenging and hurt, wrapped in the frustration she had endured over the matter all day. Steffon fixed her with an irritated look of his own before he sighed, running a hand across his face. He cast his eyes to their siblings, who had gone to join their uncle on the dance floor. Tommard was dancing with a young lady with brilliant auburn hair, and Garen’s shirt had been lost somewhere in the chaos of the tent as he spun around in drunken circles. Lyonel had taken to dancing with a tall knight the lady did not recognize.

Steffon took a long drink of his wine before he finally offered her another sidelong glance.

“I have told you a thousand times to mind your temper,” He began with serious intonation. The lady huffed a breath of indignant disbelief, crossing her arms across her chest as she glared back. “You never listen. And look where it has gotten you.”

It was the lady’s turn to take a deep sip of the liquor before her, her fingers tightening around the stem of the silver goblet in dissatisfaction. She had been chastised to no end for the trouble brought about by her temperament, and she had tried to refrain from causing such a scene this time. She had tried. It was what she wished to argue, and yet in the instance of her fight with Aerion, the danger brought near to the Baratheon name was excruciatingly evident.

“I have apologized to you for it many times.” She elected to mutter under her breath rather than shout, her eyes still cast downwards. This only roused her brother’s own temper, and his glare intensified tenfold as he rounded upon her.

“That will not spare you this betrothal,” He growled lowly, fists tightening as her gaze shot up to match his. “Foolish, stubborn –”

She slammed her goblet down as her brother inhaled a sharp breath, her teeth clenched in frustration at his anger. The table shook from the force of it, shocking two of the lords who had been attempting to enjoy a pleasant meal. They were quick to stand up and scurry off elsewhere, not eager to be caught between two Baratheons at odds. Their fiery dispositions were notorious, far worse than those belonging to their middle siblings. The silence that hissed between the two was fraught with tension, not eased at all by the joyous festivities lightening the rest of the tent.

Steffon pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling a deep breath.

“I believed your recklessness had gotten you trapped in a marriage I could not spare you from.” His voice had lessened in volume, but it was still thick with emotion. Yet the emotion was no longer anger. Gingerly, the lady lifted her eyes to meet his as he gazed at her. When she could see plainly the guilt and sadness in his eyes, she understood at once. Her stubborn expression melted into something softer: a quiet remorse. Her lashes fluttered softly as she sighed, her hands unclenching and falling helplessly to her sides. Her fingers opened and closed in an agitated rhythm. At last, she stilled them.

“I did not mean for this to happen,” She acquiesced in low admittance, squaring her shoulders. “Yet I will bear it gracefully.”

Her brother shook his head, annoyance and anguish penned all across his face once more as he narrowed his eyes at her in a flash of frustration.

“That is not the life I wish for you,” Steffon snapped, bothered in equal measure by what she had done and how she was determined to face it alone. “Resigned to the company of some empty-headed fool who would see you locked away.”

Her brow creased as the guilt in his eyes was mirrored within her own; eyes that could not look more alike to hers if she stood before a crystalline surface.

 It was Steffon who would sneak her a bowl of soup when she’d been sent to her room early for being unruly at supper. Who had taken the blame when she’d convinced them all to swim in the rockier waters their parents had explicitly ordered them not to wander into, and she and Flynn had gotten hurt. He’d scolded her every time, but never had he let her suffer the entirety of the punishments given to her, all while striving to prove himself worthy of being their uncle’s heir. Matching sorrow welled in her chest and she was silent.

A knight bumped into the other end of the table and the goblet she’d set down toppled over and spilled, burgundy wine staining the golden cloth beneath it in a red river.

“Yet you laughed while you danced with him.” It was a quiet observation, impartial in its simplicity yet gentler than the previous words spoken to her. The lady’s lashes flutter again as she looks anywhere else. She had been so enthralled in her conversation with the prince earlier that she had nearly forgotten the watchful eyes of their gathered kin.

She did not offer an answer, but perhaps the shifting of her countenance was answer enough. Steffon’s eyes softened as he watched his sister with a knowing look, before he placed a hand upon her shoulder and pulled her close. Her eyes closed and she took a shuddery breath, the weight of the week and of her fury heavy in her frame. As the singing filling the tent grew in volume and lessened in clarity, the debauchery of the night nearing its peak, she allowed herself a moment in the familiarity of the life she had always known.

note: every time i say i will be concise i end up writing more! anyways once again i don't have a beta reader so please forgive my mistakes, i barely have time to write a draft and then read it once because of university. i am so excited for the next episode of akotsk yippee!! thank you again for all the interactions and comment! and i added a pinterest board to the series masterlist

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