Maekarsgirl

warning

minors dni!

my work contains heavy topics such as non-con, incest, big age gaps and more

always read the content warning!

about me

I love the dilfs in akotsk

20 | multilingual | fav. color is pink

Maekar has my heart

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a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

p!links p. 1: Baelor, Maekar, Dunk, Daerion, Aerion, Valarr

everything about the akotsk males 18+ edition

Baelor

father!Baelor x daughter!Reader modern au

╰┈➤ p. 2

Maekar

uncle!Maekar x niece!Reader modern au

brother!Maekar x sister!Reader

Aerion

his instagram modern au

husband!Aerion x wife!Reader series (dark!aerion)

Valarr

golden!boy!Valarr x scholarship!girl!Reader modern au

husband!Aerion x wife!Reader series

dark au

includes headcanons, requests and more

cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion, strong language, manipulation, power imbalance, mentions of cheating, abusive relationship, non-con, angst

consume at your own risk!

some blurbs

⤷ . ݁⋆ finding out he cheated on you with your lady-in-waiting

. ݁⋆ he doesn’t like to be avoided

headcanons

⤷ . ݁⋆ a glimpse into the marriage between Aerion and Reader

requests

⤷ . ݁⋆ his reaction to his affair talking openly bad about you

. ݁⋆ embroidering a new cloak for Daeron and Aerion thinking it’s for him

husband!Aerion x wife!Reader

cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion

Aerion lays beside his lover— your former friend—in a great, soft bed. The chill of their bare skin was driven back by the candles burning all around them. Her head rested upon his bare chest, whilst thick furs covered their bodies. Beyond the chamber windows, only the moon shone, and the gentle whisper of a summer breeze drifted through the night.

“She has spent much of her time of late embroidering a cloak for your armor— or at least trying to,” she broke the silence between them in a hushed murmur. At first, Aerion could scarcely believe his ears. You would make something for him again? It seemed impossible, considering you had ignored him for days.

No longer did you rise to his insults or his humiliations. Instead, you merely bowed your head, offered a nod, and obeyed. Yet that was far from what he desired. He wished to see you weep, rage, and beg— something that would prove how much he still mattered to you. But your silence was a thing he could no longer endure.

The moment Aerion truly realized how badly he had blundered came one night after a grueling hunt. He returned to the bedchamber you once shared, already expecting to feel your hands settle upon his shoulders, ready to ease his aches with one of your healing massages— as you had always done.

Yet when he opened the doors, he found only you lying upon the bed, fast asleep, your back turned toward the entrance. Aerion’s heart skipped a beat as the woman upon his chest spoke those words. Slowly, a triumphant grin spread across his lips.

Ah, so that is how it is, he thought. It seems you are longing for his approval once more.

Without another word, Aerion pushed away the woman he had held in his arms only moments before and turned onto his side to sleep. His thoughts were already fixed upon what he would do with you on the morrow.

·༻𐫱༺·

The heavy doors of your bedchamber suddenly burst open—Aerion stepped inside with cautious strides, carefully scanning his surroundings, and spotted you sitting on the floor near the hearth, embroidering something. You didn't look up, for who else would dare to storm into the room without permission?

Aerion came to a halt a few meters in front of you and watched you for a moment, his smile growing at the thought that his beloved was right. When you finally looked up after the silence to receive a command, your eyes fell upon his messy hair and his completely wrinkled clothes— he seemed to have been with her again, you thought to yourself. Yet you didn't let him see how hurt you were— instead, you just kept looking up at him from below, the needle in your hand freezing in place.

"Can I be of any assistance to you, my prince?" you asked him with a blank expression. He was confused, why weren't you showing any startled reaction to his presence? After all, you were just trying to make things right again with the gift in your hand. With a swift step, he drew closer and bent down to tear the fabric from your hand so he could get a closer look at it.

The noble fabric slipped from your hands, and in the process, the needle you had been holding seconds before tumbled to the floor— but not before its tip grazed your hand, causing you to flinch slightly.

Aerion looked closely at the embroidery, ready to tear your work down to the ground— to insult your craftsmanship and tell you that you had wasted your time once again. He wanted to see the hope fade from your eyes. He looked down, his eyes searching for the three-headed dragon, each with an orange, red, and yellow head— but he found nothing of the sort— instead, he saw only Daeron’s personal sigil. For a fraction of a second, he had hoped you had lost the ability to see color—that this was the excuse for your mistake.

"What is the meaning of this?" Aerion said angrily, shoving the dragon right in front of your face. You were completely bewildered— having no idea what he expected from you or what he was thinking. You just stared at the dragon, but you couldn't spot a single mistake. "Where is my sigil? Why are you weaving the sigil of that pathetic, wine-soaked fool in my chambers?" Aerion spat back into your silence, furious and harsh.

Had he expected this to be for him? you thought to yourself—no, that would be ridiculous. He had told you often enough before that he didn't want you wasting your time on him. "Daeron wanted me to make him a cloak for his armor after his was torn— after he found out that I had made yours. I didn't know you would mind," you said, looking at the fabric and then back at him.

The truth hit Aerion’s massive ego like a physical blow, shattering the carefully constructed reality he had believed in. You hadn't been weeping over his empty side of the bed or listening for his footsteps in the corridor while he was away with your lady-in-waiting. Instead, you had been thinking of Daeron. You had dedicated your time, your labor, and your quiet devotion to him— of all people, his brother.

"You dare to mock me?" Aerion hissed, stepping over the spread-out folds of your dress. His shadow fell large and suffocating over you. He threw the cloak onto the floor right at your feet and intentionally stepped on the silver-embroidered stars with his mud-covered boot.

"You sit in my chambers, under my roof, and dedicate your hands to another man? A coward who hides from the training grounds?"

"I was not mocking you, Aerion," you said in a quiet, exhausted voice. "I just... I don't understand. You don't want my needlework. You gave it to the servants to wipe the floors with. I thought if I made something for someone who actually wants it, you wouldn't care. I thought you would be glad that I am no longer a burden to you."

Aerion froze. His boot still rested heavily upon the ruined embroidery. These words were neither defiance nor a tearful cry for help. They were the honest, bewildered thoughts of a wife who had been so completely alienated by his cruelty that she genuinely believed her existence meant absolutely nothing to him anymore.

He looked into your wide, confused eyes, expecting the familiar, intoxicating rush of absolute power. He had intimidated you. He had ruined the cloak. Yet, without a single word, Aerion left the room and abandoned you to your solitude.

But what do you think Aerion would do if the woman he slept with and cheated with would begin to mock reader in some way for having a straying husband?

Would he not care since he has liked publicly humiliating her before with her fabrics being used by the servants? Or would he be more upset at reader being mocked by someone who is below their station considering at the end of the day she is HIS wife and he does carry some affection/possessiveness for her so should he be the only one allowed to delight in her misery?

husband!Aerion x wife!Reader

headcanons

cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion

Deep down, Aerion would completely lose his mind if he saw anyone else inflict harm upon you— because in his twisted logic, he is the only one who has the right to hurt you.

BUT, if he were to watch your lady-in-waiting humiliate you by making a sharp comment about how you cannot keep your own husband, right in front of other people, he wouldn’t lift a finger to stop it.

On one hand, he would force himself to control his inner fury so it wouldn’t look like he actually cares about you. On the other hand, he cannot afford to show any weakness when it comes to you— he doesn't want you harboring any false hopes or starting to place expectations on him. Aerion ultimately wants to be a complete monster in your eyes just to see how far he can push you.

Furthermore, the moment the lady-in-waiting insults you, you would instinctively look in his direction with a crushed, disappointed expression, just to see his reaction. Your heart would shatter into a thousand pieces all over again simply because he refuses to defend you— hell, he might even flash you a mocking grin or a fake laugh just to completely crush your spirit.

However, the second Aerion and that lady-in-waiting are completely alone, he would punish her brutally. He might force her to drink boiling hot water, scalding her entire mouth, to ensure she never speaks such foul words in your presence ever again.

Golden!boy!Valarr x Scholarship!girl!reader

Academic Rivals

modern au!

summary: Valarr knows exactly how much your grades mean to you, so he strikes right where it hurts the most just to get your attention. And in the process, he's only pulling you closer and closer to him.

cw: 18+ (mdni), power imbalance, spoiled Valarr, non-con, manipulation, blackmailing, enemies to lovers to enemies?, breathplay(choking), toxic dynamics, manhandling, fingering(f!receiving)

wc: 4,7k

You had to work ten times harder for the same results as these rich kids. You were beneath their social class, which gave them permission to view you as a lowborn. But deep down, even they knew that you were better than them, in every way— you were respectable, hardworking and unyielding. You weren’t sponsored by mommy’s or daddy’s money.

The grades you earned defined your worth. Anything lower than 97% made you question wether you deserved the scholarship. Always on top of the class— well, except when you’re not. Except when Valarr decides that he deserves it. The golden boy- adored by everyone, including the teachers. Once he tosses some money around, promising the teachers a promotion or handing out an envelope, he passes the class with 100%.

Of course he gets everything handed to him on a silver platter- the heir to the Targaryen dynasty. You envy him like hell— shit, you wouldn’t even know what to do with that kind of money. After a while, though, you noticed how he’s gradually stripping you of your "top of the class" title the moment you start feeling satisfied.

Valarr loves taking things away from you. His eyes are always on you the second results are posted. Three semesters ago, you only had two classes together. Now, it’s six. You hate how easily he can get through to you. But like everyone else, you know exactly how dangerous it is to mess with a Targaryen.

This game has been going on between the two of you for a long time now. In the back of your mind, you’ve always told yourself that it’ll be over soon— soon, you’d never have to see him again.

Then came the day you got your final grades. You knew for a fact that your performance throughout the semester was outstanding. Always present, grinding for every possible credit point. Your exam was better than any you’d ever written.

That’s why it’s so jarring when you see your grade: a 64%. How is that even possible? Your heart sinks to the floor, and you don’t even know how to react. It can’t be. Denial is the only thing buffering the pain.

That same day, you head to your professor's office. It has to be a mistake, you tell yourself over and over. You wait outside his door, pacing back and forth, unable to sit still from the sheer nerves.

Suddenly, you hear a click- the door opens, and you see Valarr step out. He shoots you a malicious smirk. "Got a bad grade?" is all he says before brushing past you.

You hurry into the office. "Sit down," your professor says. You do exactly that, the anxiety returning to settle deep in your bones. Your hands are shaking, restlessness filling your chest. "I’d like to talk to you about my semester grade."

You try to get straight to the point instead of dancing around it. "My exam was the best in the class, and I’ve done significantly more work than anyone else. So how did I end up with this grade?" you spit out. Silence fills the room. After a few seconds, your professor finally answers, "I’ve noticed your performance slipping over the last few weeks.“

A lie. And you know it.

You shake your head. "I don’t feel that way at all." You take a moment to compose yourself, breathing in and out deeply. "Even if I had slipped toward the end, my exam grade is far too high for 64%. I should have achieved at least 80%," you try to explain.

"I’ve already tried calculating it every which way; you simply don't land higher than 64%. Be satisfied with it. Constitutional Law is a very difficult subject," your professor retorts.

You’re beyond confused, your gaze fixed intensely on your hands. That grade puts your scholarship at risk. It puts your entire future at risk.

"Perhaps you aren't as good as you think you are." That sentence breaks you inside. It took you years to mentally detach yourself from that exact thought. You’re on the verge of tears. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that," is all you vaguely register before you stand up and bolt out of the room. As you stumble out of the office, you feel your phone vibrate- a message from Valarr.

Next time, maybe you should be more careful with the words you spread about me

Suddenly, a wave of realization hits you like a physical blow. That little spoiled bastard. The tears instantly stop — instead, your entire body flushes with pure, white-hot rage. He really has nothing better to do than bribe your professors to tank your grades. Fuck— this is his way of punishing you.

You start picking at your nail polish, a nervous habit that always surfaces when you're stressed. You force yourself to walk toward the exit with calm, measured steps, heading for the bus stop.

Your mind is spinning with thoughts of your GPA and your scholarship. Your head is so loud that it takes minutes for you to realize a car is following you. You recognize it immediately: the sleek black car Valarr is picked up in every day.

You stop walking, waiting for him to pull up beside you. And he does. The back door swings open. "Get in," he says, his tone cold and authoritative, not even deigning to look at you. You can’t help the sigh that escapes your lips. "Are you actually serious right now?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Get in, or do you really want to lose that scholarship?" You don't stall any longer. You slide into the seat, and the driver pulls away instantly. A partition separates the front seats from the back, leaving you completely alone with Valarr— though you doubt the driver would lift a finger to help you even if you were in danger.

You decide to break the silence first. "Is this one of those pathological things rich people do when nothing else fulfills them? Inflicting pain on others?"

For the first time since you got into the car, he actually looks at you. His eyes trail over the dried salt of the tears staining your face. Deep inside Valarr, a morbid, sick urge for your grief begins to take place.

"I’m actually starting to enjoy snatching things away from you while you're too powerless to stop it. But I'm sure you already knew that."

He’s sitting on the other side of the car, legs spread, leaning back against the leather seat with total nonchalance. While you’re internally shattering, he acts like this is just another Tuesday.

"What do you want from me?" You can feel the tears threatening to return, your chest tight with frustration. "You have nothing I would ever want."

Ouch. That stung.

"Fuck you." Your rage finally slips past your filter. "Tell me, is it the missing mother figure that made you such a pussy, or the daddy who never gives you any attention?"

That did it. You watch the spark of amusement vanish from his eyes instantly.In a split second, he lunges across the seat, grabbing your chin in a bruising grip. He pins you against the window, his face so close you can feel his hot breath against your skin. You feel his other hand slide between your legs. Both of your gazes drop to his hand. Valarr— who has had wet dreams about this exact moment— can hardly believe it himself.

"You talk pretty bold for someone whose life I could destroy." He squeezes, his fingers digging into your flesh. You quickly slap your hand over his. "Stop, you're hurting me," you whisper, your lips trembling into a pout.

The dam finally breaks— the exhaustion of the constant pressure, the obsession with being the best, the fear for your future— it all floods out. You break down in tears right in front of the person who should be the last to see you like this.

Mortified, you cover your face with your hands. Valarr lets go of your chin and your leg. Slowly, he pulls you into his arms, hauling you onto his lap and holding you tight. He strokes your hair, whispering softly into your ear. "Shhh, it's okay. It’s all going to be fine."

·༻𐫱༺·

Over the next few days, you see each other in every single class. Valarr has decided to start sitting next to you, staying closer than he’s ever been. Even the 64% in Constitutional Law has miraculously transformed into a 96%.

Sometimes, when you step out of class, he follows you. You spend those moments together, laughing and giggling in the quiet hallways. Whenever your hair falls into your face, he’s there to gently tuck the strands behind your ear.

Valarr starts showing up at the university library more and more- something he almost never did before. You constantly find yourselves trading glances, neither of you daring to speak a word in the heavy silence of the room. But every now and then, you sneak off to make out between the hidden rows of bookshelves.

Slowly, you realize you're actually falling for him. He’s charming, handsome, and unexpectedly devoted. Lately, he’s even started sending gifts to your house- thoughtful little things like chocolates, books- where he would mark certain sentences and words- and roses. Oh, how you loved those roses.

·༻𐫱༺·

One night, you get a text from him— at 2:00 AM.

Want to ft?

You don't hesitate and call him right away. He picks up quickly, and you hear his tired voice— it sounds deeper than usual, and hotter. "Uhm, so what's bothering you tonight, my prince?" you joke around, a smile spreading across your face. "Don't call me that," he replies. After a moment, he continues, "I can't stop thinking about you." A giggle escapes from your end of the line. "Oh, really?" your voice taking on a flirty tone.

You can hear Valarr breathe out before he answers, "All the time— I think about your eyes, your lips… about holding your waist." His voice triggers a deep, indescribable urge inside you. "Sounds pretty great for you," you say, trying to mask your nervousness with irony and humor.

"Should I come over? Then I can show you what's great." You can literally hear the smirk in his voice. "Why did you want to call, Valarr?" "No reason, I just wanted to hear your voice," is all he replies—and you start laughing like a girl who's head over heels in love.

"Tell me about your day." "Are you sure you want to hear it?" "Yeah, just talk," he replies, his voice calmer than usual. "I woke up with a terrible headache today, but it got better later, uhm, what else? The day went like any other Tuesday— OMG, I forgot to mention, that one chemistry professor was supposedly seen in a student's dorm. She claims it was for extra tutoring, but please—" your words suddenly cut off when you hear him breathing heavily. "Are you okay?" you ask, but he only answers, "Keep talking."

"Ehm—okay, where was I? Uhm, whatever, it doesn't matter. Other than that, I barely did anything. Tell me about your day, Your Highness." You try to deflect the conversation away from yourself; after all, nobody likes someone who's self-centered. "Uhm—my day was… okay— tell me more." Valarr's voice sounds different, shaky and out of breath, but you try not to pay too much attention to it.

"I don't think there's anything else— although… nope." "Shit—then just talk about anything," Valarr's voice sounds frustrated and desperate. "Are you sure you're okay?" You have absolutely no idea what's going on. "Yeah, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have raised my voice like that— please forgive me… I just love hearing your voice so much."

"You are forgiven, my prince—" "The next time we see each other—" "Then what? Are you going to send your chauffeur, Your Highness?" you laugh at the end. "Okay, since you're insisting so much, I want to see you again… preferably right now." "Should I come over?" he replies on the other end, but you can't take the question seriously since you guys are supposed to be sleeping, a little laugh escapes you.

"I'm serious, I could be at your place in 20 minutes," Valarr says before he gets up and throws something on. "Valarr, it's the middle of the night, won't your dad get mad or something?" "No, it'll be fine," he just says before hanging up and leaving you there completely confused.

"Fuck," you say as you jump up, clean your room a little bit, and get a little dressed up, a cuter pajama outfit, maybe some short shorts and a t-shirt. Shortly after, you already get a text.

I'm here

You don't hesitate and head to the front door, glad he didn't ring the bell, otherwise everyone would be awake. You see him standing there, his dark hair hidden under a hoodie, dressed completely in black. You grab his hand as fast as possible and whisper, "Shhh." Quietly, you try to sneak him into your room so that nobody finds out he's here and softly lock the door behind you.

"We have to be quiet, my mom is going to wake up in two hours to go to work," you whisper again, and he just nods. While he is still standing by the door, you have already moved to the middle of the room. Valarr can’t help but stare at you from head to toe— how beautiful your face looks in the moonlight, how soft your hair looks, and how you are standing there in your short shorts and bare legs. He can't help but let his mind wander to places he tries to push away.

He quickly turns away to look around your room— the pictures on the walls, the stuffed animals on your bed, all the open books scattered across your desk. "If you need tutoring—" he says with a teasing smirk, but you don't even let him finish. "If I ever need tutoring, you can be sure the world is ending," you fire back. He turns his entire body back to you and takes slow steps toward you, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him. Slowly, his other hand finds your cheek, tilting your head up to his level. "I missed you," he says, before bringing his face closer to yours, leaning in for a kiss, but stopping right before your lips touch.

You know exactly what he wants to hear. "I missed you too," you whisper, completely breathless. In that exact second, his lips collide with yours. His lips feels warm and soft— his body pressing closer and closer against yours. He smells so good, that's all you can process—a scent of warmth, his unnecessarily expensive perfume, and his body wash.

His hand wanders lower and lower, and you feel his palm rest against one of your butt cheeks, gripping it firmly, rough and fast. You can't help but groan into his mouth, your hand moving from his neck to his chest. You want so badly to keep going—to keep feeling your knees go weak and to keep those butterflies in your stomach—but you also know exactly where this is heading.

You gently push him away, breaking the kiss— both of you gasping for the air you lost while kissing. "What's wrong?" Valarr breaks the silence as he notices your expression. "We shouldn't..." you say, taking a step back and creating distance between you.

Valarr’s entire mood shifts instantly. You see something change in his eyes, his facial features, which looked so soft just seconds ago, harden. He doesn't take a step toward you, but the way he freezes his gaze on you now— like a predator calculating his prey's escape— makes the air between you practically vibrate.

"Why?" he asks. The word comes out dry and completely emotionless. He raises his hand and runs his fingers through his hair, pushing his hoodie back a bit. His face is now half in the shadows, only his eyes flashing for a moment as they wander down your bare legs and the tight top that rises and falls with every ragged breath you take.

"You lured me here in the middle of the night," he says, his tone so smooth that it hurts. "You kissed me. You showed me that you wanted this." He takes a step toward you. It isn't a rushed step, but a deliberate one. Your heels hit the edge of the bed. You can't go back anymore.

"And now you want to call it off?" he asks, a cold, thin smile curling his lips— one that has nothing to do with the man who was gently holding your waist two minutes ago. "You know exactly what I'm here for."

The realization hits you harder than the shock itself. He isn't here because he likes you. He's here because he can be. Because he thinks he can take whatever he wants just because his last name carries him through life. The anger inside you replaces the fear. It's a hot, stinging feeling that hits you in the stomach. He's just like every other spoiled guy— a hollow shell with a massive ego.

"Leave," you say, and even though your voice shakes, it is sharp enough to cut through the silence. "Get out of my room, Valarr. Right now."

A short, mocking scoff escapes him before he grabs you with a speed that takes your breath away. His hand closes tightly around your neck— not tight enough to cut off your air, but tight enough to strip away all your authority. He shoves you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sink onto the mattress. He towers over you, a dark shadow swallowing the remaining light in the room.

He leans down so low that his lips almost touch your ear. "Quiet," he hisses, a dangerous, calculated calmness in his voice that makes you tremble more than a scream would. "Your mom is sleeping right next door. Do you really want her to see what you're up to tonight?"

He doesn't loosen his grip— on the contrary, his thumb presses against your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His gaze is completely stripped of the warmth he was faking so convincingly just moments ago.

"Do you really think you have a say here?" he murmurs, and the smirk spreading across his face hurts worse than any blow. His eyes slowly scan your face as if evaluating the damage he just caused, all while using his body weight to pin you against the mattress so you can't move an inch. He is enjoying the power he has over you, and he knows damn well that in this moment, you have no choice but to stay still.

Hot tears collect in the corners of your eyes, burning like fire as they run unchecked down your temples and into the pillowcase. It isn't just the fear— it's this deep, bitter hurt because, for a second, you actually believed there was more behind his touch.

"Please..." you manage to choke out between sobs, your voice barely more than a tortured whisper. "Stop. Please, Valarr, let me go." You feel the tension in his body suddenly shift. He freezes above you.

An understated curse escapes him, almost sounding like self-hatred. He looks at you, and for a fraction of a second, a painful regret flashes in his eyes beneath the dark mask of obsession. He doesn't loosen his grip on your neck— instead, his fingers slide just a bit gentler across your skin, like a caress that stands in stark contrast to his harshness.

He leans closer until his lips brush against your ear. His breath is hot, and his voice is suddenly that soft, honey-sweet drug that lured you into this trap in the first place. "Shh, don't cry, princess," he whispers, and the contrast between those tender words and the fact that he is still forcing you down onto the mattress with his entire weight is absolutely disturbing.

“You know how much I hate it when you cry. Why do you have to make this so difficult for me?” With his free hand, he runs it over your arm, almost tenderly, while his thumb remains firmly under your chin, holding your head in place. He strokes you while simultaneously controlling you and keeping you trapped.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re like this,” he breathes, and the coldness in his eyes is now mixed with a frightening, almost manic affection. He wants to comfort you— he needs you to calm down again— but he has absolutely no intention of letting you go.

“Come on, breathe for me. Tell me you forgive me. Tell me that you belong to me, and I promise I’ll be very gentle with you.” “Say it,” he urges, his voice a rough plea that only tears you apart even more.

While one hand forces your chin upward so that you have to look at him, the other glides over your arm. His fingertips press firmly into your skin, traveling from your collarbone slowly over the neckline of your top. He takes his time, tracing the curves of your body as though marking a valuable piece of property that belongs to him alone.

Then he pushes the fabric of your top aside with a cold, precise movement. Your skin burns beneath his touch, a sharp contrast to the gentle way he strokes the back of your neck at the same time. You flinch, instinctively trying to twist away from beneath him, but he reacts immediately. His knee slides between your legs, pressing you deeper into the mattress and taking away any room to move. He uses his weight to pin you completely while his free hand finds the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He completely ignores your renewed sobbing. “You belong to me,” he murmurs against your neck, and his lips leave a hot trail along your jaw that almost feels like a kiss, but something far more possessive. “You have the scholarship, you have that place at the school— all of it belongs to me. And that’s why,” his fingers now push deeper beneath the fabric of your shorts, searching for your bare skin, “you belong to me too. You have no choice but to enjoy this now.”

He feels your resistance, but instead of stopping, he presses his body even more heavily against yours. He enjoys the power he holds over you in that moment. He caresses you while humiliating you, and the cruelest part is that he acts as though he’s doing you a favor.

“Stop,” you force out, your voice breaking as you try to press your knees together.

But he only laughs softly— a dark, amused sound that seems almost too loud in the silence of the room.

His hand finds its way, relentless and demanding. He ignores your attempts to fend him off completely. When he enters you without any warning, you let out a muffled cry that you immediately bury in the pillow, terrified that your mother in the next room might hear something. The violation you feel is almost physical, a shame so deep that you feel as though you might lose your mind.

At first he moves slowly, as if testing you, as if wanting to see how long you can keep fighting against yourself. Your hands clutch at the fabric of his hoodie— you want to push him away, want to struggle against him, but your body betrays you.

The stimulation is too much, too direct, and against your will your nerves begin to respond to him. The anger that had driven you moments before starts to drown in a wet, hot haze. Your breathing becomes shallower, faster. Your resistance—which had been the firm clenching of your legs—begins to fade. Your muscles relax, your hips lifting involuntarily to meet his rhythm.

It happens so quickly, so overwhelmingly, that you do not even notice how you have changed. Your head falls back, a soft whimper escaping your throat as the wave crashes over you. You are so lost in this physical betrayal that you fail to notice how the hands that had just been trying to push him away are now digging into his back, pulling him closer.

When you finally tremble, your head pressed firmly into the mattress, and only then does he slowly and triumphantly bring you to stillness, the room is utterly silent.

He lowers himself onto you, pressing his forehead against yours and breathing heavily. You feel his smile against your ear before he speaks.

“Well, look at that,” he whispers, his tone pure poison, a mixture of mockery and cold satisfaction. “You fought so hard that you didn’t even notice how wide you opened your legs for me. You stopped fighting before I was even finished.”

He pulls back slightly, only so he can look directly into your eyes. The expression on his face is triumphant, almost pitying, as though you are putting on some sad performance.

“How does it feel, princess?” he asks quietly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “To know that your body is so much more honest than your mouth?”

A burning hatred floods through your body, hotter and more intense than the shame that had paralyzed you moments before. You gather the last scraps of your strength, clench your hands into fists, and shove him away with all your strength. Surprised by the sudden resistance and caught up in his own sense of victory, he actually rolls backward.

You seize the moment to retreat like a wounded animal to the other end of the bed, clutching the blanket to your chest like a shield.

Valarr lands on his feet, standing there like a black silhouette in the darkness. He seems unnaturally relaxed. As he casually adjusts the erection in his sweatpants beneath the black fabric with almost arrogant self-assurance, a short, dry laugh escapes him.

“Fuck you,” you manage to say.

Your voice is hoarse, little more than a trembling rasp, but in the silent apartment it sounds like a hammer blow.

Valarr pauses. His laughter fades—not because he is offended, but because he has lost interest in teasing you. Now things are serious.

He takes a step toward you—not aggressively, but with the slow, threatening calm of a man who knows he holds all the cards. One hand braces against the mattress as he leans over you until his face is so close that you can smell the sharp scent of his cologne mixed with the stale sweat of the last few minutes.

“You can throw as many insults at me as you want,” he whispers, and his tone is now ice-cold; every trace of tenderness has been erased from his voice. “But think carefully about who will be standing there tomorrow at school when this gets out. Your scholarship? One word from me to the administration and you’re out before you can say ‘no.’ And your mother…”

He pauses theatrically, studying your reaction. “It would be a shame if her life suddenly became just as complicated as yours, simply because you can’t control yourself.”

He brushes your cheek with his index finger, a gesture so condescending that it makes you want to vomit. He enjoys the absolute helplessness in your gaze. He knows he has you.

“Sleep well, princess,” he murmurs, and his voice is once again that sweet, cruel honey.

He leans forward one last time. You freeze, expecting a kiss on your mouth, your neck— somewhere that will hurt. Instead, you feel only his lips, brief and almost reverent, against your forehead.

Then he turns away and disappears into the darkness as silently as he came, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of your room.

husband!Aerion x wife!Reader (Headcanons)

summary: A glimpse into the marriage between Aerion and you, except he’s sick and cruel.

p.1, p.2

cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion, strong language, manipulation, power imbalance, mentions of cheating, abusive relationship, emotional and physical abuse, public humiliation, intoxication, fluff and angst

wc: 1.1k

Husband!Aerion, who provides the kitchen staff with your fabrics and commands them to use them right in front of you during dinner, to clean dirty spots on the table and on the floor. Your noble material, which you bought yourself, being used for filth.

It takes you a moment to look Aerion in the eyes— it is clear that he is behind this action, your eyes already tearing up and your lips sorrowfully pressed together.

"Well, I thought your fabrics could be used for something better, no?" he says as he puts food into his mouth, his eyes smiling along with his grin. Everyone at the table is looking at you—Maekar, who already has a headache just looking at his son; the two girls, who don't know what is going on and the brothers, who are too deep in conversation to pay you any attention.

You only nod and look back down at your plate, your only task now to hold back the tears as you feel how warm your face is becoming and how dry your throat is getting.

·༻𐫱༺·

Wife!Reader, who sometimes sneaks into the kitchen and sends the servants away when she thinks Aerion is out hunting. Hoping to bake in peace and alone, making a pastry her mother taught her—wearing an apron to keep her dress clean from stains.

Your hair is pinned up high, and your hands are covered with flour and bits of egg as you slide the pastry into the brick oven.

Husband!Aerion, who has been standing there for ten minutes, watching you peacefully decorate your cake with strawberries and cream.

Husband!Aerion, who cannot help but stand there as if hypnotized, his heart growing warmer and beating faster at the sight of his wife looking like this. This feeling confuses him inside and stirs up a strange anger.

Wife!Reader, who turns around to the other counter to reach for the honey, only to see Aerion standing by the door. Jumping back in fear, Aerion giving you small heart attack. Freezing on the spot, you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"So this is what my wife does when I turn my back for a few hours? Playing the kitchen maid?" Aerion says in a dangerous voice as he walks down the short steps, coming closer and closer to you.

In fear and panic, you try to fix the situation by offering him a piece of your pastry. Aerion takes it from your hand, brings it to his mouth, and takes a bite. You wait anxiously for his reaction, wondering how he will like it—after all, you have received many compliments for this recipe. But the piece does not stay in his mouth for long, he spits it onto the floor and says, "It tastes of ash and desperation." The rest he throws to the ground.

Husband!Aerion, who forces you to clean up everything all by yourself while he watches you. He makes you scrub the floor of the entire kitchen on your hands and knees. The cake, of course, he threw into the trash. Yet Aerion cannot help but still feel the delicious taste of the pastry on his tongue.

·༻𐫱༺·

Wife!Reader, who sometimes catches herself watching Aerion as he trains down in the courtyard. Aerion, sensing her presence, puts extra effort into fighting impressively—delivering extra hard strikes with his sword and bringing every single knight to the ground.

You see him sweaty and out of breath after the training session, and you simply cannot help yourself from staring. At the very end, he unexpectedly lifts his sword in your direction and points the blood-stained tip right at you—meaning to say, I know you were watching me, without ever speaking a single word.

·༻𐫱༺·

Husband!Aerion, who wakes you up in the dead of night to make you search for the lost ring of his late mother. Wife!Reader, who has never seen him in such a panic before, Aerion being on the verge of tears and hyperventilating.

Everything in your room is turned upside down, all the furniture, blankets, and papers left in complete chaos. "Did you perhaps leave it in the courtyard?" you suddenly ask, but Aerion, trapped in his panic, looks at you with angry, red eyes. "No!" he screams out. After a while, he sits down on the bed, burying his face in his hands. "I had it on right here last," he whispers softly now.

Slowly, you step toward him with caution. When you stand before him, you place your hand on his shoulder. Aerion takes his face out of his hands and looks up at you, his eyes filled with tears. You press his face against your chest—Aerion's arms find your waist and pull you tightly against him, holding you like he never has before as he sobs his heart out in your arms.

·༻𐫱༺·

Husband!Aerion, who secretly tries to ply you with drinks one day, giving you an extreme amount of wine to get you drunk. By the time you walk back to your bedroom, he practically has to carry you, holding you up so you do not crash to the floor. Aerion deeply enjoys your loose manner and the things you blabber out while intoxicated. "One would think Lord Ronnel had a stick up his arse," you say between gibberish and groans as Aerion lays you onto the bed.

Husband!Aerion, who cannot help but grin at your state and the things coming out of your mouth. He sits on the edge of the bed and starts pulling off his boots when your arms suddenly find his neck, wrapping around him from behind. "You smell sooooo good," you say happily, burying your nose into his neck and peppering it with soft kisses. Aerion’s grin widens even more at the feel of your gentle lips.

"You must tell me your secret, I want to smell like that too," you keep rambling, while one of your hands slips into his hair, gently scratching his head.

Husband!Aerion, who turns his whole body around to face you and pins you down onto the mattress with full force, making you let out a loud laugh. He begins to place a flurry of soft kisses all over your skin, moving from your face down to your chest. Wife!Reader, who feels far too tired because of the heavy drinking and closes her eyes under his gentle touch. When Aerion sees you closing your eyes, he lets out a sigh but shows understanding, moving over to his side of the bed.

Wife!Reader, who cuddles up close to him and pulls her head down to his chest. "I love you," she lets out as a final whisper before falling into a deep, comatose sleep. Aerion, looking at her in genuine surprise, presses a tender kiss against her head, wrapping his arm securely around her body.

The next morning, you wake up with a terrible headache and cannot remember a single thing— but Aerion remembers everything.

husband!Aerion x wife!Reader

p. 2

summary: No matter how desperately you sought to vanish into the shadows, to carve out some small corner of safety away from his presence, Aerion would not suffer your absence. The moment he sensed you pulling away, his possessive fury sparked anew.

cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion, strong language, manipulation, power imbalance, mentions of cheating, abusive relationship, choking, non-con(p in v), manhandling, fingering(f!receiving), angst

wc: 2,3k

No, you could not bear the sight of Aerion, not after the shame he had heaped upon you. Yet after but a single night spent away from your marriage bed, he found you and dragged you back by force. Your protests echoed through the halls of the castle, but Aerion paid them no heed. And in truth, no soul in Summerhall was brave enough to stand against his wrath.

"Aerion, you are hurting me!" you cried, your voice shrill as you tried to anchor your feet like lead upon the stones. You even struck at him, but it availed you nothing.

And so you were cast back into your chambers in the dead of night. You had found such peaceful slumber beside your lady, but Aerion had seen fit to ruin it—ay, for that was his purpose.

He released your arm with a violent shove, sending you stumbling until you collapsed upon the bed. Like a man possessed, he paced the floor, his mind churning with thoughts of how to handle you. In his eyes, your defiance demanded a penance. Suddenly he stopped, pointing a finger toward you. "Why must you always be so difficult?" he asked after a long, heavy silence.

"Why? Because I refuse to suffer your slights in silence?" you shot back, rising from the bed with a sudden surge of spirit. You crossed your arms, setting your jaw to show him you would not be broken. Yet even as you stood your ground, the mere sight of him brought the ache back to your chest—the memory that he had welcomed another woman into his bed. That thought alone was a dagger to your heart.

He looked right through you, well aware of the wound he had dealt. He saw you searching his eyes for even a glimmer of guilt. You longed for an apology, a vow that he would never stray again. Instead, he did the very opposite, closing the distance between you with slow, measured steps.

"Did you truly believe a piece of embroidered silk would make me fall in love with you? That I would fall to my knees at your feet?" he asked, his voice dripping with scorn. "I have no need for a wife who gifts me such rubbish. Next time, save your time for something of worth." He pressed closer still, his shadow looming over you. "It seems your craft is wasted on a man who cannot even recall the color of your eyes once he’s not in the same room with you." His voice grew dark and hollow at the end, shattering what little remained of your heart.

You stood rooted to the spot, frozen and humiliated by his words. You tried to tell yourself he did not mean it—that it was merely the venom of the moment—but the sting remained.

You pressed your lips thin, the corners already tugging downward in a mask of grief. "What is it in me that you loathe so? Was it not your own hand that proposed this match to our fathers?" Your frustration boiled over, plain for any to see— your voice shook with desperation as you gestured wildly. Aerion merely shook his head with slow deliberation, his hand coming to rest upon the hilt of his dirk, leaning his weight against it.

"You possess a clouded memory wife," he said, lifting a finger to point at you as if you were a wayward child. "I grew weary of my father’s constant harping that I must wed, so I chose the creature nearest to hand. I chose you."

Your mouth opened as if to scream, then clamped shut just as quickly. You longed to rail against him, to howl your fury, but no sound would come. Instead, you stood before him, shocked and utterly alone. After a long, hollow silence, you gave a small nod, biting at a nail as you cast your gaze to the floor to avoid his eyes.

You brushed past him toward your dressing screen to change for the night, you were a prisoner here, forced to share this room once more. Aerion’s eyes followed your shadow as you disappeared behind the silk. He had expected more—he had hungered for a grander spectacle of screams, blows, and fire. Seeing you retreat so quietly left him feeling strangely hollow.

You donned your thin nightgown, quickly wiping a stray tear away with a scrap of linen. As you approached the bed, you tried to pull your presence inward, to be the silent, dutiful wife the world demanded. "Have you forgotten something?" Aerion’s voice cut through the quiet. He pointed a finger toward his boots. Of course—he expected you to disrobe him as if you were naught but a common servant.

You hesitated for a heartbeat before moving to the other side of the bed and sinking to your knees. Aerion looked down upon you as you worked at the laces, his boots caked with the mud and filth of the tiltyard. You pulled them free at last and set them aside, your eyes never once rising to meet his.

Aerion rose from the bed with a slow, predatory grace, leaving you small and broken at his feet. The air in the chamber grew heavy, thick with the scent of guttering candles and the sharp tang of his cooling rage. He reached out, his hand hovering for a heartbeat before his knuckles grazed the pale skin above your shift. Your mind reeled in the suffocating silence, you could not fathom this sudden, haunting ghost of tenderness from a man who, moments before, had treated your very soul as dirt.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and brimming with unshed salt, and the sight of you in such a lowly state kindled a dark fire behind his gaze. He thrived on the height of his own shadow, and seeing you—kneeling, trembling, utterly beneath him—fed a hunger he could not name. His fingers wandered upward, tracing the line of your throat with a touch so light it was almost a promise, moving to your chin before his thumb came to rest heavy against your bottom lip.

By instinct, your mouth parted, a shuddering breath escaping your lungs. Aerion’s eyes remained fixed on your lips, dark and unreadable. His pulse began to hammer against his skin, his body stirred with a cold, possessive heat at the sight of you, so seemingly ready to yield.

But then, the realization struck like a blow to the chest—this was the very dance he had shared with her. The same touch, the same cruel lure. Sickened, you scrambled to your feet, desperate to put the width of the room between you. You turned to flee, but you were not fast enough. Before you could take a second step, he lunged.

One hand clamped around the column of your throat while the other coiled like an iron band around your waist, snatching you back. A sharp, stifled cry broke from you as your back was slammed flush against his chest, your hips pinned hard against his. Your hands flew to his arm, clawing at the fine wool of his sleeve in a blind panic.

"You do not deny me what is mine by right," he hissed into the nape of your neck, his jaw set so tight the words seemed to grate like stone on stone. You thrashed in his hold, your shoulders heaving in a desperate bid for air and freedom.

"Release me!" you gasped, your voice cracking.

"If you continue to writhe like a landed eel, I shall give you a far greater reason to weep," he warned, his voice dropping into that low, terrifying rasp that signaled the end of his patience. Only then, beneath the crushing weight of his shadow, did your struggle begin to fade, leaving only the frantic, terrified drumming of your heart against his palm.

Aerion turned your head with deliberate slowness, tilting your chin to bare the vulnerable column of your throat. His mouth found your skin, branding you with heavy, urgent kisses. A wave of dizziness washed over you, a sudden vertigo so intense that your weight shifted, your body leaning into his for support against your own volition.

"You belong only to me," he breathed against your neck, his arms tightening around your frame until the embrace bruised.

"But you do not belong to me," you whispered back, the words thin, hollow, and utterly forsaken. He paused for a fraction of a heartbeat. For a fleeting second, you thought your words had struck home, but he simply ignored the plea, burying his face back into your skin as if you had not spoken at all.

His hand slid down, slipping beneath the fabric of your nightgown. His rough palm brushed over your breasts, his fingers finding your nipples and pulling at them with a sharp tug. A sudden spike of sensation shot through your veins, leaving your knees weak and trembling.

Before you could gather your senses, he forced you down onto the biting cold of the stone floor, pressing your front flat against the flags. He shifted his weight behind you, pinning your thighs beneath him. With a harsh yank, his hands tore through the delicate linen of your gown, exposing you to the frigid air of the chamber.

He pushed your small-clothes aside, his gaze lingering upon you with a dark, heavy intensity. His thumb began to stroke up and down, touching you with a possessive rhythm. Straddling you, his hands planted firmly on either side of your torso, he kept you trapped. The sheer helplessness of the position—unable to see what he was doing or what he would do next—sent a shiver of fear through your chest. Yet beneath the terror, a betrayal of your own flesh stirred; after so much neglect, the raw certainty that your husband still desired you in this brutal fashion brought a confusing rush of heat.

With a fluid motion, Aerion slipped two fingers inside you. They slid in easily, finding you already slick and yielding to his touch.

"Stop," you gasped, a sound that emerged more as a pained groan than a command. You reached back blindly, your hand clawing at his wrist to push him away, but he was too quick. He seized your hand, pinning your arm roughly against your lower back, and continued his rhythm.

"Do you like this, wife?" he murmured, his fingers striking a precise nerve that caused your eyes to roll back in a sudden surge of euphoria. You buried your face into the stone floor to stifle the shameful noises escaping your throat.

A moment later, the friction stopped. You heard the rustle of his heavy wool and the slide of his breeches as he withdrew his fingers. Aerion spat onto his palm to slick his length, dragging his hand over himself a few times before pressing the blunt head of his shaft directly against your entrance.

The moment you felt the burning heat of him, panic seized you. You thrashed against the floor, twisting your torso in a desperate bid to turn around and halt him. "No," you breathed, scrambling for leverage.

But he cut off your escape, pinning you down into the cold stone with a punishing pressure before driving forward with a swift, violent thrust of his hips.

A strangled scream tore from your throat as he broke into you. Your toes curled tightly against the floor, and a dark blackness fringed your vision from the sudden shock of pain. "Aerion, please—" You wanted to beg him to be gentle, to show some mercy, but the agony locked your jaw, robbing you of the words. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over your cheeks as your muscles locked tight.

He was merciless and unyielding, pulling almost entirely out only to drive back in with heavy, bruising force. From behind you, you could hear nothing but his low, animal grunts and the rasp of his breathing. He leaned over you, his hands planted by your shoulders, his chest slamming against your back with every relentless stroke. His face pressed flush against your cheek, his skin hot and slick with sweat.

"You are mine," he hissed through clenched, grinding teeth, his breath scalding your ear. "Only mine."

Despite the tearing pain, a dark, confusing craving began to twist in your belly. Your heart ceased its frantic fluttering of fear, instead, it hammered against your ribs with a frantic, desperate longing for the touch. Your fingers and legs began to shake uncontrollably, your nerves stretched to their absolute limit.

In your daze, you did not realize you were crying out, letting slip soft, broken whimpers with every thrust. The sound caught Aerion's ear. He reached down, brushing the damp, tangled hair from your face, and began to press wet, frantic kisses across your cheeks and jaw.

"Only mine. Say it to me," he growled, his fingers tangling into your roots, pulling your head back to force the submission.

"Only yours," you sobbed into the dark room. The words were a weeping confession, a dam breaking under the weight of pain, lust, grief, and unexpressed rage.

Hearing the vow tore something loose inside him. A desperate heat flooded his veins, and his pulse skyrocketed. His movements lost all semblance of control, becoming fast, frantic, and disorganized. With a sharp groan, he suddenly pulled out of you, grasping himself with a swift, desperate hand. A moment later, his warmth spilled across the small of your back, leaving you shivering on the stones.

He did not offer a cloth to clean you, nor did he reach down to help you up from the freezing floor. Instead, Aerion simply stood, adjusted his clothes, and wiped his hands with a piece of linen. He nudges your hip with the front of his foot—not a kick, but a casual, degrading tap, the way a man might nudge a dead pig to see if it’s still alive.

"Get up," he commands, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of the rasping desire from before. "You look pathetic."

When you cannot move, your muscles locked in shock and the tearing pain between your thighs keeping you pinned to the stone, he scoffs.

a/n: listened to “born to die“ by Lana Del Rey while writing this btw.

brother!Maekar (22y) x sister!Reader (18y)

summary: The hatred between you and Maekar ran deep since childhood. When your parents summoned the three of you— Baelor, Maekar, and yourself— demanding that you travel incognito to the high, icy seat of the Eyrie to spy on treacherous whispers, the forced proximity only added fuel to the fire.

cw: 18+ (mdni), strong language, choking, targcest, a whole lot of yearning, physical abuse

wc: 4,3k

You were Maekar’s junior by four turnings of the sun, the youngest of your house and the only maid born to your parents. From the very hour of your birth, you had stolen his place as the babe of the family—or so it seemed in his bitter eyes.

Between the two of you, a perpetual war had been waged. If Maekar spoke "A," you marched directly toward "Z." If he was granted some favor, you made certain to wring something grander from your lord father. One might truly say Maekar loathed you, and the feeling was mirrored perfectly in your own breast. You despised his very manner, the arrogant way he bore himself, his silver-white hair and those cold, lilac eyes. You hated the breadth of his shoulders and his towering, imposing frame.

When you were a maid of but six years, he had shoved you onto the hard stones of the Red Keep with such savagery that your face struck the flags, chipping a small piece from your front tooth— a tiny blemish, barely noticed by the court, yet a constant reminder to you.

But you were no helpless lamb, your own blood ran hot with revenge. Years later, under the shroud of a dark and silent hour while he lay deep in slumber, you had crept into his chambers to carve a deep wound into the palm of his hand— a jagged scar he would carry with him to the end of his days.

·༻𐫱༺·

Several hours past, at the breaking of fast, your parents summoned an audience. Once the evening meal was concluded, they wished to speak with Baelor, Maekar, and yourself—the only children of their blood still residing within the walls of King’s Landing.

On your way to the dining hall, you spied your brothers walking together toward the doors. Quickening your pace to match their stride, you wedged yourself between them, pointedly jostling Maekar aside with your shoulder.

The three of you entered the room to find your lord father and lady mother seated at the far end of the board. "Good evening," you greeted them, stepping forward to press a kiss upon each of their cheeks before taking your customary seat—beside Maekar, and diagonally across from your eldest brother, Baelor.

"A raven reached us but a short time ago, bearing word of a brewing rebellion in the Vale," your father began, his voice grave. "It is but a rumor for now, yet it must be met with steel and caution." He paused, turning his frame toward the three of you. "I desire for your brother to travel there." Baelor, of course—it was always Baelor. "And you shall go to offer him support, stand by your brother’s side and lend him your sword." Your father’s gaze shifted to Maekar, who gave the sharp, dutiful nod of a loyal son. "As you command, Father."

Finally, his eyes fell upon you. You sat in confusion, unable to fathom what part you were to play in such grim business. "We wish for you to accompany your brothers, so it does not appear as a cold political takeover. You are to travel incognito, none must suspect you are there to watch and spy. Is that understood?" Your brothers nodded in unison, but you remained overwhelmed by the news. Only fools would dare raise a hand against your father’s peace.

"You shall be granted a retinue, of course—your usual sworn shields and a few extra blades who have pledged their lives to the crown. And you," your father said, looking back to you, "shall have the leave to take three of your ladies-in-waiting."

Baelor suddenly interjected, "And what of Jena? May she come?"

Your father turned away, leaving your mother to answer. "She has duties here, and she cannot well leave the children. To bring her and the little ones would be a risk too great to bear."

Like a well-trained hound, your brother accepted the decree. In your heart, you cursed him and his unyielding obedience. Your mother reached out, squeezing Baelor’s hand with a reassuring smile, while you leaned back in your chair, shaking your head in silent frustration.

"You shall remain there until we have proof of treachery. I shall keep in constant word with you by raven, so you have naught to fear," your father declared in his most commanding tone, his back still turned to the room. "Lord Donnel Arryn will be honored to host you."

The moment the audience was dismissed, you were the first to rise. You practically fled the room, your blood boiling. You were no longer a green girl, and it rankled you to be dragged into these ploys when you should have been seeking a lord worthy of your hand. Yet, as the youngest and a woman of the blood royal, it was not your place to complain—only to obey.

·༻𐫱༺·

By galley you made the voyage to the seat of Lord Donnel—four full days confined in cramped quarters with a sea of men. By the grace of the Seven, you had the foresight to keep your ladies within your cabin, refusing to share your rest with common soldiers. Each night, the anchors were dropped along the coast to rest—a precaution of your father’s, lest the shroud of darkness bring you to grief.

On the third night, you stirred within your narrow berth, the air below deck thick and stifling. Seeking reprieve, you made your way toward the main deck. Your sworn shield, standing the night watch, met you with a stern gaze. "I seek only a breath of fresh air and shall return anon," you murmured.

With hushed steps, you ascended, loath to rouse the rest of the ship. The biting night air struck your bared throat and seeped through the thin fabric of your shift, which offered little protection against the chill. The world was a wall of black, save for the flickering glow of sheltered candles placed along the gunwales.

In the distance, you spied your brother sitting solitary upon a bench, his back turned to you. Even in the gloom, his pale Targaryen hair was unmistakable. You crept toward him, intent on startling the very life from him—to give him a fright he would not soon forget. Yet your footsteps did not go unheeded, he had been bred for war, after all. In a blur of motion, he spun around, stepping back as he bared the dagger at his hip. The sudden violence of his movement made you flinch, but once he recognized you, you merely rolled your eyes, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of your fear.

"Why are you above deck?" he demanded, his voice hard and laced with distaste. He sheathed his blade slowly, straightening his frame.

"Am I forbidden?" you countered, not waiting for an answer as you brushed past him.

"Bold of you, considering I could end your life here and now without a soul being the wiser," he remarked, his tone dripping with cold confidence. "I could toss your corpse overboard and let the narrow sea have you."

"Do not bore me with your unreachable fantasies, brother," you sighed, turning back to face him.

"And what in the name— are you wearing? Did the guards see you like this?" He wrinkled his nose in disgust, his eyes raking over your form. Your only response was another weary roll of your eyes. "What of it?"

"You look like a whore— and a desperate one at that," he spat, his voice thick with loathing.

"I am certain you have had enough encounters with such women to know the look well," you replied with a mocking tilt of your head, making no effort to hide your contempt.

"Do not tempt my wrath at such an hour, you insolent wenge," he growled, sinking back onto the bench. He pointedly avoided your presence, refusing even to glance your way, his thoughts were far too clouded, too poisoned by your proximity. "Go to bed," he added, his voice dropping to a calmer, though no less dangerous, level.

But you did none of those things. Instead, you lowered yourself to his level, sitting so close that your bodies nearly brushed. He let out a long, weary sigh, clearly vexed by your persistence. You intended to needle him until he reached his breaking point. Slowly, you reached for his belt and drew out the very dagger he had used to threaten you moments before. Maekar’s hand clamped violently around your wrist, but you leaned in. "Let go, or I shall see how well this steel bites," you whispered. To your surprise, he released you.

You pulled the blade close to examine it—a beautiful thing of red and black, finely wrought and forged specifically for your brother’s hand. You stared at the steel before lifting your eyes to his, he was already watching you, his gaze calculating, trying to discern the madness behind your eyes. "It seems I am the one who holds your life in the balance now, brother," you murmured.

In a heartbeat, he snatched the weapon back. "You have never held a sword in your life, let alone a blade—"

"Have I not?" you countered, reaching out to grasp his left hand, forcing him to remember the scar you had once left there.

With a sudden, violent motion, he seized your arm and swung you toward the ship's rail. He slammed your back against the wood, pinning you so far over the edge that your feet no longer touched the deck. The dark, rushing water of the sea waited below. Maekar’s hand pressed against your throat—not enough to choke you, but enough to hold you utterly still. You clawed at the rail with one hand while the other hung uselessly against his wrist. Your hair tumbled over the side, fluttering in the salt wind. The chill of the night air raced across your skin, and you felt your body betray you as your chest tightened and your nipples hardened under the thin silk.

He did not fail to notice. His gaze traveled the length of your form—the sharp curve of your waist as you leaned back, and the press of your lower belly against his. You gasped for air in short, jagged bursts, while he remained terrifyingly still.

He brought his face closer to yours, forcing your back even harder against the biting wood of the rail until a sharp pain shot through your spine. Looking into those cold, hard eyes, you truly believed, for a fleeting second, that he meant to end it all and cast you into the deep. He was shockingly near, you could feel the heat of his breath upon your skin, his nose mere inches from yours. Then, with a final, crushing pressure on your throat, he shoved you away, casting your body hard onto the deck.

Your head struck the wood with a sickening thud, a blow that would surely leave a constellation of bruises in the days to come. Without a word, Maekar turned and strode toward the stairs, his pace frantic as he fled your sight. He was white-hot with rage—not at you, but at himself—furious that he had let you see how easily you unstrung him, and how fiercely his body had burned at the touch of yours.

Reaching the lower deck, he came upon your sworn shield standing guard. Without warning, Maekar struck the man with a closed fist, a blow so heavy it sent the guard reeling. "Never let her out of your sight again," he hissed, his own knuckles bloodied from the force of the strike, before disappearing into the shadows.

·༻𐫱༺·

By now, you had been ensconced within the castle for several days. You and your ladies shared a single chamber, while Baelor and Maekar took each one. For days, you had scarcely heard a whisper from either brother— you left them to their grim business without interference, choosing instead to seek whatever amusement could be found. Truth be told, such a task was easy, when one considered you were trapped inside a colossal mountain of stone. There was nowhere to wander—the entire fortress felt claustrophobic and suffocatingly narrow, its windows perched six thousand meters above the valley floor, the rooms biting cold and darkened by the heavy mountain weather.

Not even the chatter of your ladies could rouse you from the dull misery of your confinement. You would be a liar to say you were content with this stay.

In that very hour, you sat upon your hearth-bed in absolute quiet, lost in the pages of a tome. A sudden rap at the door broke the silence. "Enter," you called out, clear and sharp. Your sworn shield stepped inside to deliver a command. "Prince Baelor requests your presence. Horses and carriage are being made ready for a journey—"

"A journey? Where to?" you interrupted swiftly.

"The Prince expects you before the sun dips below the peaks," the guard replied, offering no further light on the matter.

As ever, you had no choice but to obey. You packed a few garments—thick furs for the chill, lighter wools for the valleys—completely blind to your destination. You knew Baelor would never breathe a word if the matter were deemed a secret, he hoarded mysteries closer than any man alive. But perhaps that idiot knows, you thought to yourself.

You made haste toward Maekar's quarters, hoping to catch him before he departed. "I would speak with my brother," you told the guards posted at his threshold. They merely bowed their heads and stepped aside. As the heavy door swung open, you found him near the bed, folding his own traveling gear.

"Has Lord Donnel denied you the use of his servants?" you scoffed, breaking the quiet.

"What is it you want?" was all he offered, not even bothering to turn his back to you.

"I wish to know where we are being led, so that I might ensure I have packed what is required."

"I know no more than you. Do you truly believe our brother would share his counsels with me?" he muttered.

You let out a sharp, murmuring grunt of agreement, your eyes wandering idly about his chamber. Every small detail caught your attention, until your gaze froze upon the bedside table. There, catching the dim candlelight, lay a beautiful, glittering earring. It was not his. No, such a delicate piece of finery belonged only to a lady of taste.

You stepped closer to the bauble, your mind instantly painting a picture of why it lay in his bedchamber. "I see you have enjoyed fair company these past few nights," you said. Your face remained a mask of cool indifference, but your voice was thick with an undercurrent of disgust and fury. As Maekar finally spun around to face you, you snatched up the earring and hurled it straight at his face. It missed his eye by a mere fraction of an inch as he jerked his head aside.

You were fiercely, unfathomably angry, far beyond what words could convey. While you had spent days languishing in a cold, dark cell of a room, this wretch had been taking his pleasure with some castle maid? Without waiting for him to speak, you turned on your heel and swept out of the chamber as fast as your feet could carry you.

Maekar stood frozen, registering what had just occurred a moment too late. Yet he was none the wiser for it— for what could it possibly matter to you who he chose to welcome into his bed?

·༻𐫱༺·

When the hour came to set out, Baelor saw fit to sequester you within a carriage, he knew all too well that to place you and Maekar side by side upon horseback would bring him naught but an unyielding headache. Within the span of a single day, your company arrived at your destination, greeted by some local castellan whose name you did not care to learn. Refusing to bide for the hollow pleasantries of court, you swept directly past him. Maekar let out a heavy, dark sigh, earned by a sharp glance from Baelor that silently commanded him to mind his tongue. Behind you, your ladies-in-waiting exchanged bewildered looks, uncertain whether they ought to follow in your wake or remain until the lord finished his address.

You had grown thoroughly sick of this venture—sick of the secrecy, sick of being moved across the board like a silent pawn at your family’s whim.

By the third evening, you broke bread in the great hall alongside the castellan and a flock of highborn youths—sons and daughters of lesser lords sent there to foster and learn the ways of the nobility. The air here was entirely distinct from the suffocating gloom of Lord Donnel’s keep, the company was far more vibrant, the laughter loud and unburdened.

For the occasion, you had arrayed yourself in a gown of striking crimson—the color of your house, cut with a neckline far more daring than any your parents would have suffered within the Red Keep. Absent their watchful eyes, the silk did precisely what you intended. The gaze of a handsome young lordling across the board remained fixed upon you, and you could not help but return his glances with a coy smile, to call him ill-favored would have been a lie.

Beside you sat Maekar, a mountain of tension, his jaw set as though he were trapped in some agonizing mummer's farce. One of his large hands gripped his wine chalice so fiercely his knuckles turned white, while the fingers of his other hand dug into his own thigh, nearly drawing blood through the wool. He could not bear the sight of your blatant amusement—least of all when you were arrayed in such a manner.

When the young lordling laughed at some jest made down the table, Maekar seized his moment to strike. "Ah, a joyous sound, is it not?" Maekar murmured, his lips curling into a false, mocking smile. "It brings to mind the first occasion our sister was taken from our mother's side. She spent the better part of the turn of the moon weeping into her linens."

The humiliation was instant. Your bright disposition vanished as a ripple of laughter went round the table. Shamed into silence, you could not bear to lift your eyes from your trencher, your ears burning hot and red. Baelor caught your crestfallen look and felt the sting of your pain, yet to speak in your defense would mean openly insulting his brother before a foreign court, so he remained silent.

"I give you fair warning, my lord," Maekar continued, leaning toward the young lordling with a low, venomous chuckle. "Do not waste your courtly graces. After a single night of marriage, she would be scrambling back to the Red Keep to hide behind Father's skirts."

You did not stay to hear the rest. Rising abruptly from the board, you offered a clipped word to your host. "My thanks for the meat," you said, your voice tight, before storming out of the hall.

That miserable, wretched bastard, you thought, fury overtaking the shame in your veins. He could not suffer you to have even a moment of joy, he had to ruin it, to drag your name through the dirt before everyone. Instead of retreating to your own chambers, you made a sharp turn down the corridor, demanding the location of Maekar's quarters from the guards posted in the gallery. He would pay for this slight.

Once inside his bedchamber, your rage took hold. You set to work, mercilessly upturning his belongings. You tore the heavy blankets from his hearth-bed, scattered his armor pieces, and pulled his fine doublets from their chests, taking a blade to the fabric and treading upon the ruins with your slippers. You wanted to ensure that nothing remained untouched by your wrath.

In the height of your fury, you found his velvet pillow in your hands. Your breathing slowed, and without a thought, you drew the fabric to your face and inhaled deeply, wondering if his skin bore the same sharp, masculine scent of smoke and steel. You held the cloth against you far longer than you should have, pressing it tightly to your chest. You could not fathom the strange, sudden ache that bloomed within you, yet you found yourself unable to stop.

The heavy thud of footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Startled, you cast the pillow back onto the bed and spun around just as the door swung open.

Maekar strode into the room, his eyes falling first upon you, then traveling over the absolute ruin of his chambers. A fresh, dark wrath kindled in his lilac eyes, mixed with a profound confusion.

You stood amidst the wreckage, a sweet, triumphant grin breaking across your features. "Only a gentle reminder, brother," you said, your tone deceptively tender, "to ensure you remember who holds the leash."

"You insolent little whore," Maekar hissed through clenched teeth. He lunged forward toward the shredded garments scattered across the floor to survey the damage, and taking advantage of his distraction, you darted past his shadow and fled into the safety of the dark corridor.

·༻𐫱༺·

For the next three nights, the castle became a battlefield. You and Maekar went at each other’s throats with a vicious, unyielding intensity. No matter the setting—whether breaking bread in the great hall or passing each other in the narrow stone corridors—every word spoken between you was laced with venom, every look a silent vow to make the other suffer. You went out of your way to torment him, and he returned the favor twofold.

The relentless hostility did not escape Baelor’s notice. Weary of the endless headache and fearing your constant warfare would compromise their cover, the eldest prince secretly dispatched a raven to King’s Landing. He begged your parents to intervene, at least to send a stern reprimand to Maekar, commanding him to bring his sister to heel and mend the peace before the whole Vale caught wind of the Targaryen family feud.

The royal decree must have arrived with the morning tide.

"Baelor— pray, tell this little dwarf that I have no desire to speak with him," you declared, your gaze fixed pointedly away from Maekar, who sat mere inches from you. Your stubbornness had taken hold of you once more, sharp and defiant. Before Baelor could find his voice, Maekar intervened with a snarl. "Brother, would you kindly inform this little shrew that Mother commanded this conversation and that I find her company every bit as loathsome as she finds mine?"

The insult bit deep, forcing your head around to glare at him. Baelor sat trapped between you, looking utterly besieged and uncertain where to cast his eyes or his loyalties.

"Tell him," you hissed, your voice dripping with venom, "that if he utters another word, I shall shove this fork so far up his arse that it emerges from his mouth."

The threat had barely left your lips when Maekar surged upward. His palm slammed against the heavy oak table with a crack like thunder, and his chair screeched violently across the stone floor. You recoiled at the sudden noise, your heart hammering as you met his burning, wrathful stare.

Before another word could be spat, or before Maekar could bridge the distance between you, Baelor’s hand struck the table with enough force to rattle the silver. "Enough!" he roared, his patience finally frayed to nothing. "I am weary of the both of you! Mend your peace or nurse your grudges, I care not—but you shall drag me into your squabbles no longer. Is that understood?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving the air trembling in his wake. Baelor had suffered your bickering until his head throbbed, and he would endure it no more.

Silence rushed back into the hall, leaving you and Maekar alone in an atmosphere so thick it felt like a physical weight. "Well done, you fool," you whispered under your breath, shifting the blame to him to soothe your own frayed nerves.

Maekar looked as though he wished to wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze the very life from you. He clamped his jaw shut, fighting back a retort that would surely have brought the walls down. As he turned to leave, he reached out and gave a sharp, vicious tug to a strang of your hair—a final, stinging parting gift—leaving you to let out a sharp cry of pain as he vanished through the doors.

Maekar pursued Baelor with hurried strides, desperate to overtake him and swear that he had made an honest effort at peace. But before a single word could pass his lips, Baelor raised a hand, a sharp command for silence that froze Maekar in his tracks. Baelor halted in the center of the gallery, finally allowing his younger brother to draw near.

"I understand that you find her company difficult—truly, I do, though I love her with all my heart. But you must be the elder in spirit and cease rising to her every taunt," Baelor began, turning his full frame to face Maekar. His voice dropped to a low, knowing murmur. "I see the way you watch her, brother. I mark the way your eyes linger upon her." He paused, searching Maekar’s face. "If it is your heart’s desire to take her to wife, speak of it to our father. He would be willing to—"

"Have you lost your wits?" Maekar erupted, his voice harsh and echoing with a sudden, jagged fury. "I might as well wed the Great Other himself and let my remaining years be bled dry! I’ll have no part of such a union."

Baelor merely shook his head, a weary smile tugging at his mouth as he turned to continue his way. "You shall live to rue those words, brother. Mark me well," was all he offered before vanishing into the shadows of the hall.

He left his younger brother standing alone in the cavernous silence. Maekar stood still for a long moment, unable to purge his mind of Baelor’s words—or the unsettling truth of the glances his brother claimed to have seen.

a/n: guys trust me there will be eventually some smut