Maekarsgirl

“Her. Right over there. Can you not recognize her?”

You pretend not to notice the man pointing your way.

“That’s the wife of Aerion the Monstrous.”

The way they speak your husband’s name sends shivers down your spine.

“The vile bastard. How dare she comes here.”

You continue your way down the crowded street. The royal guards surround you, forcing a path forward and keeping pedestrians at a distance.

The guards are enough to draw the attention of those you pass by. The Royal emblem they wear makes all the stares become hateful.

You hear a scoff. “The nerve of these royals. How dare she walk through this town after all the blood spilt by the vile Targaryens.”

You try to pick up your pace. It is difficult with the guards blocking your way.

Another man further back mentions, “The Ashfords welcomed this barbaric family with honor. I would rather see them hung in the streets-”

He was hushed quickly by a woman nearby, warning, “Shh. They could hang you for saying such a thing.”

You ignore the prickles of fear that encompass you as you are escorted past angry citizens. You were granted temporary freedom, and this time, you would not take it for granted.

“Go to the market. Buy new bathing oils. Something that smells sweet. I despise that floral scent they keep putting on you.”

You repeated the command in your head, over and over, so that you wouldn’t forget it.

“Have yourself prepared for me by this evening. I have already told you I dislike braids in your hair. Fix it by the time I arrive.”

You take out your braids as you walk, letting your hair fall down your back.

Nearing the market, the street becomes even more crowded. More eyes cast your way.

Whispers follow you as you go. It should not bother you to be talked about so often. You should be used to it, seeing as you are a royal now. But even with a royal title, you still have the same sensitivity that you were born with.

Growing up, your mother always chided you for being so soft and easily angered. One of the many reasons she was so terrified for you to be married to a man who was just as angry.

There is giggling laughter trailing behind you. You glance in that direction. A woman stares at you. Your face burns red, yet you do not know why. It makes you feel weak to be getting this riled up by what others do.

“You will stay here,” you command the soldiers once you reach the busier area. “Just outside the market tent.”

“We must stay by your side,” one informs you.

You do not want that. People will continue to stare and point. You feel so small under their pointing.

“It is dangerous for me to go through the crowd with guards,” you try to say. “They will assume me rich and try to rob me. Stay here, where you can keep an eye on me, but you are not to follow unless I need help.”

“I am afraid that is not possible. We must stay by your side.”

You try not to show weakness. Men always tried to push their control when you showed weakness.

Aerion’s words return to your mind. ‘You are a Targaryen now. A commoner’s word will never outweigh yours.’

A knight was not a commoner, but you tried anyway. “You will stay here. It is an order.”

“Lady (Y/N), with all due respect-”

“My husband is very insistent on me having privacy for my shopping,” you say to him. “If you have an issue with it, then perhaps you should find him and ask him about it.”

The knight goes quiet. A burst of satisfaction rolls through you.

They would never dare seek out Aerion and you know it.

They are scared of him. It is so…different to use someone’s fear against them. You are so used to fear only being used against you.

You like it, you realize. You like that these men, the ones who left you alone in the tent at Aerion’s mercy, have suddenly been placed at your mercy.

“Line the tent,” you command them. “Do not enter unless I permit it.”

“Yes, Lady (Y/N). As you wish.”

You’re even more satisfied, relishing in the power you never knew you had.

The guards line themselves by the entrance. You pull your scarf over your head and enter the tent.

Your hair and head garment hide your face. You made sure to not wear any Targaryen colors.

You try to muddle yourself in the crowd. After a few moments, you seem to blend in, no one turning your way any longer

It’s not as if anybody knows you. They know drawings they’ve seen of you with your husband. Without the guards, you were sure you were nobody to these people.

The first thing you do in the market is buy what Aerion has ordered you to buy.

New bathing oils. Sweet ones that remind you of warmth.

The market is hot and humid. The thought of another bath excites you.

“The oils can go in the ends of your hair as well,” the sales woman tells you. “Would you like a hairbrush to go with it? We sell ones that hold the oil longer.”

“Yes,” you say. You browse the booth without a care. “These ribbons as well.”

You do not care how much it costs. You hope you spend all his money. You hope you spend so much that his father chides him about his spending habits.

Glancing at the end of the market, you can see the guards staring inside. They are far too far to hear you.

“Have you been...watching the tourney?” You curse yourself for sounding so nervous. It was a simple question.

“A bit. My husband is more interested in it than I am.”

“Does he know any of the knights?”

“A few.”

“Does he perhaps know a…” You pause your words, wondering whether or not this saleswoman has a loose tongue. Probably. All salespeople do. Yet you ask anyway, “…Ser Duncan the Tall?”

“Never heard the name in my life.”

Your spirits drop. And once again you find yourself wondering why this stranger of a man is controlling your mood so dramatically.

“Just these items then,” you tell her, a lower pitch in your voice.

You pay the woman, and she begins wrapping your purchases for you.

“Did you say you were looking for Ser Duncan?” a voice calls out.

A scandalously dressed red-haired woman nears you, a basket slung on her hip. She picks up an object from in front of you, eyeing it, before carelessly dropping it back into the pile.

“The tall one?” she continues. “Big oaf of a fella? Goes by Dunk?”

Your eyes light up, and you finally find some proof he is still real. “Yes. That is the one.”

She laughs. “Whatcha wantin’ him for?”

The sound of laughter prickles at your survival instincts. Laughter is always followed by violence with Aerion.

You are careful, reminding yourself that no one in this city is to be trusted. “I was only wondering which day he will joust.”

She lets out a humored snort. “Probably never. That one’s still beggin’ to get on the lists.”

A frown forms on your face. “He’s not signed up yet? The tourney is half over.”

“He says his knighthood wasn’t properly filed or somethin’ of the sort. He’s not recognized by the castle yet.” She shrugs. “He could just be sayin’ that, I suppose. Not the first man to lie about being a knight.”

“He does not seem like a liar to me.”

You defended him too quickly, and she notices. The woman’s expression changes. She glances over you, and you see her eyes pause on the clothes you try to keep covered with your scarf. “You’re right. He don’t.” She leans against a wooden table, not caring about the fruit she leans on. “You don’t look like you’d know him. You look a little too...posh to hold that man’s company.”

Her eyes continue to devour your appearance, as if trying to match you to a memory.

A scenario enters your mind, one where she may see you by Aerion’s side one day and recognize you. If she did, she may sell information about you, spread gossip that you are fancying some hedge knight. You tilt your head down. “I was only asking. That is all.”

“I hear he’s havin’ a shield painted by a girl that does puppets.” Another shug. “Maybe check the Dornish tent if you needa find him.”

“The Dorish tent?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you know what a Dornish tent looks like?”

“Yes,” you mumble. You wonder how pitiful you look for her to have to ask. “Yes. Thank you.”

That was all the information you needed. Your best bet was to leave before she could get a better look at you.

But something else gnawed at you.

You knew what she was.

No, it wasn’t very obvious to most people, but it was obvious to a noble lady. She is dressed in a way you were always told not to dress, because people in those clothes attracted the wrong attention.

The woman before you was a prostitute, and she was somehow familiar with Ser Duncan. It should have been obvious why she knew him, yet your hopeful nativity tried to tell you there could be other reasons. Reasons beyond the usual man seeking a wench’s body.

“Do you mind if I ask-” You feel shy continuing, eyes glancing down at her dress clinging to her hips. “I was only wondering, how do you…know Ser Duncan?”

“How do you think?”

You get an unpleasant feeling in your stomach. It is not your business, but your selfishness makes you confirm, “He has paid for your...services?”

A chuckle. “You sure are a proper girl, aren’t ya? Can’t even hardly say the words.”

Embarrassments hit you again, like so many times before. It is bad enough being laughed at by men, women laughing at you stings sharper.

“I apologize. It is not my place-”

“He hasn’t laid with me, if that’s what you’re scared of. I helped him get in contact with a knight he was looking for.”

You feel yourself relaxing. So wrapped up in feelings for a man you hardly knew.

Duncan sought help from a prostitute. Only the most mature of men could do such a thing.

She smiles at your visible relief. “Are you some lovergirl of his?”

“No.” You hurry the refusal. “I have a bet placed in the tourney, that is all.”

“Mhm.”

“Thank you for your help,” you tell her. You recall the coin purse in your pocket, you reach into it, and pull out two coins. You hold them out. “Let him know there is a noble lady who wishes him luck, if you see him before I do.”

You do not need to leave your name. He will know.

She snatches the coins from you, smiling. “I’ll do just that.”

As you leave the market, you feel a happiness that you haven’t felt since the last time you saw with Ser Duncan.

Oh, how childish you feel. Daydreaming of a man you’ve had less than five run-ins with.

“I have another stop to make,” you inform the guards.

“Yes, Lady (Y/N).”

You feel in control for the first time in a long time.

Walking along the busy city, you spot a tent with large paintings along the side of the canvas. Dornish paintings of puppets and dragons.

You imagine it is these beautiful paintings that drew Duncan in.

Cheeks blush crimson as you picture Duncan finding this place, his kind heart being amazed by pretty paintings in the way other men weren’t.

“You will stay here,” you order the guards. “I have private business to attend to.”

One argues back, “Lady (Y/N), we cannot allow you to be out of sight.”

“It will take no more than five minutes. If I am not out by then, you may enter.”

“Prince Baelor instructed us to stay exactly by your side,” one insists, his tone becoming impatient. “We allowed you in the market where we could see you, we cannot allow you to enter a tent alone. You could be accused of anything, and we are meant to be your witnesses.”

Your confidence in the idea slowly dwindles.

“Stand near the entrance,” you eventually say. “I will be no longer than a moment. I have to speak of confidential things involving Prince Aerion, and he will be very angry if he learns there were any eavesdroppers.”

Once again, it works. They feared Aerion more than Baelor.

Who didn’t?

They line the entrance of the tent, and watch you as you enter.

It is cooler inside. Cooler than the sun, and much cooler than the market.

You spot a woman. It is only one, and you are grateful. You would feel shy if there were more than one.

It is a tall, slender woman, one that holds herself elegantly, even hunched over and working

She does not hear you come in. She bends over a table, pressing down fabrics. You clear your throat. “Pardon me-”

You flinch as she whips around, the fast movement reminding you too much of your explosive husband.

But she is not rude at all. All she asks is, “Yes?”

“You are…one of the puppeteers?” Again, you chide yourself for how awkward your voice is.

“I am. Are you looking to buy a ticket?”

You glance out the tent. The guards cannot hear you from this distance, yet you still drop your voice to a lower volume. “I was told that you know Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Oh. Dunk.” She nods. “Yes. I do.”

“He is having you paint a shield for him?”

She looks over you like the other woman had. “Yes.”

“How much are you charging him?”

She frowns. “I am not overcharging, I assure you.”

“No, no,” you quickly say. “I was not suggesting that. I only ask because-” You pull the coin purse from your pouch. “I wish to pay for it for him.”

“…You do?”

“What is the price?”

She tells you what she is charging him.

You reach into your coin purse and pull out double. Handing it to her, you say, “Please, make sure you do your best job on it.”

She stares down at the coins, before asking, “How exactly do you know this knight?”

“He is a friend of mine.”

Once more, she looks you up and down. “You must be the ‘princess’.”

You frown. “No, I fear you’ve mistaken me.”

“Dunk told me that he is riding with the favor of a ‘princess’,” she informs you. “And that is why he knows he is destined to enter the lists.”

Did he think you were a princess? He had seen you with the royal family at your arrival. Did he think you to be a blood Targaryen?

“I am no princess.”

She laughed. Not like the others. In a kinder way. “I told him there were no Princesses in Ashford. Then again, he spoke the title with more…admiration than formality. As if he knew he were the only one to call you such.”

You were no princess. Not even your parents referred to you as so. The main thing you were called growing up was ‘difficult’ and ‘melancholy’.

You tell her, “Perhaps he speaks of someone else.” Because that is what your self-doubt tells you.

She holds up a finger, before moving behind the table. “When Dunk first came to me, he requested a shield painted. A symbol. A shooting star over a tree. Said it meant something important.”

“Do you know what?”

“No.” She knelt down to gather something. “But just the other day he told me that he was given favor by a princess. He told me that he was not allowed to speak her name, but he wanted to find another way to thank her for her generosity.”

Generosity? She had not done anything generous prior to paying for his shield.

The woman stood to her feet. You could see now that she was holding a shield. She turned it to show you. “It is unfinished, but as you can see, he requested I add a few apples to the tree.”

Warmth falls on your heart like a blanket in the winter.

Your lips part in surprise as she presents the shield to you.

“I tried to explain that I had not drawn an apple tree,” she laughs. “But he did not care. He said the princess would recognize it as a thank you.”

You stare at the painting. It is beautiful to you. Not just because of the picture, but because of what it is.

She had painted proof that someone had seen you. The only proof in the realm that someone had known you.

Not a single gift of yours, not from your childhood, not from your wedding, certainly not from your husband, had ever captured a part of you in the way this had.

The man who let you hide behind him to eat apples, now wore apples proudly on his seal of knighthood.

Ser Duncan has made you feel more like a princess than your royal husband ever has.

You stare at it for another moment, for the first time in your life, you feel too overwhelmed to speak.

“I hope you like it-”

“I do,” you quickly tell her. “I very much like it.” You clear your throat, snapping out of your haze to hand it back. “You are doing a marvelous job. Thank you for helping him with this.”

Placing down the shield, she pulls out the coins you have given her. She holds some out to you. “I am glad to have your satisfaction, but I must inform you that you have overpaid. It is too much-”

“Keep it,” you beg. “As a thank you for helping him.”

“I cannot accept this amount,” she tells you. “It would not be right.”

“Take it as a donation to the puppetshow.” Your eyes gaze upon the half painted dragon. “It looks like hard work.”

She smiles. “Come see it. The main show will be in two night’s time.”

“I fear I’ve grown somewhat tired of tales of dragons.”

“Perhaps you will like this one. The dragon dies in the end.”

*****

You took great effort in perfecting your appearance that evening.

You spent nearly an hour in the bath, the servant girls brushing through your hair with the new oils, others plucking the hair off your body.

If being beautiful and quiet is what it would take to keep Aerion from getting violent with you, then so be it.

A beautiful, quiet, submissive wife. If that is what your husband wants, that is what you will force yourself to be.

‘Lips sealed,’ you tell yourself. ‘No replies, no rebuttals, and no backtalk.’

Your hair falls long down your back. You hold up your foggy hand mirror. A smile forms on your lips.

You look like a princess. A princess who dresses in the most beautiful of gowns in case she passes her knight in shining armor on the street.

You are so happy with the thought of Duncan that the smile stays on your face for a long time, dropping only when two visitors enter the room.

Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher. The sight of the woman makes your stomach hurt.

“Good evening, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty greets with a quick bow. “I trust you got much needed rest today.”

“I did. Thank you. Were you able to rest as well?”

“Abundantly. Prince Baelor gave us the entire day to revive our energy. Your thoughts are appreciated.”

You risk a glance at Madam Pricher. She meets your eye with a sharp gaze. You look away.

Madam Pricher intimidates you in a way no one besides your husband does. She could get you killed one of these days. She has practically tried to already. She went behind your back to tell Aerion about Valarr approaching you the day prior, and you are lucky it did not end with another split lip.

“They brought in wine,” you tell Ser Thenty. “I will be called to dinner soon and have no way of finishing it. Please, have some.”

You are fond of Ser Thenty because he reminds you of Ser Donnel, as well as the other knights at home. He is the first knight of the Targaryen castle that is truly kind to you, and you hope that rewarding him for his kindness keeps him from turning into the devilish type of man the other knights were.

Yes, he is kind. But not as kind of Ser Duncan. You suppress another childish smile that starts to form at the thought of the tall man.

You begin to pout Ser Thenty a cup. “You are welcome to partake in any of the refreshments brought to me-”

“You are not to serve wine to a man that is not your husband,” Madam Pricher chides.

The thought of Aerion dulls you, but you try not to show it. “I merely mean to show him my gratitude-”

“Aerion will not be pleased when I tell him that you and Ser Thenty are sharing drinks together.”

Spiteful bitch, your mind screams.

“You will not bother my husband with such things.”

“I certainly will.”

You speak to her as you spoke to the guards earlier. “My husband tells me I can place orders on you,” you insist. “And I order you to be silent. If you fail to do so, you will have to answer to him.”

“I look forward to answering to him. Answering any questions he may have about your behavior.”

In a single moment, all the power you felt that day has been stripped down to nothing.

You feel like a nobody again. Nothing more than a misbehaved pet that’s being trained on how to act properly.

“I need no wine, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty tells you. “Have some yourself. It will calm your nerves for your husband’s arrival.”

You know you cannot dare drink the wine. You cannot risk any drunkness. You must be hyper aware whenever Aerion is around.

“Your hair should be braided,” the older woman tells you. “It is improper to have it undone while you are a guest at a feast.”

“My husband enjoys my hair when it is down.”

“I have seen the things your husband enjoys, and they are classless.”

You burn with hate for her. “Aerion wants it down,” you insist.

You will do what Aerion wants. Her insults will never hurt as much as your husband’s fists.

Out of spite, you add, “But I will be sure he knows how classless you find him.”

You want her to be scared. Instead, she laughs. “I have known Prince Aerion since he was a small boy. There is no insult I have not given him straight to his face.”

Another feeling of hopelessness settles over you. You don’t understand how a maid is able to make you feel so powerless.

Even more so as Madam Pricher says, “If you intend to control me with your husband, you will fail. I answer to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. That spoiled Aerion has no hold over me.”

She has read right through you. She has seen your plans, and is letting you know that you have failed them. Your shoulders slouch.

You will never get a break from the cruel torture that is life.

Dinner was still half an hour away. Aerion was still ordered not to come near you yet. You spend the rest of the time in silence, counting down the minutes you have left before your tormentor returns.

Aerion arrives the exact moment the bells ring for evening dinner. It was if he was waiting directly outside the tent until the very second he was allowed to come back to bother you.

Your husband entered the tent with a smug smile, and overflowing confidence.

“Much better,” is the first thing he says to you.

You despise him.

Aerion stops himself just in front of you, eyes on your dress as his fingers graze over the fabric. The dark red seems to reflect in his eyes.

Aerion touches your hair next, running a hand through it and moving it out of your face. He leans in and places a kiss on your neck.

His face lingers as he inhales the scent of you. He is checking to see if you have obeyed him, if you have found new bathing oils. You wonder what the punishment would have been if you had not.

Pulling away, he seemed satisfied with the new scent. “You have listened to me for once, (Y/N). I am glad. I would have had to cut the dress off your body had you still been in the wrong color.”

You wish you could cut the heart out of his chest and watch him die in front of you.

Your husband’s eyes land on his second favorite thing in the room. “Have you not touched your wine? I had it chosen specifically for you.”

“I poured a cup,” you tell him.

He moves to the desk, and begins to pour a glass for himself. “You did not like it? Tell me now if that is the case. I will reprimand the boy that suggested it.”

You lie, “I liked it-”

“She poured a glass for Ser Thenty, Prince Aerion, not herself. She has not drank any.”

Your heart drops.

Aerion pauses.

Your lips part in mere shock at the comments. Ser Thenty seems just as startled.

Your husband slowly turns to you. “You gave my gift to your knight-?”

“I offered him a glass but he refused,” you rush out. “He did not have it.”

His jaw sets. “Why was my gift offered to him?”

A lie comes to you fast. “It-It is customary in my homeland for a guard to drink any open liquid before we drink it ourselves. The wine was sent unsealed, I did not want to risk sickness. That is why I did not drink any, because he refused.”

Aerion stares at you. One moment, two moments, three moments. Then, you hear a low scoff. “You think I would allow something to reach my wife without going through poison prevention? Do not be so stupid.”

He gives you a glass, and you take it without complaint. You will be obedient, as long as you are able. You take a sip as he watches you.

“Where did you go today after you left me?” he asks you. His voice is casual, the tinge of suspicion in his eyes is not.

“To the market,” you tell him. “And to the baths.”

He pours wine of his own. He takes larger drinks of it. You pray he will not be drunk tonight. “Only those two places?”

You knew the guards saw you at the Dornish tent. They would most likely inform someone. You quickly add, “I tried to stop by a tent for a puppet show. They told me they are only held at night, so I left.”

He halts the cup in his hand, frowning. “A puppet show?”

“I went in and left. I was there for only a few minutes. You can ask the guards, those are all the places I went.”

“What interest do you have in a puppet show?”

“They are...interesting.”

“They are childish. Do not seek one out again.”

He can’t even let you have that? It was a fake interest, yet he will not allow you to have it?

“As you wish, Prince Aerion.”

He finishes his wine, and he takes your cup from you as he realizes you have only sipped from it. He finishes it for you. Carelessly dropping the empty cup to the floor, he says, “My father is expecting us at dinner with Lord Ashford. Need I remind you of your rules?”

Your eyes go to the floor. “No, Prince-”

He snaps his fingers in your face. You flinch, eyes flying back to him. “Do not look away while I speak to you. Need I remind you of your rules?”

You quickly shake your head. “No, Prince Aerion. I remember them.”

“Stop looking so cowardly and pale. Stand up straight and act like a woman.”

You stand straighter.

“You have been a royal for almost a year yet you still hunch like a peasant.”

Half a year. You wish to correct him, but your mind screams at you not to. You stay silent.

He snaps his fingers at you again to say, “Let us go.”

He leads you out, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty trailing at a distance, three other guards following as well.

“Valarr won his match today,” Aerion informs you. “But his competitor was hardly any competition. Sometimes, I wonder if his father pays for him to receive the worst knights to joust.”

There was a hint of disdain in his voice. He seemed disappointed he was not the only victor.

To combat his shifting mood, you tell him, “You also won your match today.”

A flicker of a smirk rises on his lips. “Not that anyone doubted I would.” He whistled behind you. “Pick it up, you old hag.”

You glance behind the two of you. Madam Pricher is struggling to keep up with his fast pace. You do not care to defend her. In fact, you hope she passes out from the exertion.

“Pick up your skirts when you walk,” Aerion commands you. “You are not a maid. You should not drag your clothes on the ground.”

You hold them higher, and say, “Yes, husband.”

He sends a look your way. “Use that mocking tone on me again and you’ll receive a slap to the face.”

You truly do not understand him.

Does he want you submissive, or does he find it mocking? Does he want you kind, or does he find it false?

You make a mental note in your head of the tone you used. It might have been too high pitched, or perhaps too soft. It was not a tone he believed, so you would make sure not to use it again.

You do your best not to make eye contact with anyone as you enter the Ashford Castle. You keep your eyes on the ground, where Aerion seems to like them.

The two of you are announced as you enter the dining hall.

“Prince Aerion and Lady (Y/N).”

You put so much work into keeping your head down, you had no idea who was at the table until you were fully seated.

It is an eight seat table.

Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar hold the ends of the table. Besides Baelor, on the opposite side of you, is Valarr. He does not look at you this time. You are grateful.

Aerion sits beside Maekar. The rest of the seats are empty. You risk glancing around, wondering if the Ashfords are late for the meal.

“The Ashfords are not coming to dinner,” Valarr says to you. “If that is who you are looking for.”

Aerion’s head snaps your way. You quickly stare at your lap, pretending as if you do not hear Valarr.

“Lord Ashford thought it best not to bring his wife and daughter,” Valarr continued, “After learning Aerion would be arriving.”

“Valarr,” Prince Baelor says cooly.

Aerion is staring at you, you can feel it, waiting for you to make a reply. You do not. You continue to pretend no one is speaking to you. The reaction seems to satisfy him.

“You sound spiteful this evening,” Aerion tells his cousin. “Are you angry that you were not the only one who won their match today?”

“I am more proud over the fact that no animals were harmed.”

Maekar hums in disapproval. Aerion chuckles. “You know, we may face each other eventually, cousin.”

“If you make it as far as I do,” Valarr nods.

“Perhaps we will be the finalists.”

“This tourney will be going longer than expected,” Baelor speaks. “Many knights entered the lists after learning of our presence here. I assume many men wish to apply for our royal guard. I estimate another week of jousts.”

Your blood runs cold.

Another week?

Another week of this torture of sharing a bed with Aerion?

The idea sounds horrid. Yet…another week in the same city as Ser Duncan the Tall does not.

“That is your doing,” Maekar tuts. “You allow in every knight that begs to enter.”

“Every rightful knight.”

“And you know them to be rightful?” Maekar asks. “Like the hedge knight that had not even a witness to his knighting?”

“I told you, I recall the Ser Arthur he spoke of.”

“Even the worst knight wouldn’t have thrown knighthood onto that giant brute.”

The word ‘giant’ catches your attention. You suppose it always will from now on.

“Regardless, he is entered.”

“Perhaps you should enter your favorite knight,” Aerion says to his uncle. “See if he is as brave as he pretends to be.”

Baelor barely glances at Aerion. He lets out a low sigh. “And who might my favorite knight be, in your opinion?”

“Ser Thenty, is it not?”

Your eyes widen, and you turn to see Ser Thenty is tense as he waits along the wall.

“He must be if you have chosen him to watch over my wife.” He turns to you. “And you find yourself very fond of him, yes-?”

Maekar made another sound of irritation. “Enough.” He snapped his fingers before his son could continue. “We have waited too long. Bring out the food.”

A serving boy asked, “Are we not expecting anyone else, Prince Maekar-?”

“No. Serve the food now.”

“No other guests are comfortable dining with the family,” Valarr begins. “Here we are, in someone else’s castle, yet no one else wishes to dine with us-”

Maekar slams his hand on the table.

Valarr falls silent.

The whole room falls silent.

It is so interesting for you to see how much power Maekar holds over this family, despite being the younger brother. Baelor will inherit the throne one day, yet his brother commands the rooms.

“Speak of the tactics used during your match today,” Baelor tells his son.

Valarr does so. He speaks of the books he’s been reading on jousting, how he’s been practicing holding his lances at different angles, how he’s taken notes.

Valarr is finally behaving like a calm scholar, the one others in the kingdom so often describe him. He is said to be a good man that is right and just, and finally you begin to see it. In fact, all the men seem to finally be able to converse without argument.

Except, Aerion isn’t conversing much. He is only listening.

Listening, and watching you, as if waiting for you to misbehave so he can put you in your place.

Again, the family seems to read right through you. Dinner is halfway over when Baelor says, “As you can see, Lady (Y/N), this family is capable of sharing a decent meal together. It is not often the boys bicker so much, I hope you do not see them in a bad light because of this.”

You do not answer him, especially not while Aerion stares right at you.

Baelor then says, “I hope you were able to enjoy Ashford more today. My guards tell me you made your way around town.”

He speaks to you, but it is your husband who answers.

“Yes, she came to watch my match,” Aerion tells him. “She helped me discard my armor, and recover from my soreness.”

You hear Valarr’s voice, “I’m sure she was thrilled to be there.” His tone held thick sarcasm.

Aerion seemed amused by it. “She was. She came on her own accord, even after your father tried to banish me from seeing my own woman.”

You clench your skirt fabric in your fist. You hate when they do this. When they speak about you as if you are not there.

You tense when he reached over and brushed his thumb over your cheek. “She brought me much luck.”

All eyes have fallen on you once more. You think of what to do. Your husband lives for flattery, so you give him flattery. “You had no need for my luck, Prince Aerion, you win every match you are in.”

You have pleased him with the comment.

Dinner ends smoothly. You are proud of yourself for your silence.

When the two of you return to your tent, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty stand near the entrance. You try to pretend they do not exist.

“You did well tonight, wife,” Aerion says to you. “You will be rewarded for it.”

The reward he gives you is his mercy.

He does not rip your clothes when he strips you. Instead, he unbuttons them and places them on the table.

He does not shove you onto the bed to fuck you, he merely lays you down and gets on top of you.

His hands do not grab and pull at you, they merely brush over your skin.

When he enters you, it is not brutal and all at once, it is slow, and the pain is lessened.