And, besides, it wasn’t as if you’d tried to kill him. He had way too many guards for that and way too paranoid for that. But, really, you didn’t need it. His heavy smoking habit already did its job for you. You just had to wait, even if it took a long time.

“As his wife, I’d expect a certain amount of concern for your husband’s smoking habit.”

You stiffened at the sound of Zandik’s cold and haughty voice. Or one of his segments. It was hard to tell. Out of all the Harbingers he could’ve collaborated with, Feofan just had to choose him. And, worst of all, Zandik liked to drop by the mansion unannounced, partly to check up on you.

Scoffing, you gripped your arms and looked away to stare at the snowy yard through the floor-to-ceiling window.

“As someone who’s observed humans for centuries, you should know that smokers are hard to warn unless they’re on the verge of death.”

“True.” he agreed, strolling into the living room with his hands clasped behind him. “But it’s still your duty as a wife to help your husband to the right path, no? Unless…”

You tried to ignore the sound of his footsteps stopping behind you.

“… you’re waiting for his death.”

The grip on your arms tightened.

“Have you ever thought that maybe it’d be pointless to warn him?”

“Love blinds people to the reality. Even if they do resign to their partners’ unhealthy habits, they’ll still possess some concern for their health. While you? Well, you look like you’re waiting for it.” Slowly, Zandik leaned forward and whispered in your ear. “Playing the long game, [Name]?”

You froze.

“Nonsense!” you snapped, turning around to scowl at him. “He’s an adult, so he can take care of himself without anyone pestering him.”

Zandik straightened up and smirked.

“Indeed he is. And I’m sure you know that he’s a very ambitious man, which extends to his life.”

Your stomach dropped in apprehension.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Most of the Harbingers possess a long lifespan. And with him as the one who holds Snezhnaya’s economy in his hands, there’s no way he’ll let something as mundane as a human natural lifespan to stop him.”

Your scowl deepened. So their collaboration ran further than a simple funding for his experiments. Turns out, Feofan was a part of his experiments too.

Just like you.

Was this why he decided to marry you, because he thought he found some kind of a twisted solidarity? Or was it purely because he knew that you had no home to run to and no power to fight back?

“What did you do to him?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Zandik said, waving his gloved hand dismissively. “Just replacing his dysfunctional lungs with sturdier ones, among other things.”

By the Archons, you hated him. You hated them so much you wanted to scream.

But you couldn’t, because you were a good wife. Even if they both knew you weren’t.

“I see.” you replied through gritted teeth.

“Won’t you thank me for saving your husband’s life?” he purred. “After all, without his protection, you’ll be helpless and homeless. Then, you’ll be forced to return to me.”

You took a very deep breath as if it could extinguish the rage within you. You had to remember that Feofan, no matter how possessive he was, was a bit better than Zandik.

“… Thank you, Doctor.”

Zandik smiled in approval as he caressed your cheek, reminding you of all the times he rewarded you with affection whenever you pleased him.

“Good girl. I knew I left you in good hands.” He mused. “Your presence stabilizes his mood, you know. And, as such, he’ll be lenient to my funding.”

You watched him turn around, the glowing cord on his left shoulder swaying slightly.

✴︎ 209 AC

THE AFTERNOON HEAT in Lys clung to the skin like damp silk, thick with the scent of salt wind drifting in from the sea, crushed rosewater from the perfumed courtyards, and incense curling lazily from a hundred painted temples. The air shimmered against pale marble walls, soft and luminous in the sun, as if the whole city had been carved to be looked at rather than lived in. Yet none of it felt real to you. In your mind, the world smelled of rain and smoke and the sea. Of wet stone streets, damp castle halls, and fires burning late into cold evenings. It smelled like the sort of place where important things happened.

You sat upon the old wooden swing in the center of the courtyard, its ropes creaking softly each time you pushed yourself higher with the tips of your slippers. Your dark green skirts fanned around your legs like spilled ink, brushing against the pale stone beneath you.

But your attention was fixed on the strip of sky above the rooftops.

“I am to be married,” you announced suddenly, unable to contain the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, your sister paused midstroke while brushing out her hair. She stared at you with immediate suspicion rather than excitement.

“Who,” she asked carefully, “would marry you?”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back against the swing ropes, letting yourself sway lazily. “A prince of fire and blood,” you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We shall spend our evenings reading poetry by candlelight while musicians play in the next room. He will understand me entirely. We will speak of philosophy and history and make the court less dreadful than it is.”

She snorted. “You make him sound like a savant.”

“He is not a savant,” you replied with mock offense. “He is a prince.”

“Yes, but is he aware we are poor?” she asked flatly. “Truly poor. Not tragic-poetry poor. Actual poor. Father died owing money to half of Lys. We still even need to water down the wine.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “That is beneath his concern.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Prince Aerion and I are to concern ourselves with finer matters.” You hopped down from the swing, smoothing the creases from your skirts before lifting your chin with practiced dignity.

The silver brush slipped from her fingers and struck the stone with a sharp crack. For a moment she only stared at you.

Then, very quietly, she said, “Prince Aerion?”

You smiled wider. “Yes.”

“The Targaryen prince?”

“Yes.”

“From Westeros.”

“Yes, from Westeros.”

The color slowly drained from her face.

“The ravens arrived this morning,” you continued brightly, crossing the courtyard toward her. “Mother accepted immediately, of course. By the end of the year I shall be in King’s Landing. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.” You clasped your hands together. “Doesn’t it feel strangely destined?”

“No,” she answered at once.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting your head back toward the sky. “You are determined to ruin this for me?”

“They do not even have dragons anymore,” she snapped, stepping closer now, her voice tightening with unease. “The last one died years ago. Westeros is cold and filthy and full of miserable lords killing each other over chairs. And the prince…” She hesitated. “I’ve heard things.”

“From whom?”

“Merchants. Sailors from King’s Landing. Men who know better than to invent stories about princes.”

You brushed past the warning without care. “Sailors invent stories for sport.”

“They say he’s cruel.”

“And people said Father was clever,” you replied lightly. “The world exaggerates.”

She looked unconvinced.

You turned away before she could continue, lifting your face toward the blazing evening sky. Somewhere beyond the sea was Westeros. Somewhere beyond the horizon was a prince with silver hair and violet eyes and a destiny grand enough to pull you from this gilded, decaying life at last.

“If there are no dragons left,” you mused, “I suppose I shall simply have to hatch one myself.”

She stared at you as though you had finally lost what little sense you possessed.

“You cannot hatch a dragon.”

“Why not?” You asked ridiculously.  

“Because dragons are dead.”

You shrugged. “So were we, practically.”

For the first time since the conversation began, genuine fear crossed her face. Without another word, she bent quickly to retrieve her fallen brush and hurried toward the house.

“I am finding Mother,” she muttered under her breath. “She has completely lost her mind.”

Aerion Targaryen was absolutely losing his mind.

He stood beside the tall arched window of the great hall, watching the Blackwater glitter darkly beneath a veil of grey cloud, one hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword as though it alone was preventing him from saying something unforgivable. In his other hand sat the problem itself. A letter.

Its seal had already been broken hours ago, yet Aerion still held it like he might somehow strangle better news out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. Its contents were simple enough to feel insulting.

A marriage.

No. Not just any marriage, an arranged match with a daughter of some Lysene house clinging to old Valyrian pride it no longer truly held. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had not asked for this. He would not pretend otherwise. Westeros had its customs, its alliances, its endless games of blood and crown—but there were lines he did not intend to cross without reason. 

A prince of the dragonlords should not be bound to someone who did not carry their look, their blood, their unmistakable mark of Valyria. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The old fire, faint but undeniable. 

It was not sentiment. It was sense. 

His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window.

He would not be paraded through courts beside a bride who looked like a foreign ornament—pretty, perhaps, but wrong. 

And alas! You paraded into the throne room smiling. Actually smiling. The doors of the great hall opened with all the usual dreadful ceremony, guards standing straighter than necessary while servants scrambled uselessly around your luggage. Aerion watched the entire thing from beside the Iron Throne with the exhausted disbelief of a man witnessing a public execution and slowly realizing he was the one being executed.

You walked into the hall looking pleased with life. 

No!

Absolutely not!

Gods… you looked so delighted. The sight alone offended him. 

Your dress swept over the stone floors in soft sea-green silk, expensive enough to suggest House Rogare had once been rich and stupid rather than merely stupid. Gold thread shimmered at the sleeves. Pearls hung from your throat. Your dark curls had half-fallen from their pins during the journey, though you either had not noticed or did not care.

Dark hair. Aerion stared harder. Green eyes. He felt his right eye twitch. Now he felt personally insulted by both. 

You stopped in the center of the hall and looked up at the ceiling with genuine wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.

Aerion glanced upward too. It was a ceiling.

“You look taller in your portrait,” Aerion remarked flatly the moment you approached. The hall felt still and you blinked once, clearly uncertain whether you had been insulted yet. 

“Oh.”

Aerion lazily glanced toward one of the guards nearby. “Send her back. Find me a tall one.”

Aerion’s eyes flicked sideways just in time to catch the pointed look his father sent him from beside the throne. Maekar merely narrowed his eyes in warning, the expression of a man very clearly imagining the satisfaction of striking his son across the back of the head in front of the entire court and deciding against it only because foreign ambassadors were present. But Aerion could only justify his words by pointing at the snorting courtiers lazily– “See? Funny.”

You smiled politely in the careful way people did when they were not entirely certain whether the prince was joking or truly his words were no jest.

“I see.”

“I’m kidding,” Aerion said. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.” 

“Oh,” you said politely. “Very amusing.” It was not convincing.

The maester—Gladys, and very likely the sole architect behind this catastrophic match, stepped in quickly, no doubt sensing yet another disaster beginning to unfold before the previous one had even settled.

“Prince Aerion, may I present Lady—”

“Yes, yes, the bride,” Aerion interrupted. “I gathered.”

You stepped forward then, bright-eyed despite everything that had already occurred. Aerion stepped back all the same, his eyes moving over you from head to toe like he was already finding faults.

“I wished to bring something from Lys,” you explained warmly. Aerion’s mind immediately went to Lysene courtesans. Lys was famously full of them. Or worse—poetry. Music. Some sort of embroidered love token. Gods. Aerion suddenly regretted existing.

But instead, you reached carefully into your sleeve and withdrew a tiny spruce branch wrapped delicately in ribbon. Not jewels. Not a book. But a fucking twig. 

You held it out to him with both hands.

“I present this branch of spruce,” you said warmly. Aerion looked at the branch. Then at you. Then back to the branch again. Seven Hells!

“It is an evergreen,” you continued earnestly, entirely unaware that several grown men nearby were visibly fighting for their lives trying not to laugh. “I hoped it might symbolize our feelings toward one another. That we shall remain caring and faithful all our lives.”

Aerion took the branch between two fingers as though it might stain him. 

“She gave me a twig,” he observed quietly. 

Aerion tilted his head slightly. “She’s not inbred, is she?”

The maester nearly swallowed his own tongue. “There has been no indication of—”

“I assure you,” you cut in quickly, chin lifting with a sudden dignity, “I am entirely of sound mind, Your Grace.” And you were. You also very nearly said something about how funny it was for a Targaryen to be asking that question in the first place. Very nearly. But you did not.

Aerion considered this. The evidence currently suggested otherwise. You brightened again anyway.

“I also wished to thank you for your letter.”

The man frowned immediately. “My what?”

“The letter you sent to Lys,” you continued. “The one speaking of devotion and companionship.” Your expression brightened almost painfully. “It was beautiful. I read it several times aboard the ship.”

Aerion stared blankly for a long moment. Then he looked towards the maester. Said maester suddenly became fascinated by the floor. 

“Oh,” Aerion said slowly. “That letter.” 

“You wrote it, did you not?” you asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Yes,” Aerion said, as if recalling something mildly inconvenient. Your face, already bright, lit further at the answer, as though this confirmed something deeply meaningful. How utterly naive. 

“I hoped,” you continued carefully, “that perhaps our love might grow slowly. Like a flame becoming large enough to warm an entire kingdom.”

Aerion nearly recoiled. Love. Gods above, help him. You really believed him. He exhaled through his nose. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Your smile faltered for the first time. Only briefly. Then returned again with terrifying optimism.

“And I hope I shall make you happy,” you said sincerely.

Aerion stared at you as though you had personally invented inconvenience. “You’re perfect,” he replied flatly. 

The maester abruptly stepped forward before the conversation could collapse any further into disaster, hastily announcing that the wedding would take place on the morrow. Gods. As though there were any risk of you fleeing in the night. You looked far too pleased with all of this. 

A young woman stepped forward from the line of servants and bowed her head. Meriel, you thought her name was—though truthfully, you had barely listened when the maester introduced her. Your attention had remained entirely fixed on the prince before you. Or rather, on the very obvious fact that the prince was looking absolutely anywhere except at you.

The windows. The banners.The Iron Throne. Or that one specific crack in the floor that suddenly seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Anywhere.

It should have embarrassed you, perhaps. Another girl might have wilted beneath it. But you had not crossed the Narrow Sea expecting instant devotion. Marriage, especially royal marriage, surely required patience. Time. Understanding.

And Prince Aerion, you were beginning to suspect, might require an impossible amount of all three. Still, you smiled.

He still did not look at you.

One of your Lysene servants stepped nervously forward beside the luggage, a pretty thing with blonde curls and nervous eyes. She had spent the entire journey seasick and terrified of Westeros.

Aerion glanced toward her absentmindedly while adjusting his gloves.

“You’re pretty,” he remarked casually.

The girl blinked, startled, before flushing pink. “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”

You stared at him. Ah. You thought slowly. So it would take a great deal of time.

Aerion, meanwhile, had already grown visibly bored with the entire exchange. He turned away with the restless air of a man abandoning an event halfway through because it had failed to entertain him quickly enough.

“I must tend to my whores,” he announced.

A loud throat-clearing echoed through the hall.

Aerion barely paused.

“…Horses,” he corrected lazily. “Horses.”

Several courtiers lowered their heads immediately, shoulders shaking with poorly hidden laughter. “Going riding,” Aerion added with a dismissive wave before disappearing out of the hall entirely.

Meriel led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep while servants hurried ahead carrying trunks that had absolutely not survived the voyage gracefully. Somewhere behind you, one had burst open entirely, scattering silks across a staircase and nearly killing a guard.

The keep itself felt colder inside than it had from the courtyard below. Not merely in temperature, but in spirit. Long stone halls. Narrow windows. Tapestries heavy with dragons and dead men. Still, you smiled as you walked.

“He seems lovely,” you said softly.

Meriel glanced at you.

“Mm,” she replied carefully. “Aren’t you gorgeously optimistic?”

You laughed under your breath. “It has been said.” Your fingers brushed lightly over the stone wall as you walked beside her. “I simply believe there is no other sensible way to be.”

Meriel made a small sound that suggested she strongly disagreed.

—

The wedding itself passed in a blur of incense smoke, candlelight, and exhaustion.

You scarcely remembered entering the sept. Only the weight of eyes following you down the aisle, the sound of your skirts dragging softly over stone, and Aerion standing at the altar looking like a man attending his own execution. Beautiful, unfortunately.

The septon droned on endlessly while Aerion looked bored enough to die from it. When the vows were finally spoken and you were presented to the court, your heart leapt despite yourself.

“Presenting Prince Aerion Targaryen and his wife—”

You smiled brightly and opened your mouth to speak.

“It is a—”

“No,” Aerion interrupted without even looking at you. “You don’t talk, my love.”

A stunned silence followed. “Oh,” you said after a moment. “Of course.”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed very violently into their sleeve. Aerion looked entirely pleased with himself.

Then, as if suddenly remembering he was expected to behave like a husband for at least one consecutive minute, he gestured lazily toward the side doors of the hall.

“So,” he announced, “a wedding gift for my new wife seems in order.”

The doors opened. And into the hall lumbered an enormous bear. You gasped. A real bear.

The court erupted into chaos almost immediately. One lady shrieked. A knight stumbled backward into a candelabra. The animal itself looked equally confused by the entire arrangement.

Aerion smirked faintly at your expression.

“You wrote in your letters that you wished to see one.”

You stared at the beast with open amazement. “You remembered?”

“No,” Aerion answered honestly. 

The bear sneezed violently onto a nearby lord.

You thought it was wonderful.

—

By the time you finally reached your chambers again hours later, half the candles had already burned low.

Your gowns had been unpacked incorrectly. One of your necklaces was missing. A servant was crying quietly in the corner over a broken perfume bottle.

“Oh,” you said distractedly while searching through a trunk, “they’re somewhere, I’m sure.”

Meriel stood nearby watching the disaster unfold with the calm expression of someone already accustomed to royal households collapsing around her.

“Princess,” she said carefully, “where are the rest of your clothes?”

You looked around vaguely.

“An excellent question.”

Then you smiled suddenly, almost breathless.

“Me. A married woman.” You sat carefully at the edge of the bed, touching the fabric beneath your fingers like you still scarcely believed any of it. “How I dreamt of this.”

Meriel’s expression softened slightly.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly. Then, after a pause: “Madam… if I may speak plainly.”

“You may.”

Meriel hesitated.

“You do know what to expect tonight?”

You looked up at once, mildly offended.

“You suppose me more naïve than I am.”

“She explained it to you?”

“My mother explained everything.”

Meriel looked unconvinced already.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, repeating it carefully from memory.

You spoke with complete sincerity.

“The man caresses you softly, pressing his lips to yours.”

Meriel blinked once.

“Your breasts and skin awaken and shiver with palpitating joy.”

Meriel blinked twice.

“Between your legs quivers and moistens with longing. He enters you and you become one.”

Meriel stared at you in silence.

“Your bodies meld, your souls mesh. As a sensation takes hold of you, you fall into a black sky filled with the shiniest of stars.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “You float for a time in ecstasy, before waves of pleasure push and pull you back into your body.”

Meriel’s face had gone completely blank.

“Your body ushers forth yelps, and sometimes song, before he and you explode within, collapsing together, spent and unified.” You sighed dreamily. “Then you lay together, laughing softly, weeping occasionally with ecstatic joy, and finally, he wraps his arms around you, whispers poetry softly into your ear, and you fall into a… delicious sleep.”

A long silence followed.

Meriel nodded slowly.

“…Yep,” she said at last. “That’s pretty much it.”

You smiled, reassured.

Outside your chamber windows, the storm clouds over Blackwater Bay deepened into night. Candles burned lower. Servants slowly disappeared one by one.

You waited.

And waited.

Aerion never came.

Months passed after the wedding. An astonishing amount of absolutely nothing had occurred within the marriage.

You and Aerion had been moved south to a smaller palace not far from Summerhall, supposedly for peace, privacy, and “the strengthening of the marital bond,” which sounded lovely in theory and deeply embarrassing in practice considering your husband still treated your existence like an administrative inconvenience.

The palace itself was beautiful, at least. Warm stone walls, open gardens, olive trees twisting beneath the sun, and fountains that actually worked, unlike the ones in King’s Landing that smelled faintly of death.

You spent your mornings wandering the gardens with books you never finished because you were too busy imagining dramatic future conversations with Aerion where he suddenly realized you were enchanting and regretted everything.

These conversations never occurred in real life. Mostly because Aerion was never there.

He hunted constantly. Rode constantly. Hosted drunken dinners for men who laughed too loudly and broke furniture. Once, he returned at three in the morning carrying an injured falcon and demanding a maester because “the bird understands him emotionally.”

The falcon died and Aerion mourned for nearly two days.

You considered poisoning him on the third.

At court dinners, he would sometimes remember you existed and stare at you with vague surprise, as though you had appeared suddenly from the walls.

“Oh,” he’d say. “Wife.” 

Once, during supper, he had pointed at you with a fork and asked a servant, “Does she always sit there?”

You had thrown a grape at his face. He looked delighted by it for reasons that still irritated you deeply. 

And then there was the matter of the marriage bed. Or rather, the complete and ongoing absence of it. Weeks passed, then months– nothing. Not even an attempt. Which would have been less humiliating had the entire palace not clearly noticed.

Servants noticed and servants talked. One maid fainted dramatically after discovering untouched marriage sheets and whispered something about curses. Another began leaving fertility charms beneath your pillows.

At first, you wondered if perhaps Aerion was shy. Then you remembered he was physically incapable of shame. 

So eventually, you decided to take matters into your own hands. It had seemed reasonable at the time. 

You had spent nearly an hour preparing yourself beforehand, which now embarrassed you deeply in retrospect. You wore a softer gown. You brushed perfume oil against your wrists. You even practiced appearing casually alluring in the mirror, though midway through it you realized you mostly looked constipated.

Still determined, you walked to Aerion’s chambers yourself. No husband could possibly ignore such effort.

And for one glorious moment, when the guards opened the doors without question, you truly believed things were finally about to improve. Then you walked inside.

And found Aerion entirely naked, beneath the Lysene servant he had once casually called pretty the day you met. 

A long silence followed. Aerion looked up from the bed. Blinking slowly. Not even ashamed but merely inconvenienced. 

“Oh,” he said.

You stared at him.

The servant stared at you, and looked ready to leap directly out the window. 

Aerion looked between the two of you with visible irritation, as though you had interrupted him. Then, somehow making the situation infinitely worse, he leaned back lazily against the pillows and glanced between the two of you like this was a mildly awkward dinner arrangement rather than marital betrayal.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you like”

You left before murder became politically difficult to explain.

Behind you, you vaguely heard Aerion sigh in annoyance, as though you had been the difficult one in this situation.

You had had enough. Enough that you stopped waiting for footsteps outside your chambers at night. Enough pretending this marriage was merely delayed instead of rotten at its center.

Divorce was impossible. You knew that much.

Escape, however—

Escape remained an option.

You found Meriel before dawn while most of the palace still slept. Candles burned low along the corridors, their flames trembling each time wind slipped through the stone passageways. Meriel looked startled seeing you awake so early, though the expression disappeared quickly once she saw your face.

“I want to leave,” you told her quietly.

Meriel stared at you for a moment. “Leave where?”

“Away from here,” you replied. “Anywhere else.”

Meriel lowered her eyes.

“I need a large traveling trunk,” you continued, voice steadier now that the decision had finally been spoken aloud. “And a carriage. Something discreet enough not to invite questions.”

Understanding settled over her face slowly.

“You mean to flee.”

“I mean to survive.”

For a moment, Meriel looked almost sympathetic. Then she nodded once.

“I shall arrange it.”

But later that same morning, Meriel went to Aerion instead.

She found him in the training yard watching two knights beat each other senseless while he drank wine far too early in the day. Sunlight flashed against the practice swords each time they collided. Aerion barely looked at her when she approached.

“How is she?” he asked lazily.

Meriel hesitated only briefly. “Unhappy.”

“Hmm.”

“She wants to leave.”

That earned his attention. He hummed, “you want something in return.”

Meriel straightened slightly at that, speaking with a confidence that sounded practiced rather than natural.

“My father was stripped of his lands for siding with the Blackfyres years ago. My family lost everything. Our titles. Our place at court.” Her hands tightened together. “I have served loyally ever since.”

Aerion tilted his head slightly.

“You want your status restored.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Then, unexpectedly, Aerion let out a short laugh beneath his breath and lifted his goblet vaguely toward her.

“Gods,” he murmured, almost impressed. “You’re awful.”

—

The trunk was prepared before sunrise the next morning. Reinforced oak, iron latches, large enough to pass for travel storage without inviting suspicion. You climbed inside before the courtyard fully stirred awake, heart pounding painfully against your ribs while the lid shut heavily above you.

Darkness swallowed everything. And for a while, relief almost overtook fear. The carriage moved steadily beneath you. Wheels against stone. Horses breathing hard. 

Distance growing with every turn. You were leaving. Finally.

But then the carriage stopped.

And you felt the trunk— the trunk you were in being carried. You shoved hard against the lid. Locked. And then you heard water. Cold seeped through the bottom edges of the trunk while the men carried it farther. Panic struck instantly, violent and absolute.

“No,” you gasped, throwing your shoulder hard against the lid. “No—!”

The trunk sank lower.

Freezing water rushed through the cracks faster now, swallowing the remaining air inside in brutal gulps. Your hands slipped against soaked wood as you shoved desperately against the lid, panic turning your thoughts into something sharp and senseless.

Above you, the voices had gone quieter. One of the men laughed nervously. Another muttered that perhaps this had gone too far.

Then silence.

For one horrible moment, you truly believed Aerion had left.

That this was how it ended, not with greatness or love, but alone in darkness inside a wooden box because your husband found cruelty entertaining.

Above the waterline, Aerion watched the lake for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a bored sigh, he turned his back as if preparing to leave entirely.

The men shifted uneasily beside their horses. One looked pale. Another muttered a prayer to the Seven beneath his breath.

And then suddenly—

Aerion laughed.

“Oh, Gods,” he said between amused breaths, turning back toward the lake. “You thought I was serious.”

The men stared at him. Aerion grinned broadly now, gesturing lazily back toward the shore. “Bring her back before she actually dies.”

Relief visibly swept through the soldiers so quickly. They rushed forward immediately, dragging the trunk back toward land with frantic urgency. The moment it struck the shore hard enough, the weakened latch snapped open completely.

You spilled out with it.

Water poured from your soaked gown as you collapsed onto the mud choking violently, coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. Wet curls clung against your face while the world spun sickeningly around you.

Above you stood Aerion.

Dry and perfectly composed.

One hand rested lazily over the hilt of his sword while amusement still lingered openly across his face. You looked up at him with absolute hatred. Aerion only smirked.

Then, as though this had all been a mildly entertaining interruption to his afternoon, he turned toward his men.

“Come along.”

The soldiers immediately began mounting their horses again. And just like that, they left you there. You walked back to the palace alone.

Soaked shoes scraping against dirt roads. Wet skirts heavy around your legs. Your entire body trembling. By the time you returned to your chambers, you already knew.

Meriel. Of course it had been Meriel. And worse— Aerion had not even granted her what she wanted. No restored titles. No lands. No reward.

The realization hollowed something inside you completely.

That night, your chambers were unusually quiet. You sat before the mirror still wrapped in blankets, staring numbly at the knife resting across your lap while candlelight flickered weakly against the walls.

Meriel stood nearby. At some point, she glanced toward the blade and asked mildly, “Would you like a cake with that knife, Princess?”

You let out a humorless laugh.

“Do not try to stop me,” you said quietly. “Just leave me be.”

“I would not presume to speak,” Meriel replied at once, folding her hands neatly before her. “For the Princess is so smart and book-readingly that I am certain her judgment must be sound.”

You looked down at the knife again.

“I am resolved.”

Meriel nodded once and turned toward the servant boy lingering nervously near the doorway.

“Fetch a bucket for the blood.”

The poor boy blinked. “Yes, miss.”

“And towels too,” Meriel added calmly. “There may be some overflow.”

“What am I to do?” you whispered instead. “Just live forever at someone else’s whim?”

“God forbid.”

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the knife.

“I truly believed,” you admitted quietly, “ever since I was a child… that greatness waited for me somewhere.” Your voice shook slightly now, though whether from anger or heartbreak you no longer knew. “A great life. Something important. Like the gods Himself placed me here for a reason.” You stared blankly at the candlelight trembling across the room. “That I was meant to change something.”

Meriel was silent for a moment.

Then softly:

“Why did he make you a woman, then?”

You let out a hollow laugh beneath your breath.

“For comedy, I suppose.”

And so, months later, breakfast with Aerion had become less a marital routine and more a daily exercise in surviving each other.

You sat across from Aerion beneath the open arches of the summer dining hall while servants moved quietly between tables carrying fruit, fresh bread, and wine.

Aerion looked half-awake, dressed lazily in black riding clothes, one boot unlaced.

He stabbed violently at a pear.

“The Ashford Tourney begins next week,” he announced suddenly. “You’re coming.”

You blinked once. Then coughed delicately into your sleeve and Aerion looked up immediately. You coughed again, but weaker this time.

“Oh dear,” you murmured sadly. “I fear I may be terribly ill.”

Aerion stared at you blankly. Then rolled his eyes.

“Tragic.”

You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. “I believe it may worsen if exposed to excessive sunlight.”

“How brave of you to battle through it during breakfast.”

You ignored him with dignity.

Aerion leaned back in his chair, watching you with open annoyance.

“You do realize people will ask questions if my wife refuses to appear beside me.”

“Then tell them I died.”

“That would create paperwork.”

Aerion stood abruptly, already bored with the conversation. And then paused.

He glanced toward your stomach.

“You’re not pregnant yet, are you?”

Silence.

You narrowed your eyes slowly. “Aerion,” you said carefully, “you have not stepped foot inside my chambers since the moment we married.”

He blinked once. As though genuinely forgetting this detail. Then his face twisted slightly with irritation.

“Annoying.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

Annoying?

Annoying?

Aerion was already pulling on his gloves.

“We should probably do something about that eventually,” he muttered distractedly.

“You think?” You shot him a sharp look across the table. “What a groundbreaking conclusion.”

Aerion finally glanced at you properly for the first time that morning, the inside of his cheek pressed lightly beneath his tongue as he studied you with lazy irritation.

“You’ve been in a terrible mood lately.”

You laughed in disbelief. “Lately?” 

“Yes.” Aerion blinked. 

“I walked into your chambers months ago and found you naked with another woman. Then you nearly had me drowned in a lake.”

“And I offered to include you,” he pointed out immediately, gesturing vaguely in your direction like this had been an act of staggering generosity on his part rather than insanity. “As for the lake, that was clearly a joke.”

“A joke.”

“Yes.”

“You sealed me inside the trunk.”

“You survived.”

“You watched me drown.”

Aerion frowned slightly at that. “That feels dramatic. You were underwater for hardly any time at all.”

You stared at him.

“And besides,” he continued, now sounding faintly offended himself, “I came back.”

You shut your eyes briefly. Enough.

Instead, like an angry child trying very hard not to throw something, you planted both hands flat against the table and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him for even another second. 

Aerion sighed through his nose, already irritated by your irritation.

Then he waved vaguely over one shoulder as he started toward the courtyard.

“Later.”

The moment he disappeared through the arches, your composed expression collapsed entirely.

“I hate you,” you muttered venomously into your wine.

Life within the small palace quickly settled into an exhausting rhythm of endless feasts.

Aerion hosted them constantly.

The halls filled night after night with second sons of noble houses and young knights who had little to inherit but still too much pride to behave accordingly. Men who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth order, had little to do besides drink themselves stupid, chase women through corridors, lose fortunes over dice, and wake the next morning only to begin the cycle again.

They clung to Aerion all the same.

Not out of affection, he was too sharp, too unpredictable, too openly violent when irritated for that— but because he funded the entire arrangement. The wine, the food, the horses, the tours, the endless indulgence of it all. Aerion paid for their comfort, and in return they laughed at his worst remarks on command. Because if Aerion said something once, and then repeated it slowly while glancing at the room, it meant they were supposed to laugh.

Even when it wasn’t funny.

Especially when it wasn’t funny.

While they drank themselves into stupors below, you found your escape elsewhere.

The library.

It became yours almost by instinct.

Quiet, tucked away from the noise of feasting, it smelled of dust, old parchment, and forgotten ink. Most of the palace ignored it entirely, which suited you perfectly.

Most afternoons, while the men stumbled around the courtyards half-drunk and shouting at one another, you remained hidden among the shelves with a book open across your lap.

You had always loved reading.

Your mother used to tell you that knowledge was the only thing in this world that could not easily be taken from a woman. Knowledge meant power, she would say while correcting your Valyrian translations at the dinner table. And power meant importance. Change.

You had carried those words with you across the Narrow Sea. Held onto them tightly.

Because despite everything; the miserable marriage, the endless feasts, the loneliness of this strange country, you still believed you had been meant for something more than sitting quietly beside a prince while men spoke over you.

You wanted to do something that mattered.

And near the edge of the nearby village, just beyond the palace grounds, sat an old abandoned cottage slowly collapsing into itself beneath climbing ivy and years of neglect. You wanted to turn it into a school. Not for noble girls. Noble girls already had tutors and books and futures decided for them.

You wanted a school for girls who had nothing at all. Girls who could not read their own names. Just a place where girls could learn to read without asking.

And with that thought, you swallowed your pride. The next morning, you joined Aerion on a hunt.

It was not an invitation so much as you appearing beside him as he mounted his horse, which he regarded with immediate suspicion. 

“You’re coming?” he asked.

“I would like to see the forest,” you said simply.

He stared at you for a long moment as though trying to determine whether this was an inconvenience or a threat. Then he shrugged, already losing interest.

“Fine.”

The hunt itself was chaos.

Aerion, however, was in a rare good mood— amused, and almost tolerable. The kind of mood where asking him for anything felt marginally survivable.

So when the ride slowed briefly, you took your chance.

“There is something I would like to do,” you began carefully.

Aerion did not look at you. “That sounds expensive.”

“It is not—”

“Everything is expensive,” he cut in.

You hesitated.

Then, quietly, “There is an abandoned cottage near the village. I would like to turn it into a school.”

“Do what you want,” he said, already bored, adjusting his reins. “Just don’t make it inconvenient.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “It’s a cottage.”

A pause.

Somewhere behind you, a hunter laughed too loudly at something Aerion had said earlier and then immediately laughed again, louder, as if reminding everyone it was supposed to be funny.

Aerion rode on without waiting for your response.

And just like that, it was done.

No discussions. No debate. Just permission given carelessly, like throwing coins at a beggar to make them disappear. But it was enough. You would take it.

You began preparing soon after.

The cottage sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten thought—half-collapsed roof, broken shutters, weeds pushing through the stone floor. Still, you stood in it for a long time the first day, imagining voices inside it. Girls reading aloud. Chalk on wood. Something small, but alive.

Meriel came with you more than once after that, wordless at first, then slowly softening into the idea of it.

It almost felt possible.

Until it didn’t. 

You came back after supper. The sky had already turned dark. From a distance, something felt wrong. The air smelled wrong. Then you saw it.

The cottage.

Burned.

Not damaged. But burned.

Blackened beams collapsed inward like broken ribs. Smoke still curled faintly into the night sky, as though whatever had been done had not yet finished being cruel. Meriel went very still beside you.

You walked forward slowly, as if approaching it carefully might undo it.

It did not.

By the time you reached the ruins, there was nothing left that could pretend to be a school.

Only ash.

—

The palace was loud.

Drunken laughter spilled through the halls. Music echoed off stone. Someone was singing badly again.

You found Aerion in the main hall, seated at a long table surrounded by men who laughed too loudly at everything he said. A cup hung loosely in his hand.

He did not look up when you entered.

You walked straight toward him, and the people noticed immediately. You stopped in front of him.

“You burned it,” you said.

Aerion blinked once.

Then, slowly: “Oh.”

He leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of a man already bored.

“You didn’t say it was for girls.”

“Women in the villages here cannot read,” he added. “They’re not taught.”

Your hands tightened at your sides.

“That is not—”

“And they should not be,” Aerion said, cutting in.

“Women are for seeding, not reading.”

Laughter rolled through the hall.

You stared at him like he had spoken in a language you no longer recognized.

“…I told you I wanted a school,” you said slowly.

“Yes,” Aerion replied, as if that explained everything.

“And you burned it down.”

“I did,” he confirmed.

No hesitation. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Well, you may go. I forgive you, of course, as I am a man of gentle heart and enormous cock.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“You are disgusting,” you hissed.

“You do not lie to me again.”

The glass left his hand without warning. It shattered against the pillar beside you—but by then, you had already moved. A thin cut sliced across your right palm, blood beading slowly against your skin. Barely a scratch.

Aerion watched the fragments scatter across the floor before his gaze drifted back to you, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Ooh,” he drawled. “You’re admirably quick.”

You did not give him any more time to give comments as you turned to leave, anger radiating. You seethed while walking back to your chambers.

The next day there was another feast.

Meriel told you to go to tell the court that you are still alive and breathing.

Aerion was in unusually good spirits that evening, laughing too loudly at something one of his men said. And because when Aerion repeated a joke, they laughed as though it had been genius. Even when it isn’t. 

You mostly ignored all of it.

Instead, you found the bear.

It had been brought to the palace courtyard as one of Aerion’s strange, impulsive gifts, something from the hunt, something alive that had survived him when most things did not.

You sat with it quietly for a while, fingers brushing through its fur while the feast roared on inside. It was easier than people. It did not speak. It did not mock. It simply existed beside you without asking anything.

“Maybe you’re the only one here,” you muttered softly, “who hasn’t tried to ruin my life.”

The bear shifted slightly under your hand.

For a moment, it almost felt like it understood you. 

And then- the sound of an arrow splitting air. It happened too fast to process properly. A sharp twang from the training platform where Aerion and his men had decided, in their usual brilliance, that the courtyard was suitable for target practice even during a feast.

The arrow struck clean.

Right through the animal. The bear collapsed instantly.

You stared at it for a moment too long, as if waiting for the world to correct itself. But it did not. And then you stood.

Across the courtyard, laughter broke out.  “Good shot,” someone called.

Aerion’s voice followed lazily, unconcerned. “Oh, dear. Someone’s cross.” he spoke lazily when he saw you cross the courtyard in a straight line. Aerion was still smiling when you reached him. With no hesitation, you raised your hand and slapped him on the cheek. Hard. 

The sound cracked through the hall and silence followed immediately. Even the music faltered. You didn’t wait for anything else. You turned and left.

—

The library was quiet in a way the rest of the palace never managed to be. Not merely silent, but softened, as though even sound was reluctant to disturb it. Dust floated through thin shafts of light from the high windows, drifting over rows of old parchment and ink-stained ledgers, the smell of aged wood and forgotten knowledge clinging to everything. 

It was the only place in the entire palace that did not feel like it belonged to Aerion, as if even his presence hesitated at the threshold.

You did not sit at a chair. You sat on the floor between shelves, knees drawn in loosely, staring at nothing in particular while your breathing slowly unraveled. Then your hands began to shake, then enough that you stopped trying to hide it at all. The crying came after that, uneven and broken, sharp breaths caught between anger and humiliation and grief until none of them could separate cleanly anymore.

You did not expect him to follow you.

Aerion did not speak immediately when he entered. He stood there for a moment as if assessing whether this was worth interrupting, then eventually crossed the room and sat down across from you.

“We’ve got problems, haven’t we?” he said at last.

You did not answer.

Silence stretched, thick and unbothered.

“I suppose you are the only person in my life,” he added after a moment, almost thoughtfully, “who has not loved me.”

A breath of disbelief slipped out of you before you could stop it, half-laugh, half-sob.

“It is inconceivable to me,” he continued, as though your reaction was irrelevant, “and says nothing good about you.”

You looked up sharply at that.

He met your gaze without hesitation, unflinching, almost curious.

“If you had shown me an ounce of kindness,” your face twisted as you eyed him, “I was ready with a heart full of love.”

And then, because he could never resist undermining even his own seriousness, his eyes flicked over you and he added, almost offhand, “You look really pretty when you’re angry.”

That was it. Something in you cracked fully open.

“My heart is breaking,” you said, and this time the words came out broken with it, tears spilling freely as a muffled sob forced its way through your throat. “I miss home. I’m lonely for family, friends, fun, ideas, strawberries—”

“And I need my cock sucked,” Aerion interrupted flatly.

You froze.

“What?” you asked in disbelief, staring at him like you had misheard the language entirely.

“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly as if this were logical, “we’re sharing, right? Our needs?”

“Just let me go home, please.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He glanced away for a moment, as though considering something practical. “Strawberries, I’ll work on.”

Then, more to himself than to you, he added, “What happened to that happy little girl who gave me a twig?”

“She died,” you said immediately.

Aerion sighed through his nose. “Seems overly dramatic.”

He looked at you again, then added, “I am mostly kind to you. Do I beat you?”

“I suffer the blows of your disdain daily,” you hissed, pushing yourself up until you were standing over him where he still sat.

Aerion tilted his head up at you slightly.

“It’s not the same as actual blows, though, is it?”

“Well—”

“What, you don’t know?” he cut in.

Before you could react, he stood. His hand closed around your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from stepping back, and then—suddenly, sharply—he struck you in the stomach.

The breath left you instantly. You doubled slightly, stunned more than anything, pain blooming hot and immediate through your middle.

Aerion watched you bend forward.

“Well,” he said calmly, releasing you, “compare, and get back to me.”

You straightened slowly, shaking.

“Mother and Father never acted like this. My mother was a saint,” he replied. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reflexively, “I’m glad she’s not alive to see this. Not that I’m glad she’s dead. I’m not—”

He stopped himself, as if realizing he was losing his own argument, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

You were still staring at him, unblinking.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You’re a disappointment to me, too.”

Then, after a pause, his voice sharpened again.

“I do not need a wife with a poisonous mouth and a dry cunny. I will shut you up at my pleasure.”

“You will try and fail,” you said immediately, voice raw.

“You will be happy,” he continued as if you had not spoken. “You will die here in content old age, having given me many hours of pleasure and service, and many heirs. Boys, preferably.”

His gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing.

“I do have a temper and some rage. You cannot cross me. Especially not in front of others, or you will pay. Endlessly.”

A pause.

Then, quietly, final in a way that was almost certain.

“And you will never win.”

I hope he loses.

Not in the polite way other wives were taught to think it, no soft prayers whispered into candlelight, no folded hands asking for a safe return, no devotion. You did not want safety for him. 

I hope he loses the tourney, you thought, watching him across the courtyard as he adjusted his riding gloves, I hope he falls off his horse. I hope the impact is sharp enough to silence him permanently. I hope something in him breaks in a way that cannot be repaired.

Your finger tapped against your gown once, then again, then again, a quiet rhythm of imagined outcomes. You found yourself thinking of it too easily: the snap of bone, the sudden stillness of a body, the stunned silence of a crowd that had cheered him only moments before.

Other wives would have been praying. You found yourself praying for injuries.

He would not come back with laughter still clinging to him. He would come back quiet, maybe even regretful. Or not at all.

Outside the palace entrance, the air was bright and unforgiving. The horses were already prepared, restless beneath their riders, the sound of metal and leather filling the space like a ceremony you had no interest in participating in. Aerion adjusted his riding gloves with careless precision, as though nothing in the world had ever resisted him for long.

You stood beside him. You did not speak. You did not wish him well.

You only performed the smallest, most formal curtsy you could manage. Whether it was even correct no longer mattered.

Aerion glanced at you briefly, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, he simply turned away and mounted his horse.

Then he left.

And the gates closed behind him.

—

Days passed slowly after that.

The palace did not change much in his absence, which you found irritating. The halls remained full, the servants continued their routines, the air still carried the same polished emptiness. If anything, it only made his presence feel less necessary in hindsight, as though he had always been an unnecessary noise in a room that functioned perfectly well without him.

You filled the time carefully.

The library became your refuge again, its silence more honest than anything else in the palace. You spent hours there among books you did not always read, simply existing in a space that did not demand anything from you. When even that became too heavy, you returned to embroidery, though not of flowers as was expected—but insects. Spindly things, sharp-winged things, delicate and unpleasant in a way.

Meriel came and went quietly, as she always did, saying little unless spoken to.

Time passed in a strange, suspended way.

Then one afternoon, a servant came running through the corridor, breathless, face pale and twisted with panic.

“He died!”

The words echoed too loudly down the stone hall.

“The prince died!”

For a moment, everything stopped. Even the air felt like it paused to listen. You looked up slowly from your work. Your fingers still rested on the fabric, unmoving.

Someone nearby gasped. Another voice immediately began asking questions, overlapping, frantic.

A second servant reached you, hesitating as if unsure whether you were supposed to collapse or celebrate or scream. His eyes darted away quickly, as though afraid of your reaction either way.

But then—

A flicker at the corner of your mouth. Barely there.

Something almost like relief, almost like laughter, almost like—

No.

Not yet.

Before it could form properly, Meriel arrived. And the moment you saw her face, you already knew something was wrong. She did not look panicked. She did not look confused.

Composed in a way that made your stomach tighten instantly.

She stopped in front of you.

And spoke clearly.

“Prince Baelor died.”

Silence.

Oh.

You felt it land slowly.

Not Aerion. Not your husband. Not your imagined ruin finally delivered.

Someone else. Someone entirely different.

Your fingers loosened slightly on the fabric in your lap.

And for a long moment, all you could think was:

Oh.

savant - a person of profound and exceptional knowledge. i figured people in lys probably wouldn’t use the word “maesters” the way they do in westeros, so i went down an internet rabbit hole looking for similar terms

it should’ve disgusted him. how easy it was for you to be brought down to nothing but a heaping, wet mess in front of him, looking every inch more a pathetic excuse of a woman than someone who carried the targaryen name for moons now, since being tied to him.

your voice always shook. so soft, so brittle, like a bird's flutter of wings.

the look in his eyes should’ve been stern. unforgivable. so full of disdain it would make your sorrow grow. how dare a princess of your station, who will one day carry his legacy in your womb, stand there, soft hands reaching towards him with the urgency of a beggar, seeking solace?

but try as he might, denying you comfort has never been beneath him.

aerion’s pupils were blown so wide the purple was barely recognizable, breath hitching in his throat, broad chest heaving as he watched your fingers curl with hesitant urgency into the velvet of his tunic, the material scrunching in your grip.

“i’m sorry, husband,” you babbled through sniffles, barely able to keep your chin from wobbling as your teary eyes pleaded up at him, begging for consolation without words. for understanding. for forgiveness.

gods, you looked so fragile like this. a side of you aerion was expected to loathe. but gods, he craved it.

it was a sick, tormenting feeling that curled into the pit of his stomach and slithered its way to his chest, making it ache with the need to soothe. to appease the woman who carried his name, warmed his bed, and loved him without preamble, without ulterior motives.

aerion clicked his tongue once, twice, as if reprimanding her; a sound of disapproval, making your eyes brim with tears anew, thinking you have upset him with your wailing. but those poisonous thoughts dissipated when broad, warm hands lifted to cradle your flushed cheeks tenderly, encompassing your visage between them, rough fingers stealing some of the warmth in the ruddiness found against the apples of your cheeks.

“my sweet wife,” aerion crooned as he stepped closer, gaze never leaving your flushed face, so attentive it made a sob catch in your throat. his attention was always laser-focused, scathing in its intensity, like a predator on the prowl. a dragon in his might, his eyes onto his precious hoard. “why must you weep so? you’re debasing yourself beyond measure by taking courtly whispers to heart. those wenches know not of what they speak of.”

gods, you were so perceptive of him. every word out of his mouth curled around you, easing the tension in your body like a burning flame to a candle, dripping with reassurance rather than apprehension. you hung onto every single syllable, every softening of his tone, every touch that was meant to placate, to melt you back into something agreeable and content.

“but what if they speak truth?” you protested, not fully convinced that the poisonous words that have wafted through the walls and into your heart are without foundation. “if i am not meant to carry your name—”

aerion’s fingers pressed into your skin, dimpling the rosy flesh of your cheeks as his eyes narrowed, stealing the rest of your speech. his grip was unforgiving, but not bruising. he could never dream of marring your sweet features with his cruelty. it would be a disservice to his gaze, for how could he look at anything other than the dulcitude of your face, so soft and full of love for him, and see it blemished?

“you are my wife,” he spoke, barely above a whisper, but it sounded more like the edge of a sharp knife, glinting between you both. “not any of those simpletons of court, those painted whores with nothing to do but spit their venom at you.”

his voice lowered, pressing closer, lips brushing yours, feather light with each word. “you. the only one worthy of my seed in your womb, my name next to yours, my heart in the palm of your hands.”

aerion’s pupils dilated as he talked, always undone when talking about how much you belonged to him. how much of you he owned. it undid him more than anything else in the world.

but more so, how much of him you owned.

a prideful, conceited man such as him would rather plunge a dagger straight to his heart than admit such weakness, but he knew it to be true.

never before had someone relied on him as much as you did. he was your comfort, all things considered. even if he misplaced his anger at times, even if harsh words slipped unbidden from his mouth, you never wavered in your dependency on him.

he was needed. wanted. craved by you.

not in depravity, like all those years past when every courtesan and brothel girl would trip over themselves for a tumble into his bed.

but for safety, to soothe and console you in times of distress, holding you tight in his arms while murmuring gruff words into the crown of your hair.

all the gold in the world could not equate that small sigh you let slip past your lips as you calmed down, achingly content, as if all the troubles in the world vanished, nestling even closer to him.

and all because of him.

it made his cock twitch.

as it was now, as your tears glistened down your cheeks, eyes so wide with uncertainty, pleading for more solace, leaning into the rough grip of his fingers, even if it was uncomfortable.

aerion had to bite back a groan at the sight. gods, it was addicting. arousing.

your tears were wet and hot as they slid against his skin, and he didn’t think twice before adjusting his grip, fingers lowering until they cradled your jaw, tipping it up towards him, his mouth inches away from the damp, ruddy cheeks.

“they do not deserve your weeping, your tears,” aerion rasped against your skin, rough lips pressing against warm flesh, trailing the path of your sorrow with reverence. his eyes lowered, half lidded with mounting hunger as he felt the saltiness onto his lips, arousal spiking at the taste.

“only i do, my sweet wife,” he continued, tongue poking out to lick a glistening teardrop from your cheek, tracing its course back up, underneath your eyes, where another kiss fell, tender. the gasp that fell from you was delicious, the gesture dirty, uncommon, but done so delicately, it brought nothing but warmth to your chest, and between your legs. and a twitch of satisfaction to aerion’s lips.

you were so easy to unravel. to please. now that he started, he couldn’t cease the gnawing feeling of more, more, more.

his tongue met your skin again, lapping at every trace of tears he found upon ruddy cheeks, holding you firmly in his grasp, turning your face every which way he pleased to reach every single lingering tear. aerion’s breathing picked up with each lave of his tongue, eyes blown wide, the purple almost obscured by the black of his pupils as the salty taste coated his taste buds and stuck to the back of his throat.

your breathing matched his, only faster, small hitches of breath remaining as you calmed down your crying, interrupted by hushed whines whenever the tip of your husband’s tongue flicked against your skin, curling obscenely, almost reptilian. in moments like these, he was more dragon than man, the thought only making the warmth in the pit of your stomach flare hotter.

“a—aerion—,”

“husband,” he cut you off without preamble, followed by a hint of teeth against the apple of one cheek, as if in reprimand, before soothing it with a lick of his tongue, slow and warm. “my name is mine own,” his whisper was ragged, underlined by the hint of a growl. then he paused, enough for your breath to hitch as his lips descended to brush against yours again. “husband means i am yours.”

you gasped against his mouth, the raw possessiveness in his words lightning a fire in your veins, leaning forward instinctively to chase his lips, but he held you firm by your jaw. a twitch of his lips followed, accompanied by a self—satisfied hum from deep in his chest, akin to a purr. the gratification he got from your eagerness was addictive, like a drug.

“say it, my sweet wife,” he demanded, tongue flicking out against your lips, slow and filthy, not letting you pursue it, reveling in the whimper that vibrated against his taste buds. gods, he could almost savor it, sweet as honey suckle and twice as consuming. “who am i?”

he could see how wide your eyes got, how rapid the flush of your cheeks reddened, bright and embarrassed at being put on the spot like this, of being demanded in such a way. but the way your plush lips parted betrayed you, along with the hammering pulse aerion could feel where his fingers pressed beneath your jaw. his wife loved this, too.

“husband,” came unbidden, breathy and so, so eager, the last syllable dissolving into a whine, so overwhelmed that new tears glittered in those pretty eyes he loved so much. “my husband, my—”

one teardrop fell slowly down your skin, tracing a path towards your mouth, disappearing along a plush lip.

and aerion’s resolve shattered, tongue following the damp trail down after it, relentless, a groan rumbling from deep within his chest as he chased the wetness of the tear, tongue licking, broad and filthy between your lips now.

you were always so warm. be it your mouth or your cunt or your embrace, the warmth never ceased to pull him in, infallibly making him want more. always more from you.

he licked into your mouth, his grip on your jaw firm, pulling lightly to urge you to slacken, wanting you pliant and easy under his tongue. aerion couldn’t help it. you tasted so good, made such pretty sounds as he traced the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth, and swirled his tongue around yours, slick and wet, the sounds echoing in the space between you.

his other hand slid towards your throat, wrapping his fingers around it. not to squeeze, just to hold, to possess. he could feel the telltale vibration of your whines, of your moans as he suckled your tongue into his mouth, and it gave him a thrill like no other.

his cock was so hard in his breeches, tenting it obscenely, almost brushing against your thigh if you would move even an inch closer. he hoped you would soon. aerion would have no qualms in rutting against your pretty legs to get off. you were his wife, and he would take his pleasure from you without shame, in any medium he could get it, using you to feel good.

“no more sorrow over petty courtly whispers,” he whispered as teeth nipped at your lip, a reminder of how this all came to be, of why your tears were now coating the back of his throat instead of sliding against your pretty face. “you are above every witless wench that dares speak ill of you, of us,” his words were rough to chide you, but he couldn’t help sliding his tongue against the reddened skin where he bit, as an apology.

you nodded, eagerness to please bleeding out of you and towards him, heating the fire always lying dormant in his being, caught to life by you. only ever you. “yes, husband,” came your whisper, lips brushing his, yearning to keep kissing, to cease his speech, but he didn’t let you yet, overly pleased by your readiness in giving him what he wanted. in letting him soothe the doubts that might still linger in the soft crevices of your heart.

“very well,” he crooned, pressing his lips to yours in a chaste but lingering kiss, rewarding you silently, pleased with the state of you now.

malleable and reassured and his.

always his.

his sweet wife.

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

At least 6’2, even slumped in your doorway, toned arms peeking out from his shirt, messy white hair sticking up in endearing little tufts from his face. And what a face- handsome, slightly boyish, gorgeously bright blue eyes you feel like drowning in; plump pink lips that twitching into a polite grin as you greet him. God, he looks so kissable it makes your stomach clench.

“Hi, Satoru.” You say, slightly breathlessly, admiring the way his name rolls off of your tongue. “You’ll have to forgive me for the way I look, I was just about to do some yoga.” You wave a hand aimlessly at the ribbed mat stretched out on the floor, and glare scoldingly at your son.

“Suguru, if I knew you were bringing over a new friend I would’ve made you something!” And worn something a little less slutty, you suppose glumly; your sports bra pushes your chest together awkwardly, comfy yoga pants stretched across your thighs.

“Nah, it’s fine.” Suguru smiles, wandering to the kitchen. Gojo follows, lifting himself up with flexing biceps to sit on the counter like he’s always been here.

“Don’t mind us,” he says, voice echoing through into the living room, “just do your yoga, or whatever, I’m sure little Sugu here can make something.” He snickers. You can hear them bickering about the nickname as you lie out flat on your yoga mat, smiling to yourself.

The video playing instructs you gently, and you breathe in as you scrunch backwards into child’s pose. The calming music overlayed with the woman's soothing voice seeps into your ears comfortably, washing out any remnants of conversation you might be able to make out from the men in your kitchen.

“Now, draw yourself up onto all fours- no rush here, take your time- and I’d like to invite you to join me in a round of cat-cow. Breathe at your own pace…” the voice from the video says, and you follow dutifully. Your back arches as you drop down into cow, sighing as your muscles stretch, then back into cat as your spine rounds.

From the kitchen, Satoru Gojo is floored. Stunned, even. He can’t even listen to whatever shit Suguru is going on about as he lifts the carton of milk onto the counter.

“-and then Choso tried to sell me weed for double the price just ‘cause he felt like it,” Suguru complains, tossing a box of half eaten, sugary cereal besides the milk.

“Yeah, yeah, what an asshole.” Gojo agrees blindly, far too fixated on the arch in your back as he stares into the living room. His mouth waters as he watches the practiced lift of your hips into downwards dog, then the way your chest pushes together in cobra. Fuck, you’re so hot.

“Does… is your mom always here?” He asks Suguru, clearing his throat as nonchalantly as he can manage when his cerulean eyes are currently fixated on the swell of your ass. “Where’s your dad?”

“Oh, they’re divorced.” Suguru says airily, “nothing messy, they just split a couple of years ago. She’s not had a boyfriend for a while though, so she lives her by herself- s’why I’m always here, I like to make sure she’s doing okay.”

Gojo hums. Divorced, single, and hot, huh?

“Hey, do you have a fucking pool?” He asks suddenly, eyes desperately searching for anything other than your spine's curvature and the part of your lips when you breathe out.

“Ohhh, that.” Suguru says, “yeah, it’s great in the summer. It’ll warm up enough in a few weeks, you should come over.”

Gojo opens his mouth to reply, but-

“Sugu!” You say annoyedly, gesturing at the two bowls of cereal on the counter, “what have I told you about eating well?” You sigh and bend over to slide the cereal back in the cupboard, and Gojo gulps.

“So, how’s university life?” You smile at Gojo, “I hear enough about Sugu’s weekly, how’re you? Oh, and let me cut you up something while I’m making myself a snack... strawberries?”

Gojo nods dumbly, transfixed on the bounce of your chest beneath the sports bra. “Yeah, I can’t, uh, complain… the usual, I guess.”

You nod and gather the plastic punnet in your hand, setting it down on the counter with a quiet crackle as you pull back the film. Gojo watches, sweating, as your fingers wrap around a green stem and lift the berry to your mouth; a bead of juice, red and sweet, dribbles from your lips down to your fingers, and he can only gape as your tongue laps up the stickiness from them.

He’s never ran to a bathroom so fast. “Fuck, fuck-“ he groans, teeth tugging at his bottom lip, “fuck, she’s so hot, can’t believe he never showed me a photo of her-"

His cock pulses furiously in his tightening grasp, skin shimmering with slick from the pale hairs at his base to the blushing rosiness of his neglected tip. "Shittt-" Gojo groans, head tipping backwards,"-hard over yoga-" he laughs weakly, humourlessly, as spatters of pre soak his skin.

And as he stands there pathetically, hand planted against the wall while his other roughly works his cock, Gojo formulates a plan- one that, preferably, involves you licking something else from those dainty fingers of yours.

⋆⋅ ❀ ⋅⋆

The summer heat is sweltering, the sun shining golden rays down onto the back garden; streaks of sunlight bounce and refract from the glossy surface of your pool, water lapping peacefully in the background as you lie on your front.

Now you’re divorced, you suppose tanning has become a hobby; lounging for hours in the sun, watching sweat bead across the plane of your chest and stomach, before slipping into the pool to cool off. Then, you lift yourself out, and the cycle repeats.

It’s fine- and you’re glowing for it, if you do say so yourself- but it’s just… boring. Repetitive. God, there’s only so many home and lifestyle magazines you can leaf through, only so many pairs of sunglasses you can rotate- you want excitement, something a little different, that isn't just branching out to another type of wine on Fridays. You've already tried red, white, rosé, orange (who knew?) and you'll be moving on to sparkling soon.

“Hey, mom!”

You smile and snap your magazine closed, the issue on plaid versus stripes lost to the darkness and monotony of the other 90 pages, give or take. Right on cue, too.

“Hello, Sugu!” You wave, pushing the sunglasses into your hair. “Oh, you’re swimming? I’ll just stay at the side, then, but I need you to-!”

Suguru dives into the pool, chlorinated water dripping down your leg from the splash even at the poolside.

“You’re such an idiot, Suguru.” Gojo grins. Your heart almost stops- then restarts, beating at least thirty times faster when you see him.

He’s only in trunks, too- slung low on lean hips, the vast muscle of his abdomen on show in the sun. You want to dig your nails into the skin, drag them down and leave marks to his milky hips, lick hungrily along the pale happy trail peeking out from below the waistline. You blink yourself out of it before he catches you staring.

“Suguru!” You scold, tapping your foot on the tiles, painfully aware of how much skin you’re exposing to his friend, “you were supposed to help me with the tanning oil! You know I can’t reach my lower back properly-“

Suguru just shrugs, skin rippling under the water's refraction. “I mean, s’not my fault you can’t reach your back-"

“I will!” Gojo eagerly volunteers, bounding over to you- fuck, he hopes you'll let him, he's been dying to touch you in any capacity, let alone massaging your back.

“Yes!” You agree, probably far too quickly. “Yes, please, I don’t want my tan to be uneven. Oh.” You say flatly, staring at the very empty bottle resting in your open palm. “Right, sorry, I have a new one inside- kitchen?”

Gojo nods and follows you like a lost puppy, staring shamelessly at your ass in the patterned bikini, mouth watering as he imagines smacking his hand against the skin. And now, as he watches you apprehensively grab the bottle from the chilly fridge, he’s convinced he's about to moan at just the prospect of touching you.

“Just a little on my back, please.” You instruct, feet cool on the tiled floor of the kitchen. “Not too much, I don’t want to burn, Satoru.”

He shivers when you say his name. “Yeah, I can do that. I'll be, uh, fine.”

He’s more than fine- he feels like every fantasy he’s had since he was sixteen and horny are all befalling upon him. His fingers glide through the dripping oil down your spine, palms warm against your skin as he works it in. The feeling is nothing short of heavenly- skin responding eagerly to his touch, it takes everything in you not to squeal when deft palms trickle just a littleeeee too close to your waistband. You allow your eyes to flutter shut, sighing dreamily, and Gojo swears he feels a balmy droplet of pre soak into his trunks.

He doesn’t know it’s affecting you, too- you’re soaking your bikini bottoms, clit throbbing against the (thankfully waterproof) fabric the longer he touches you. You haven’t been touched properly for what feels like a long time; nobody your age knew quite what to do with your body, or pulled out after one unfulfilling round.

But Gojo… he feels like he’d know exactly what to do. Fuck, you’re so wet it’s embarrassing.

And then he’s pulling away, trembling hands hid in the pockets of his swimming trunks. “Cool… anything else?”

“No. No, that’s all-“ you breathe, voice wavering a little more than you would like, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

You end up reclining back in the sun again, flicking through another glitzy spread on a celebrity breakup- or wedding, or funeral- you don't really care about at all. Your gaze drifts, hidden behind the lenses of your sunglasses, and you almost drool.

Your son yells, shaking the water out of his long hair. “You threw the ball at my face!”

“Oopsy, too slow…” Gojo taunts, tossing said ball between his large hands, palms still glinting slightly with the remnants of the oil he coated onto your back. Technically, you should be on your front right now, but you’re willing to risk an uneven tan to keep ogling him.

“Whatever…” Suguru huffs, dripping water onto the floor beside you as he gathers your empty glass. The ice has turned to cool liquid, pooling in the bottom, like a tiny fraction of your self restraint mirrored. It’s melting the longer you look at Gojo, the longer he spends pushing himself out of the pool with a loud groan.

Your thighs snap together.

“You need a drink, mom? I’m getting me and Satoru something.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice, Sugu.” You say distractedly, “I’m thirsty.”

“Funny you mention it,” Gojo says into your ear, making you jump as you watch Suguru walk into the house, “I’m prettyyyyyy thirsty too…” his fingers trail lightly up your bare thigh, stopping just before they hit the upper portion.

Ohhhh fuck. Okay, shit, calm down, he’s just a sexy twenty-something year old, you can stay in control, right-?

Fuck it.

“Look,” you breathe hurriedly, sneaking glances at the open patio doors lest your son walk outside, “Suguru isn’t here next Saturday night, he’s with his dad for…”

You can’t actually remember. And then it clicks, and the taste in your mouth sours- Suguru is having dinner with your ex-husband’s new girlfriend, somebody he tells you is a lot, lot younger than you.

“She’s basically my age.” He’d sulked against the countertop as you chopped up ingredients for dinner, “it’s so weird.” You'd had to pop open the cork of a new bottle of wine after hearing that one- who did his father think he was? Flaunting his sexy, young, energetic replacement around, how utterly shameless! Well, two can play at that game, you think, eyeing up the way a droplet of water trickles down into the v-line of Gojo's hips..

You make up your mind.

“Anyway, he’s with his dad.” You grab Gojo’s wrist, push your sunglasses into your messy hair, and say the sentence that has him almost cumming in his stupid Hawaiian swim trunks.

“If you want to have sex with me, come over. Six thirty onwards. Don’t tell Suguru.”

Satoru Gojo thinks he could burst with excitement.

⋆⋅ ❀ ⋅⋆

Saturday can’t come fast enough. Gojo spends the entire week fisting his cock under the sheets to you, watching pre splash messily over his hands in the shower, bouncing brightly around campus. He even manages to act normal around Suguru- but maybe that’s just because he’s already divulged his secret to the only person he knows will forget about it almost immediately.

“Yo, I’m gonna fuck a total milf this weekend.”

“Oh shit.” Choso Kamo says, bleary eyed from the weed he’s smoking, smoke curling around his tufts of dark hair. “Is she alumni, or something?” He coughs, blindly reaching up to rub at the smudged eyeliner on his cheekbone.

“Nah.” Gojo grins, leaning in closer and parting the haze of smoke around Choso’s face as he lounges on a patch of verdant grass outside, “she’s Suguru’s mom.” Choso gapes.

“Oh, shit.”

Meanwhile, you spend the week just as jittery; Gojo seeps into your thoughts in a way nobody has since your ex-husband. When you stretch your back on the yoga mat, you can almost feel the ghost of his hands pressing down on your spine to force it into a curvier arch, and when you lie in your (terribly lonely) bed at night you almost- almost- feel bad for touching yourself to him.

Saturday arrives, accompanied by sun streaming through the bedroom windows and a slight flutter in your stomach. What’s the typical protocol for fucking your son’s best friend? What are you supposed to wear? You don’t even have any real lingerie left, having thrown it all out after the divorce.

“It doesn’t matter, I suppose…” you mumble to yourself, digging around in your underwear drawer for the laciest pair you own that still has a matching bra, “he’ll be taking it all off anyway.”

You feel giddy at the thought- like a clueless virgin again, shuffling closer to your first boyfriend in the booth of a local bar, waiting for clumsy fingers to creep up your thigh. But no cluelessness emanates from Gojo at all; you're almost trembling with anticipation by the time you clasp your bra, shaky fingers snapping the lace of your panties around your hips.

Eventually, you settle on loungewear and the kind of soft makeup men don’t realise is makeup- extra mascara, though. You want to see it run down your cheeks, maybe smear against a pillow; if you’re going to get fucked, you want to do it properly.

Hey, divorcees can be slutty too!

Another magazine ends up in your nervous hands, a preoccupation more than anything as you sit and watch the clock tick closer and closer to where you need it to be- when the doorbell rings, you sit up so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

“Fuck, okay, calm down.” You mutter, padding along the floor to unlock the front door. “Get it together!”

“Hey.” Satoru Gojo says, a tad awkwardly, as the door swings open to reveal his face. A vest today, you notice- his biceps are on full show, and the material clings to the rest of his torso; you almost feel like asking him to turn around just so you can drool over his back.

Oh my god, he’s already half hard. You can see it straining against his sweats. Shit- it's not like you haven't seen a dick recently, but it's different this time; your mouth is suddenly waterlogged with swathes of sparklingly needy saliva. You want him in your mouth.

“So, uh, do you want me to come in, or-“

You plant your hands firmly on either side of his unfairly gorgeous face and yank him down to press his mouth against yours. Gojo makes a small noise of surprise that melts itself into a groan, lips meshing with your greedy maw as a thin line of spittle already stretches itself down his chin.

Stumbling backwards, Gojo has to plant a hand on the back of your head to stop you from walking into the banister.

“Upstairs.” You breathe, eyes already unfocused as you gaze up at him.

Gojo doesn’t need to be told twice- but, he does wait until you’re at least 4 steps higher than him so he can watch the bounce of your thighs as you go. He almost whimpers.

“Take your pants off.” Staring down at you, already dropping to your knees on the plush carpet of your bedroom as you command him so crudely, Gojo’s jaw unhinges stupidly at the feeling of your hands hooking around the waistband of his underwear.

The elastic snaps! it’s way down, landing in a soft little pile at his feet as you wrap a hand around his flushed cock. His hips buck automatically, embarrassing amounts of pre drooling from his tip; you just poke your tongue out and lap it up.

“Satoru, you’re so, so hard.” You moan, enclosing the warmth of your mouth around the leaky head. Then, slightly muffled as you take more of him in, “don’t cum yet.”

“Wh-why?” He splutters, hand braced atop your head to guide you down, salt spreading over your tastebuds. Gojo’s dumbfounded- he wants to see your face painted with milky streaks of white, to hear the noise you make when your throat bobs.

“Because-“ you pant, popping off him to speak. Your hand circles his cock, pumping lazily, manicured thumbnail scraping over the prominent vein standing out on the skin; you smile when he groans, and kiss the tip.

“Becauseeeee… I want it inside.”

Satoru Gojo chokes as your throat constricts around him again, mouth hollowing around his dick while you pleasantly hum, eyes fluttering shut.

Your panties are soaked. More than they have been in what feels like years; two greedy fingers of your own are already slipping into your underwear, scissoring yourself open.

You don’t care about his fingers- not right now, anyway- any of the men you’ve been on a fruitless date with can prod around inside you, curl their fingers right, but they all fall apart when they get inside.

“Shit, baby-“ Gojo moans, head tipping back and bumping against the door. It only spurs you on; god, it’s been so long since you’ve fucked anybody much good, even longer since university.

You’ve missed this- missed relishing the feeling of wrenching the most pathetic sounds from frat boys who talk too much, longed to feel the buzz low in your core when they snap.

Nosing at his happy trail, you take all of him into your throat again, and finally pop off for good. “Get up.”

There’s a slightly manic glint in your eye that Gojo feels wary of, his cock twitching the longer he dares to watch. You kick off your yoga pants, wrench the shirt over your head- there’s a slick damp patch fronting on your cotton panties, glimmering when you experimentally press down onto your clit through the fabric.

“Fuck.” Gojo says bluntly, openly ogling your tits when you unclasp your bra and wriggle out of your underwear. He crawls on top of you, the mattress dipping below, and for a moment you feel bad.

Not in a pervy way- no, you’re long past feeling guilty for drooling over his arms- but in a maternal way. God, what would Suguru think- if he knew his mother was fucking his best friend behind his back as he sits at a dinner table with his father.

It’s almost like Gojo notices. “Suguru doesn’t know.” He says lowly, pearly teeth nipping at the skin on your chest to hear the way your breathing quickens. “I’m not gonna tell him. Are you?”

“No.” You breathe, tightening your thighs around his waist to drag him in. The tip of his cock smears pre across your clit, drizzling translucency over the sensitive nerves. You’re impatient now, greedy.

“Just fuck me, Satoru- oh, fuck!” You cry out, nails scrabbling down his back helplessly when he bottoms out in one thrust.

Now, Satoru Gojo has fucked a lot of women. Like, an obscene amount- in bathrooms at frat houses with a line outside, vodka clinging stickily to his lips, or maybe behind the library nobody ever seems to use; but this is different.

He’s never fucked somebody’s mom before. The thought almost makes him giggle- you’re different to all the clueless sorority girls clinging from his arms at parties; older, smarter, unafraid to prod him to get what you want. For once, Satoru Gojo is outmatched- and he loves it.

“Angle your hips again- yeah, fuck, okay, keep doing that-“ you order wantonly, eyes screwing up. You’re crying already, fat tears streaming glittery trails of mascara down your temples. You aren’t sure if their origin is pleasure or sheer relief; you haven’t been touched this well in so long.

"Good girl, all for me, yeah?" Gojo says breathily, "bet nobody your age has the stamina for this- bet your ex-husband didn't."

"N-no-" you cry into his mouth, body twitching, "fuck, no-"

"And you're gonna take this dick like a biggggg girl, aren't you?"

The crudeness of his words makes you gasp, his subtle reminder of the years stretching between you a contrast to the total lack of space between your sweaty bodies. He's so deep- cock ramming at spots you'd forgotten even existed, soft ridges of internal muscle making him lose his absolute fucking mind on your cunt.

Feeling so split open, so stuffed is enough to make another wave of slick coat Gojo’s length, and he just stares.

“Shit, you’re so wet-“ he moans, gasping for air as he pistons in and out of you, hair sticking out in white tufts. “And hands off the merchandise, baby, people would pay for my complexion- ow!”

“Shut up.” You pant, digging your nails into the side of his face. It’s a little mean, sure, but he can take it. In fact, the sting only makes him harder- you feel it, cock thickening impossibly more inside you.

“Harder-“ you manage to squeak out, throat raw. And he obliges, tilting his head cockily. Pale hands squeeze the flesh of your thighs, bruising the delicate skin, and push them flat against your tits.

“Shit, you’re so fucking flexible-“ he laughs incredulously, folding you so pliably into the bed below, “guess the yoga does help.”

You’re almost surprised yourself at just how… bendy you are. The mess between your legs is on full show now, dribbling smears of slickness shining across your cunt; your entrance is stretched open lecherously wide around Gojo’s cock, and his thumb just brushes the edge.

Then, the digit comes up to press over your clit, and you gasp- back arching up, nails scrabbling for purchase that doesn’t exist on his arms.

“Nobody your age is ever gonna fuck you this well, are they?” He asks breathlessly, slamming back in hard enough for you to jolt up the bed.

“No- no, shit, nobody-“

Gojo listens intently, sleazy grin disbelieving on his face, as your noises increase in both desperation and volume. You’re loud- it doesn’t matter, nobody’s going to hear, but you’re embarrassed nonetheless.

You can’t even move to slap your hand over your lips, because your limbs are so weak any effort is futile. Your brain melts into pure undulated warmth, spreading down your spine to curl in your stomach.

“Fuck-“ you choke, “m’close-“

“Yeahhhh, I can feel it.” Gojo, despite the bravado, isn’t faring much better either; strands of white hair plastered to his damp forehead, strips of sunshine illuminating the beads of salty sweat sprayed across his chest.

“C’mon, cum for me.”

His request- more of a beg, really- is your ultimate undoing. The orgasm implodes within you, clutching at all of your nerves until you’re a melty mess of endorphins on the sheets below.

He follows not long after, hips stuttering as thick peals of white spill out of you. Gojo doesn’t bother fucking it back inside, he just pulls out and watches it drip with an oddly proud look on his face. "Shit, you took it all. Fucking great."

“Well,” you start, flopped loosely on the sheets as Gojo keeps staring between your legs, “it beats a blind date.”

He snorts and yanks the vest back over his head, wincing as his underwear catches on his still-sensitive cock. You pause at the sound, suddenly feeling rather guilty for fucking him and then kicking him out of your incredibly lonely house.

“Actually, you don’t have to go yet.” He quirks a brow, and you blush.

“I’m not saying we go again, one was probably enough-“ you sigh, gesturing at the stickiness dripping down your weak legs as you stand and tug a robe around your body, “but you can use the pool, if you like.”

He does, actually. You watch him swim lengths (in a pair of Suguru’s trunks) through the water, as the taste of Friday's leftover wine rolls around on your tongue. Gojo's drink of choice is sitting prettily in a shiny glass at the poolside, a concoction of at least three citrus-adjacent juices and a large pour of vodka from your kitchen.

The red stains your lips darker as you watch the glistening of the droplets on his back, tantalisingly gorgeous, like little drops of starlight you're finally allowed to touch. For once, you think, smiling down as he waves from the pool:

Maybe being divorced isn’t so boring.

ೃ࿔*:･

masterlist

a/n: again, thank you sosososooss much for 5k!! I’m genuinely grateful to you ALL and I can’t wait for you all to read the stuff I have planned!! <33 mwah!

tags (open):

You felt hands cup the back of your knees before they were pushed against your chest, baring your sopping cunt to the gluttonous eyes of the fraternity member. Your folds were puffy and glistened under the light of the desk lamp in Caleb’s bedroom.

Caleb relished the sight.

Not only a nerd, but the epitome of a good girl, here you were in his bed with your legs wide open. Granted, he had coerced you into giving him what he wanted and shoved his broad form between them to prevent you from hiding your cunt away from him. If he didn’t know any better, he would think you weren’t a virgin by the way your pussy greedily sucked in his cock.

Your whines and cries as he speared you open would forever be burned into his memory. The sounds you made were too sweet to forget.

There was no way you could look him in the eye, too afraid you’d see your tear-stained face reflected to you in his pretty amethyst-colored eyes. You could only turn your face to the side, your glasses digging into your skin as they had become skewed. Besides the condensation forming on the glass, your tears clouded your vision which you were suddenly thankful for.

“Holy fuck, honey. You’re taking my cock like a champ. Not even the campus slut felt this good. Keep slipping out the whole time cause she was so damn loose.”

Your hands would’ve covered your face, if they hadn’t been tied up with the chains he wore daily. You were mortified by the words coming from his mouth. If he had no problem taking bad about someone in his friend group, you couldn’t imagine what he’d tell others about you. You should’ve stayed at the library. You shouldn’t have agreed to study at his place.

“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.” His order was sudden, catching you off guard.

You let out a whine, too embarrassed and ashamed to look him in the eye. Though you didn't have a clue as to why he was asking that of you, there was no way you could do what you were being told.

At your lack of obedience, Caleb felt a surge of anger, his cheek twitching in response.

Had it been any other girl ignoring his command, they would’ve been flipped onto their hands and knees before receiving a rough fucking. He wouldn’t even care if they came or not. His only worry was about spilling into the condom. After he did, he’d leave them alone in whatever room in the fraternity house they had slipped into.

But he couldn’t bring himself to treat you that way.

The sweet loner girl from his human anatomy class. The girl who worried about arriving to class on time and making sure her notes were a perfect copy of the day’s lecture.

Still, it didn't mean he couldn’t get what he wanted by the use of a little pain.

Leaning over your trembling frame, he nuzzled the underside of your tit before trailing up and biting onto the hardened bud. Your hips bucked as a yelp came from your bruised lips.

“Do as I say or I’ll keep playing with your nips until they’re bruised and swollen. You’ll have to walk around campus with your tits out. Might even keep you locked away so that no one can see what’s mine.” His fingers dug into the flesh of your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “Be a good girl and stick your tongue out. Now.”

Your bottom lip wobbled before you did as you were told. Your actions were hesitant, completely unsure of the reason behind what was about to happen.

A grin broke across his face. Without hesitation, he made sure you wouldn’t be able to close your mouth before his warm spit met your tongue.

Your eyes widened. You tried to pull your face free from his hold, but he wouldn’t budge. The taste of your cunt from when he ate you out earlier lingered.

The saliva that had gathered inside your mouth escaped through the corners of your lips when he forced your mouth closed. The warm liquid stained the skin of your chin and neck.

“Swallow.”

You grimaced at the request, but did as you were told.

Though frightened and caught off guard, the warmth in your belly was growing, aided by his thrusting hips. For the first time in your life, you were experiencing something you had only read about in the dirty books you kept hidden from prying eyes. You would be lying if you said Caleb wasn’t making you feel good.

As his hips slowed down, the pace now a smooth gyration so that you felt his thickness stretch you, the mushroom tip kissed your cervix. When a hand came to press down on the bulge showing through the skin of your tummy, your body jerked as you nearly sat up.

The multiple cups of juice he had you drink during your study session under the guise of being a welcoming host, the weight of his hand on your belly, plus the pressure of his dick inside of you had a familiar full feeling erupting from deep within.

“S-stop…” You said, your request long ignored as the thumb from the hand resting on your tummy stretched down to play with your clit. “Caleb, p-please.”

A groan came from the male before you, his jaw flexing as your cunt squeezed his dick. When his eyes found yours, he noted a hint of nervousness. From how your gummy walls held onto him, he had an idea what was causing this sudden apprehension.

“What’s the matter, pips?”

“P-p-please…” You whispered, fear overcoming your pretty features. “I’m gonna p-pee.”

“Ah shit, y-you’re just the cutest thing, honey.” He replied, fixing your glasses so that they sat perfectly on your nose. He caught you off guard by pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “Come here, sweets.”

He brought your arms over his head, your clasped hands resting on the back of his neck, before he sat up, bringing you with him and settling your weight on his thick thighs. This allowed his cock to reach further inside you.

“Go ahead and make a mess all over me like an untrained pup in heat. I don’t mind.”

Continuing his ministration from before, you clung to him, crying as your cunt quivered and clenched around him. He could feel your walls spasming as you came, thighs trembling from the mere force being exerted as your slick shot out from around his length. He could feel your tears land on the heated skin of his neck.

He followed shortly after, his cum settling deep in your cunt. What couldn’t fit inside of you spilled out onto Caleb and his once neat bedsheets.

With your face tucked against his sweaty neck, he held you, one hand on the back of your head while the other caressed the expanse of your back. You couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye, too embarrassed about what had just happened between the two of you.

“Good girl…knew you would do as you’re told. Seems like you just need some roughening up, don’t cha?”

You are seven years old when you first hear this story and you do not think about it much. Seven-year-olds do not worry about death or love or the mysteries written on skin that has not yet appeared.

You think about apple orchards instead.

The imperial palace has extensive grounds, and your father's position as a high-ranking lord means your family has chambers here, close to the court. You have the run of the gardens when your tutors release you from your lessons. The apple orchard is your favorite place, the rows and rows of trees heavy with fruit in autumn, branches perfect for climbing in summer, blossoms like snow in spring.

Caleb is always there.

He is a prince, the third son of the Emperor, which means he has more freedom than his older brothers. He does not have to sit through as many state functions or memorize as many treaties. He spends his afternoons in the orchard, reading under the trees or playing with his wooden practice sword.

You are shy around him at first. He is older, ten to your seven, and he is a prince, but he has kind eyes and a patient manner, and when you climb too high and cannot get down, he laughs and helps you, boosting you onto his shoulders to reach the ground.

"You are brave," He sets you down gently. "Most children would cry."

You flush with pride and do not tell him you wanted to cry very much.

Mei comes into your life when you are eight.

Her family are retainers to your household, lower in rank but trusted.  Her mother serves your mother, her father serves your father, and now she is assigned to serve you. 

Mei is exactly one year older than you, nine years old with serious eyes and a protective streak that runs deeper than the rivers surrounding the capital. She finds you in the orchard one afternoon, crying under an apple tree because one of the palace children, a duke's daughter with a cruel tongue, called you a country bumpkin and plain.

"Who said that?" Mei's voice is fierce. "Tell me who said that."

You shake your head, hiccuping.

"It does not matter. She is stupid and her eyes are bad." Mei sits beside you, pulling you against her side. "You are not plain. You are my lady. Mine to serve, mine to protect, and anyone who says different is a liar."

You rest your head on her shoulder and feel the tears dry. There is something about Mei that makes you feel safe. Something about the way her arm wraps around you, solid and certain.

"Will you stay with me?" you ask, and your voice is small.

"Always," Mei promises and reaches for your hand. "Where you go, I go."

Caleb finds you both there an hour later, and that is how it begins. 

The three of you in the orchard, Mei's hand always finding yours first, Caleb's laugh bright as lantern lights, and you in the middle, not yet understanding what you are building.

You turn nine, then ten. Caleb turns thirteen, then fourteen. Mei turns ten then eleven, and she grows tall and graceful, her childhood roundness replaced by elegant lines.

You notice the way Caleb looks at her.

It starts small. He stumbles over his words when she speaks to him. He watches her when he thinks no one is looking. He brings her gifts, ribbons for her hair, a hairpin carved from jade, a book of poetry he claims he found in the market but you suspect he bought specifically for her.

Mei accepts these gifts politely, but there is distance in her manner. She does not blush nor simper. She does not gaze at him the way the court ladies gaze at princes.

She looks at you instead.

You are too young to understand what that means.

The years continue to pass. You turn twelve, then thirteen. Caleb is sixteen now, nearly a man, his shoulders broadening, his voice deepening. He has begun training with the imperial guard, learning strategy and swordcraft. He is good at it. Everyone says so.

Mei is fifteen now, and she is beautiful. You are not blind to it. The court notices her now, despite her lower rank. Men watch her when she walks through the palace gardens. Marriage offers have begun arriving for her family to consider.

She dismisses them all.

"I am not interested," she tells you one evening while she is brushing your hair in your chambers. "My place is here, with you."

"But you could marry well," you protest. "You could have your own household, your own…"

"I could." Her hands are gentle, working through a tangle. "But I do not want to. I want to stay here with you. Is that so strange?"

You do not know how to answer that.

Caleb's feelings for Mei are no longer a secret, at least not to you. He is obvious about it now, seeking her out in the gardens, asking her to walk with him, writing poetry that he does not give her but leaves where you might find it.

You read one once. 

It compared her eyes to lotus pools and her grace to a heron taking flight.

You fold it carefully and return it to its hiding place. You do not tell anyone about it. You certainly do not tell Mei. Watching Caleb fall in love with her is both painful and beautiful. Painful because you…

You do not let yourself finish that thought.

The apple pies start when you are thirteen.

The cook in your father's kitchens makes them perfectly, sweet and tart, the crust flaky, the filling rich with cinnamon. She makes them for the household, small luxuries to brighten the long summer days.

Mei steals the first one.

"Come on," she whispers, catching your hand and pulling you toward the back stairs. "While everyone is at court."

You follow because you always follow her. 

You sneak through the servants' corridors, giggling, the stolen pie warm in Mei's hands. You eat it in the orchard under your favorite tree, passing it back and forth, licking cinnamon from your fingers.

"We will get in trouble," you complain, but you are laughing.

"We will not. I will take the blame if anyone asks." Mei grins at you, her face smudged with apple filling. "Worth it though, was it not worth it?"

It was. It is. Every stolen moment with her is worth it.

You steal pies together all that summer. 

It becomes your secret, your private rebellion. 

Sometimes Caleb joins you, and then it is the three of you again, laughing, eating too fast, lying in the grass and watching clouds drift across the sky. Those are the good days. The golden days. The ones you will remember later when everything has gone wrong.

You turn fourteen. Your childhood is ending, sliding away like silk through your fingers. You begin attending more formal functions, your education intensifying. You learn household management and history, poetry and music. You learn how to smile and curtsy and all other things that daughters of noble houses do.

You learn how to watch Caleb watch Mei and pretend your heart is not breaking. You are old enough to name the feeling that has been growing in your chest for years now.

You are in love with Caleb.

You have been in love with him since you were seven years old and he lifted you down from a tree. You have been in love with him through every afternoon in the orchard, every stolen pie, every moment of laughter and lightness. Every time he shared his cloak when it rained, every time he noticed you were sad before you said anything, every kindness you took for granted.

But he does not see you, not the way you want him to.

He sees only Mei.

You cannot blame him. 

Mei is extraordinary. She is everything you are not, confident where you are hesitant, bold where you are careful, beautiful that sometimes people stop and stare. 

She is your dearest friend. Your protector. Your companion.

How can you resent her when you love her almost as much as you love him?

You tell no one about your feelings for Caleb. Not Mei, the person you trust the most, not your mother, not even your diary. You bury them deep, pressing them down like stones at the bottom of a river. You smile when he talks about Mei. You nod sympathetically when he confides his fears that she will never return his affection.

You are a good friend. A very good companion.

II

Your mark appears on the morning of your fifteenth birthday.

You wake to find two names written on your inner left wrist in ink that seems to shimmer when you move your arm.

Caleb

Mei

You sit on your bed for a long time, staring at your wrist. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.

Two names. 

One is your great love. One is your companion.

You know with certainty that it feels like destiny that Caleb is your great love. He has to be. You have loved him for eight years. He is written in your bones, carved into your heart. The mark is simply confirming what you have always felt.

And Mei…

Mei is your companion. Your truest friend. The person who has walked beside you through childhood, who has held your hand promised to never leave.

It makes perfect sense.

You should feel happy. You should feel hopeful. Instead, you feel strange, as if the world has shifted and nothing is quite where it should be.

You dress quickly and go to find Mei.

She is in her family's chambers, and when she opens the door, you see immediately that her mark has appeared as well. She is wearing longer sleeves, but you can see the edge of ink peeking out at her wrist.

"It happened," you say, and your voice sounds breathless.

Mei nods. 

She does not look happy. Her expression is unreadable.

"Mine too," she replies, her voice quiet and almost reluctant. 

You enter her room and close the door behind you. 

"Will you show me?"

For a moment, you think she will refuse, then she pushes back her sleeve.

Two names. 

Your name and Caleb.

The same names as yours. The same two people.

You do not know what to say, you just stand there, staring at her wrist.

"We have the same marks," you say, and it is not a question.

"Yes."

"That means..." You trail off.

Mei pulls her sleeve back down, hiding the names. 

"It means we are both connected to each other and to him. That is all."

But it cannot be all. The marks mean something, they have to mean something.

"Do you think..." You wet your lips. "Do you think you know which is which? For you, I mean?"

Mei looks at you for a long moment. There is an emotion in her eyes you cannot name, it makes your chest tight.

"I think," she starts slowly, "that the marks do not tell us. We have to live and discover the truth ourselves."

"But you must have a sense. You must feel…"

"I feel many things." Mei cuts you off gently. "But I do not think it is wise to make assumptions. Not yet."

You want to demand she tell you what she is thinking, but Mei has always been private, and you have learned not to press when she closes herself off.

"Will you tell me?" you ask instead. "When you know for certain?"

"Yes." She takes your hand, squeezes once. "I will tell you everything. I promise."

You leave her chambers feeling unsettled. The conversation felt wrong, but you cannot put your finger on what.

Caleb's mark appears three days later.

He comes to the orchard in the afternoon, face flushed with excitement, and shows you and Mei his wrist without preamble.

Your name

Mei

The same names. All three of you connected in a triangle, bound by invisible threads of fate.

"This is it," Caleb looks at Mei with such naked hope that you have to look away. "This is proof. You are one of my soulmates, Mei. I knew it. I have always known it."

Mei says nothing. Her face is very still.

"Mei?" Caleb's smile falters. "Are you not happy?"

"I am..." She pauses. "I am surprised. I had not thought…"

"You have my name, do you not?" He reaches for her wrist, pushes back her sleeve before she can stop him. You see the flicker of emotion cross his face when he sees your name alongside his. "We all have each other's names. We are all bound together."

"Yes," Mei says quietly. "We are."

"Then this is fate." Caleb is still smiling. "You see? The gods have decided for us. You cannot refuse me now. You cannot say we are not meant to be together."

Mei gently pulls her arm free. 

"The marks tell us we are connected. They do not tell us how."

"One of us is the great love. One of us is the companion." Caleb's voice is earnest. "I know which you are, Mei. I have known since I was thirteen years old."

You stand there, watching this exchange, and you feel as if you are disappearing. Neither of them is looking at you. Neither of them is acknowledging that your name is there too, that you are part of this triangle as well.

"Caleb," Mei says, and her voice is gentle but firm. "This is not the time for such declarations."

"When is the time?" He is pleading. "I have waited years, Mei. Years. Tell me you feel nothing, and I will stop. Tell me I am wrong."

Mei does not answer. She is looking at you instead, her expression unreadable.

"I think," you speak instead, and your voice sounds distant even to your own ears, "that we should not make assumptions. The marks have only just appeared. We have time to understand what they mean."

Caleb finally looks at you. You see the moment he remembers you are there, standing beside him, your wrist bearing the same names as theirs.

"You are right," he says, and he sounds chastened. "I am sorry. I got carried away. This is…this affects all of us. Not just me."

"Yes." You manage a smile. "It affects all of us."

But you already know that Caleb's mind is already made up. He has decided Mei is his great love. He has decided the story of his marks before he has lived it.

And you are the companion. The friend, the third point to fate’s triangle.

Later that night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist with one finger.

Caleb. Mei.

You know which is which, you have always known.

Caleb is your great love. He is the one who will consume you, complete you, destroy you when you lose him.

Mei is your companion. Your steadiest friend. The one who walks beside you.

The marks have simply confirmed what your heart already knew.

III

The summons comes three months after the marks appear.

Your father's household is to meet with the imperial court to discuss a formal arrangement. You, Mei, and your families are to attend. Caleb will be there as well, representing the royal family's interests.

You know what this is before you arrive. You have heard your mother and father discussing it in low voices, arguing behind closed doors. You have seen the way the court ladies watch Caleb now, whispering behind their fans, calculating his worth as a potential match.

You know what is coming, and you feel numb about it.

The meeting takes place in one of the smaller audience halls. Your father and mother sit on cushions across from the Emperor's representative, an elderly minister with shrewd eyes and a neutral expression. Mei's parents are there as well, seated slightly behind, their faces tense.

Caleb stands to one side in formal court robes. He looks older than his eighteen years, solemn and princely. He does not look at you or Mei. His gaze is fixed somewhere in the middle distance, his jaw tight.

The minister speaks first. His voice is dry and formal, reciting the terms like he is reading from a ledger.

The arrangement is this:

You will be betrothed to Caleb as his primary wife. Your rank demands it. You are the daughter of a high-ranking lord, a princess in all but name. The match is appropriate, politically advantageous, entirely proper.

Mei will be given to Caleb as his concubine. Her family's status as retainers, servants, three generations of faithful service but no title, no land, no name of consequence, makes her ineligible for the role of wife, but the marks have spoken. The gods have written both of your names on his wrist, and to ignore the marks entirely would be to insult heaven.

Any child that Mei bears will be recorded as yours. The lineage will be clean. On paper, you will be the mother of all his children, whether they come from your body or hers, ensuring the imperial bloodline remains unbroken.

Everyone in the room remains very still while the minister speaks. You focus on your breathing, in, out, in, out, because if you focus on that, you do not have to think about what is being said.

When the minister finishes, your father speaks. "This arrangement is acceptable to our house."

Mei's father speaks next, his voice tight. "It is acceptable to ours as well."

They do not ask you. They do not ask Mei. Women do not get asked in matters like these.

Caleb finally looks at you, but you cannot understand his expression. It is blank, the face he has learned to perfect for courtly functions. Then he looks at Mei, and his face changes and softens.

The minister continues with more details. 

The formal ceremony will take place in three years. There will be a betrothal period where you and Caleb will be expected to spend time together, to learn each other, to prepare for married life.

Mei will move into Caleb's household two weeks after the wedding. That is the tradition, the wife is installed first, before the concubine is brought in.

You find this detail particularly bitter. Two weeks. Two weeks of pretending to be a new wife before your dearest friend, your companion, is moved into the same house, into your husband's bed.

The meeting ends. You stand and bow. Everyone bows. You are dismissed.

In the courtyard outside, Mei catches your arm, her grip is tight enough to hurt.

"I do not want this," she whispers. "I do not want him. You know that, do you not? You know I have never wanted him."

"Then why did your parents agree?" You cannot keep the hurt from your voice.

"They had no choice. When the imperial court makes a request, it is not truly a request." Mei's eyes are bright with anger. "But I am telling you now, I do not want this. I will not pretend I am happy about it."

"Neither am I." The words come out sharper than you intend.

Mei flinches. 

"You are angry with me."

"I am not angry with you. I am angry with…" You gesture helplessly at the palace around you, at the whole structure of it, the system that decides women's lives without consulting them. "I am angry with everything."

"Then we are in agreement." Mei's voice softens. "We are both trapped."

You look at her and see the exhaustion in her face. She looks older than her sixteen years. There are shadows under her eyes, and her usual confidence is stripped away.

"I need you to do something for me," you hear yourself say.

Mei straightens. 

"Anything."

"I need you to..." You stop before forcing yourself to continue. "I need you to go along with this. Be what Caleb wants. Be what Caleb needs."

"What?" Mei's voice is sharp. "Why would I do that?"

"Because if you do not, he will be miserable, and if he is miserable, this whole arrangement falls apart, and then what happens? They send you to a different household? Marry you off to some stranger? I will lose you entirely." You are speaking too fast now, the words tumbling out. "But if you do this, if you accept your position in his household, then we stay together. You and I. That is all I care about. Staying together."

"You cannot ask this of me."

"I am asking. I am begging." Your voice breaks. "Please, Mei. Please do this, if not for him, then do it for me."

Mei stares at you for a long moment. You see her throat work, see her blink rapidly as if fighting tears.

"You do not understand what you are asking."

"I do."

"You do not." Her voice is cold. "But I will do it. If this is what you truly want, I will do it. I will be what he wants. I will be what he needs."

The words sound like a vow and a curse all at once.

You reach for her hand.

"Thank you."

Mei does not answer. She pulls away from you and walks across the courtyard, her back straight. You watch her go and feel something inside you breaks.

Later, when you are alone in your chambers, you will wonder why you did that. Why you asked her to sacrifice herself. Why you thought that was the solution, but in this moment, you tell yourself it makes sense. You tell yourself you are keeping her close, keeping her safe, keeping her yours in the only way the world will allow.

You tell yourself many lies that evening.

IV

The betrothal period passes in a blur.

Three years is a long time to pretend. 

You spend time with Caleb as required. You take walks in the gardens, attend court functions together, sit across from each other at formal dinners and make polite conversation. You learn his preferences, how he likes poetry but cannot stand most music, how he has a sweet tooth he tries to hide, how he is terrible at strategy games but too proud to admit it.

He is kind to you. He treats you with the respect due a future wife, but his eyes are always searching the room for Mei. You pretend not to notice.

Mei, true to her word, allows Caleb's courtship. She accepts his gifts. She walks with him when he asks. She smiles politely when he attempts poetry. She does everything a concubine-to-be is expected to do.

But there is a distance in her manner. There is a wall she has built between herself and him, invisible but unmistakable. She goes through everything without being truly present.

You wonder if Caleb notices. You suspect he does not.

There are moments, though. Moments when it feels almost like before.

One afternoon in the second year of your betrothal, the three of you find yourselves in the orchard together. It is autumn, the trees heavy with fruit, the air crisp and clean. Caleb plucks an apple from a low-hanging branch and tosses it to you. 

"Remember when we used to steal pies from the kitchen?"

You catch the apple, surprised by the sudden nostalgia in his voice. 

"Of course. Mei was always the one who got us into trouble."

"I was the one who got us out of it," Mei retorts, but she is smiling. 

It is a real smile, not the polite mask she wears at court.

"You were both terrible influences." Caleb's voice is warm, teasing, he sounds like the boy you knew at ten. "I was a perfect prince before I met you."

"You were boring," Mei counters.

"I was dignified."

"Boring," you and Mei say in unison, and then all three of you are laughing.

You sit in the grass, passing the apple back and forth, and for a moment, it is like nothing has changed, like you are still children without complications, still friends who steal pies and climb trees and watch clouds.

"I wish it could stay like this," Caleb admits quietly.

The words hang in the air. You want to agree, want to reach for that feeling and hold it tight, but Mei's smile fades.

"It cannot," she says. "It never could."

Caleb's face closes off. You look away. The three of you sit in silence for a while longer, and then Caleb makes an excuse and leaves. Mei watches him go, her expression unreadable. 

"Someone will always be unhappy," she murmurs so softly you almost miss it.

You do not know who she means, perhaps all of you.

The wedding ceremony is elaborate and exhausting.

You are eighteen now, no longer a child. 

You wear red silk embroidered with phoenixes in gold thread. Your hair is arranged in an intricate style that takes hours and hurts your scalp. Your face is painted and your lips stained crimson. You look like a doll. A beautiful, expensive doll.

Caleb wears matching red, his robes heavy with embroidery. At twenty one, he has grown into his features, handsome and princely and entirely unlike the boy you used to steal pies with in the orchard.

You exchange vows in front of the entire court. You drink from the same cup. You bow to his ancestors and to the Emperor. You become his wife in the eyes of the gods and the empire. Through it all, you smile and say the right words and do not let yourself feel anything.

After the ceremony, there is a feast. Hundreds of guests, endless courses, music and dancing. You sit beside Caleb at the head table and accept congratulations. People toast your health, your happiness, your future children.

Mei is somewhere in the crowd. You catch glimpses of her throughout the evening, always at a distance, never meeting your eyes. She is wearing pale pink, a concubine's color, and she looks beautiful and sad and so very alone.

The ceremony for taking Mei as concubine happens a week later. It is quieter, more private. Only close family and a few court officials attend.

Mei wears crimson as well, though a simpler style than your wedding robes. She kneels before Caleb and you, you, his wife, granting permission for her to enter the household. She bows three times. She pledges her loyalty to you first, then to him.

When she rises, her eyes are dry, but you see the strain in the set of her shoulders.

That evening, Caleb comes to your chambers.

It is your wedding night, delayed by a week to accommodate the concubine ceremony. Custom demands he spend this night with you, his wife, before he is allowed to turn his attention elsewhere.

You are ready or as ready as you can be. Your maidservant has prepared you, dressed you in a thin sleeping robe, arranged your hair. You sit on the edge of the bed and try to calm your racing heart.

Caleb enters. He looks nervous. He is still in his formal robes, though he has removed the outer layers.

"You look lovely," he says, and it sounds reflexive, the thing he was supposed to say.

"Thank you." Your voice is steady.

He sits beside you on the bed and the mattress dips under his weight. You can smell the incense that was burned during the ceremony earlier, still clinging to his clothes.

"I…" He stops."You understand, do you not?"

The question hangs in the air. You could pretend you do not know what he means. You could make him say it outright, but what would be the point? You are not cruel enough to make him spell out what you already know.

"Yes," you reply quietly. "I understand."

"I do not want to hurt you." His voice is earnest. He sounds young suddenly, younger than his twenty one years. "You are my wife. I will always respect you. I will always honor you, but my heart…"

"Is elsewhere." You finish the sentence for him. "I know, Caleb. I have always known."

He looks at you and you see guilt flicker across his face. 

"Forgive me."

"Do not be sorry. The arrangement was not your choice any more than it was mine."

"Still. You deserve better than this. Better than a husband who…" He cannot finish the sentence.

You reach out and take his hand. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused from sword practice. 

"Shall I tell you what I think?"

"Please."

"I think we can build a good life together. Perhaps not the life you dreamed of, or the one I dreamed of, but a good life nonetheless. We have been friends since childhood. That is more than most married couples can claim."

"Friends." He sounds sad. "Yes. We have been that."

"So let us continue to be that. Friends who share a household. Friends who support each other, and who fulfill our duties with grace." You squeeze his hand once. "We do not have to pretend to have great passion when we both know the truth."

"You are generous," Caleb says.

"I am practical."

"No. You are generous, and I do not deserve your kindness."

He leans forward and kisses you. It is gentle, chaste, a kiss between friends rather than lovers, then he stands.

"I should go," he says. "I should let you rest."

You nod. You do not point out that this is your wedding night, that custom demands more than a single kiss. You do not mention that the servants will notice, will gossip, will speculate about what it means that he is leaving so quickly. You let him go.

When the door closes behind him, you sit very still for a long time. You do not cry. You simply sit and breathe and accept that this is your life now.

Your marriage. Your role. Your future.

The next morning, you learn that Caleb spent the night in Mei's chambers.

V

The first months of marriage settle into a rhythm.

You wake early, attend to your duties as Caleb's wife. You manage the household, oversee the servants, handle correspondence. You are good at this, the careful navigation of social hierarchies, the endless small decisions that keep a prince’s estate running smoothly. Your mother trained you well.

Caleb is often away during the day, attending court functions or military training. When he is home, he is pleasant. He asks about your day. He ensures you have everything you need. He is a model husband in every way except the one that matters.

Mei lives in the chambers adjacent to yours, and you see her every day. You take your meals together when Caleb is absent. You walk in the gardens, sit in the pavilion overlooking the lotus pond, sometimes you steal away to the kitchens late at night to share rice cakes and talk about the rumors you hear at court.

In those moments, it almost feels like before, like you are still children, but then Caleb comes home, and everything shifts.

He seeks Mei out immediately. He brings her gifts, bolts of silk, jade ornaments, books of poetry. He writes her letters even though they live in the same household. He requests her company for meals, for evening walks, for viewing the moon.

Mei accepts these attentions with polite grace. She never refuses him. She never encourages him either. She exists in a strange middle ground, neither welcoming nor cold, simply present.

You watch this courtship from the sidelines and try to pretend it does not hurt.

The court notices, of course. The servants gossip. The other noble wives watch your household with speculation and poorly-concealed pity. Everyone can see that your husband prefers his concubine to his wife.

You hold your head high and refuse to acknowledge their whispers.

One evening, during a court banquet, one of the Empress' ladies makes a comment just loud enough for you to hear. 

"How gracious Her Highness is, to allow her husband such obvious devotion to the concubine. Most wives would be beside themselves."

You smile serenely. 

"Why should I object? Mei has served my family since childhood. She is dear to me. My husband's affection for her brings me joy, not sorrow."

The lie comes easily, you have had months of practice. The woman looks disappointed. She was clearly hoping for drama, for tears, for some crack in your composure. You give her nothing.

Later, Mei finds you in a quiet corner of the garden. 

"You do not have to do that," she says.

"Do what?"

"Lie for me. Defend me. Pretend you are happy with this situation."

"I am not lying. You are dear to me."

"But you are not happy." Mei's voice is soft. "I can see it, even if no one else can."

You look away, focusing on the lotus flowers blooming in the pond. 

"Happiness was never part of the arrangement."

"It should have been." There is anger in her tone now. "You should have been cherished. You should have been…"

"Please do not." You cut her off gently. "I do not want your pity any more than I want theirs."

"This is not pity. This is…" She stops. When you glance at her, her expression looks pained. "I wish things were different. That is all."

"So do I, but wishing changes nothing."

Mei moves closer, takes your hand. Her fingers are cool against yours. 

"I would give this up in a heartbeat if I could. I would leave this household, go anywhere, if it would make you happy."

"You cannot leave. Where would you go? Back to your family? They have no wealth to support you. To another household as a servant? That would be a worse fate than this." You squeeze her hand. "We are bound together now, you and I. We must make the best of it."

"Then let me make it easier for you," Mei replies. "Give me leave to refuse his attentions. I do not want them. I have never wanted them."

You have noticed this. The way she holds herself distant when Caleb visits her chambers. The way her smiles never quite reach her eyes. The careful way she accepts his poetry without reading it aloud.

"If you refuse him outright, it will cause scandal. He is a prince. His pride…"

"His pride is not my concern."

"It is mine." You pull your hand free. "He is my husband. His honor is my honor. I will not have the court saying he was rejected by his own concubine."

Mei's expression closes.

"As you wish."

She turns to leave, but you catch her sleeve. 

"Mei, wait. I did not mean…"

"You meant exactly what you said." Her voice is cutting. "You want me to continue this charade. To let him court me, to accept his gifts, to pretend I might care for him someday. All so you can save face at court."

"That is not fair."

"Fair?" Mei laughs bitterly. "What about any of this is fair? You married a man who loves me. I am forced to live with him and accept his attention when I…" She stops abruptly.

"When you what?"

"When I would rather be anywhere else." She finishes the sentence carefully.

You study her face, trying to understand what she is not saying, but Mei has always been good at keeping secrets. She has been keeping them your entire lives.

"I will not ask you to leave," you say finally. "But I will not give you permission to publicly reject him either. Find some middle path. Please. For me."

Mei nods once, then she walks away, leaving you standing alone beside the lotus pond.

The Moon Festival arrives in the eighth month of your marriage.

The court celebrates with lanterns and music, feasting and poetry. 

You sit beside Caleb at the festivities, smiling and nodding as officials and nobles pay their respects. The celebration goes late. When you finally return to your chambers, exhausted, you do not expect Caleb to follow, but he does.

"May I come in?" he asks from the doorway.

You are surprised enough that you simply nod. He enters, closing the door behind him. He is still in his formal robes, though he has loosened them slightly. His face is flushed, from wine, perhaps, or from something else.

"Mei turned me away," he says, his voice raw…"She said she was tired. She said…" He stops. "It does not matter what she said."

Ah. So that is why he is here.

Not because he wants you, but because she refused him.

You should send him away. You should tell him you will not be a substitute for the woman he really wants, but you are tired of fighting, tired of pretending, tired of everything.

"You can stay," you hear yourself say. "If you wish."

Caleb looks at you for a long moment, then he nods.

He is gentler than you expected, almost tender. He undresses you slowly, his hands careful, and when he lies beside you, he takes his time. There is a loneliness in the way he touches you, as if he is seeking comfort rather than passion.

You let yourself sink into it. You let yourself pretend, just for these few hours, that he is here because he wants you, that his hands on your skin mean something beyond duty or disappointment.

Afterward, he does not leave immediately. He lies beside you in the darkness, his breathing slowly evening out. You think he has fallen asleep, then his arm slides around your waist.

It is unconscious, you think. A reflex. He pulls you back against him, his body curving around yours, his face buried in your hair. He holds you like he does not want to let go.

You go very still and barely breathe. You do not want to break this moment, this unexpected gentleness. Slowly, carefully, you place your hand over his where it rests on your stomach. His fingers tighten slightly, then relax. His breathing deepens. He is asleep.

You lie there in the darkness, held in your husband's arms, and let yourself pretend. Just for tonight. Just for these few stolen hours.

You pretend he came to you because he wanted to. You pretend the tenderness was real. You pretend that when morning comes, he will wake and smile at you, kiss you, and choose to stay.

You know better. You have always known better, but for tonight, in the darkness, you let yourself hope.

In the morning, he is gone.

The pillow beside you still holds the shape of his head. The blankets are tangled where he slept, but Caleb himself is nowhere to be found. You press your hand to the pillow, feeling the lingering warmth, and your heart breaks a little more.

A few weeks later, you have dinner with Caleb and Mei together, a rare occurrence now that the household has settled. 

The meal is pleasant enough. 

Caleb discusses trade negotiations with the northern provinces. Mei asks about a new shipment of silk from the south. You contribute everything that you have observed from the outer court.

For a moment, it almost feels normal. Three friends sharing a meal, the conversation flowing easily.

"Do you remember," Caleb says suddenly, "the year we stole pies every week for an entire summer?"

"The cook never did figure out who was taking them," Mei smiles. 

"Because you were clever about it," you add. "You always took them when she stepped away, and you replaced the covering so it looked untouched."

"We were terrible," Caleb says, but he is laughing.

"We were children," Mei corrects.

The three of you reminisce for a while, trading stories and memories. For a while, the complications of your arrangement fall away. But then the meal ends, Caleb reaches for Mei's hand as they stand. 

"Walk with me?" he asks her.

Mei glances at you. You see the regret and apology in her eyes. 

"Of course," she tells him.

They leave together. You sit alone at the table, surrounded by empty dishes and fading laughter.

Someone will always be unhappy, Mei said once. You are beginning to understand what she meant.

The months continue, and the pattern repeats. 

Caleb pursues, Mei deflects, you observe. The court whispers grow louder. Some say Caleb is bewitched by his concubine. Others say you are too patient, too forgiving, that you should assert your position as primary wife more forcefully.

A few, a very few, say quiet things about Mei's loyalty. About how she seems to spend more time with you than with Caleb. About the way her gaze follows you across rooms.

You do not listen to those whispers. You cannot afford to. Instead, you focus on your duties. You embroider. You manage the household. You write letters to your family. You sit through endless court functions with a smile painted on your face.

And at night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist and remind yourself which is which.

Caleb, your great love, your husband, the man who will never love you back.

Mei, your companion, your truest friend, the one who walks beside you through all of this.

You repeat this until you believe it. You have to believe it. What else is there?

VI

The discovery comes on an ordinary morning.

You wake feeling nauseous. 

At first, you assume it is something you ate at the banquet the night before, the fish had tasted strange, but the nausea persists through the morning, worsening when you try to take tea. Your maidservant takes one look at your face and goes very still.

"Your highness," she speaks carefully. "Have your monthly courses come?"

You open your mouth to say yes, then stop. When was the last time?  You have been so consumed with household matters, with court functions, with carefully not thinking about your marriage, that you have lost track.

"No," you say slowly. "Not for... not for six weeks at least."

The maidservant's face brightens. 

"Your highness,  you may be with child."

The words do not feel real. They hang in the air, impossible. You and Caleb have barely touched since the wedding night. While he comes to your chambers perhaps once a month, he only stays as long as necessary to maintain appearances. Your couplings are brief, done for duty rather than the passion of newlyweds.

Except for the Moon Festival, that night had been different. 

"Send for the physician," you instruct her. "Quietly. I want no announcement until we are certain."

The physician confirms it that afternoon. You are pregnant, and the child should arrive in early spring. After he leaves, you sit in your chambers and try to understand what this means.

A child. Your child. Caleb's child.

Word travels faster than you anticipated. You are still in your dressing gown when Caleb appears at your door. His face is flushed, as if he has been running.

"Are you sick?" The words come out rushed. "The servants said you called for the physician. Are you ill? Is something wrong?"

You stare at him, surprised by the urgency in his voice. 

"I am not sick."

"Then why…" He stops, looking at you more closely, at the way your hand unconsciously rests on your stomach. Understanding dawns on his face. "Are you…"

"I am with child." The words come out quieter than you intended. "The physician just confirmed it."

For a moment, Caleb simply stands there, then he crosses the room in three long strides and pulls you into his arms. The embrace is fierce and desperate. His hands shake where they press against your back. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, feel the tremor that runs through his whole body.

"Are you safe?" he asks, his voice muffled against your hair. "Are you well? Does anything hurt? Do you need…"

"I am fine," you say, bewildered. "Caleb, I am fine."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face. His eyes are bright, searching. 

"You are certain? You are not in pain? The physician said everything is well?"

"Yes. Everything is well."

"An heir," he breathes, but there is something else in his voice. Something beyond political satisfaction. "You are carrying my child."

He pulls you close again, and this time you feel it, the fear beneath the relief. He is trembling, actually trembling, his breath uneven.

"I heard about your mother’s pregnancies," he states gently. "After we married, I asked some servants in your household, I know she had difficulties and I…" His voice breaks. "I cannot lose you. Do you understand? I cannot."

The words stun you. You stand rigid in his arms, trying to understand what you are hearing.

"Caleb…"

He kisses your forehead. It is tender, lingering, more intimate than any kiss he has given you before. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet.

"Forgive me," he says. "I am being foolish. This is good news. This is very good news."

He steps away, composing himself, but you can still see the tremor in his hands, the brightness in his eyes.

"I should let you rest," he starts. "You need rest. The baby needs…" He stops himself. "I will make sure you have everything you need. Anything you want, just tell me."

Then he is gone, leaving you standing in your chambers, trying to understand what just happened.

Mei finds you an hour later, staring at nothing.

"I heard," She starts as soon as she enters your chambers "The whole household has heard by now."

You turn to look at her. 

"Did you know Caleb asked the servants about my mother’s pregnancies?"

Mei pauses. 

"No, but it does not surprise me."

"Why not?"

"He cares for you." Mei states it simply, as if it is obvious. "More than you think, more than he knows how to show."

"He only cares about his heir."

"No." Mei's voice is firm. "He cares about you. I have seen it in the small things he does"

"Those are just…"

"They are not just anything." Mei takes your hands. "He may love the idea of me, but he cares for you. There is a difference."

You want to argue. You want to insist she is wrong, but the memory of Caleb's embrace, his trembling hands, his fear, it sits heavy in your chest.

"He told me he cannot lose me," you whisper.

"Because he cannot." Mei reaches for your hand. "You are his wife. The mother of his child now. Someone he has known since childhood. Whether he understands it or not, you matter to him."

"But he loves you."

"He thinks he does." Mei's smile is sad. "But love is more than longing, more than pursuit. Sometimes it is in the quiet things. The unconscious gestures. The fears we cannot name."

You do not know what to say to that.

The weeks pass. Your body changes. Your stomach begins to round. You feel the first fluttering movements, strange and wondrous.

The court is told. Congratulations pour in. The Emperor himself sends a letter expressing his pleasure at the news of his grandchild. Your parents visit, your mother hovering anxiously, your father looking pleased in his austere way. Everyone is happy for you.

Caleb becomes more present. Not in the way you once hoped for, he still spends his evenings with Mei, but in smaller ways. He insists you sit during lengthy court functions. When you attend audiences, he cuts them shorter than usual. He checks that your chambers are warm enough without you asking. 

Once, when you grow dizzy in the garden, he appears at your side before you can call for help, his hand steadying you, his voice tight with worry as he walks you back inside. You do not know how he knew you were there. You do not ask.

When you are five months along, Mei arranges an afternoon tea in your chambers. It is just the three of you. You, Mei, and Caleb. The conversation starts awkwardly. 

Caleb discusses updates about the military. You share things about the household. Mei adds the preparations for the coming winter. Then Caleb says something about your lack of rest, and Mei's eyes flash.

"Perhaps if you visited more often as a husband rather than as an official checking on imperial property, she would feel less alone," Mei says, her voice sharp.

Caleb goes very still. 

"I visit regularly."

"You visit to ensure your heir is well, not to ensure she is well."

"That is not…" Caleb stops. "That is not fair."

"Is it not?" Mei turns to you. "When was the last time he asked about your wellbeing that was not related to the child?"

You open your mouth to defend him, but you cannot think of an instance. Caleb's face has gone pale. 

"I…"

"She is your wife," Mei continues, relentless. "She carries your child. The least you could do is see her as more than a vessel for your heir."

The silence that follows is heavy, painful. Then the baby kicks. It is strong enough that you gasp, your hand flying to your stomach. Both Caleb and Mei turn to you immediately.

"What is wrong?" Caleb asks, alarmed.

"Nothing. The baby just…" You place your hand over the spot. "The baby is moving."

Caleb stares at your hand on your stomach. 

"May I…" He stops. "Would you mind if I…"

You take his hand and place it where you felt the movement. For a moment, nothing happens, then the baby kicks again, directly against Caleb's palm. His face transforms, wonder replaces the tension from moments before. 

"I felt it," he breathes. "I felt…"

"Let me feel too," Mei says softly. 

You take her hand and place it beside Caleb's. The three of you wait, silent, until the baby kicks again.

"Strong," Mei gasps, and there are tears in her eyes. "Your child is strong."

"Ours," you say instinctively. "You said you would help me raise them, that makes them ours."

Mei's fingers curl against your stomach. The baby kicks again, and for this one fragile moment, the three of you are connected. All of you feeling this new life, this small person who exists because of all your complicated relationships.

"I will do better," Caleb states, he is looking at you now, not at your stomach. "You are right, Mei. I have been seeing her as the mother of my heir, not as…" He stops. "I will do better."

Mei pulls her hand back. 

"See that you do."

The moment breaks. Caleb stands and excuses himself. Mei begins clearing the table, but something has shifted. You sit there, your hands on your stomach, and let yourself feel a tiny spark of hope.

Then one afternoon, you find Mei alone and preparing herbs in the kitchen.

You watch her work for a moment before you recognize the plants she is crushing. You grew up in a lord's household. You know what tansy and pennyroyal look like when they are ground together. You know what they are used for.

The realization strikes you. Abortifacients.

"Mei?” You call her name before you can stop yourself.

She turns, sees you, sees the herbs. Her face goes pale.

"How long?" you ask.

"Since the beginning." She replies without shame. "I will not bear his children. I will not give him that."

"But why? A child would…"

"Would what? Tie me to him forever? Make this pretense real?" Mei's voice is sharp. "I am not you. I do not accept this quietly. I do not make the best of my cage."

The words are meant to wound, and they succeed. You take a step back as if struck.

"That was cruel.”

"Yes." Mei looks away. "Forgive me, that was cruel."

"If you hate this so much, why do you stay?"

"Because you asked me to." Her response comes quickly. "You asked me to be what he wants. To go along with this. To stay here, with you. So I stay."

"I did not know you were this miserable."

"Of course you did not know. You are too busy being miserable yourself to notice anyone else."

The observation is so accurate it steals your breath. You stand there in the kitchen, staring at each other, and for the first time, you see the full weight of what you have asked of her. The sacrifices she has made. The pain she has endured, all because you begged her to stay.

"I am sorry," you tell her, but the words feel inadequate. "Mei, I am so sorry."

"Do not apologize. This is not your fault. None of this is your fault." Mei turns back to her herbs, crushing them with renewed force. "But do not ask me to pretend I am content. Do not ask me to pretend I want him, because I do not. I never have."

"Then who do you want?" The question escapes before you can stop it.

Mei goes very still. 

For a long moment, she does not answer. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Someone I cannot have."

She does not elaborate. She finishes preparing her herbs in silence, and you do not ask again.

That night, you lie in bed with your hands on your growing stomach and take in everything you have asked of Mei.

You asked her to stay. She stayed. You asked her to accept Caleb's courtship. She accepted. You asked her to smile at court. She smiled.

And beneath all of it, in the privacy of the kitchen when no one was watching, she ground bitter herbs into tea and drank them so that the one boundary she had left would hold.

You think about what it must have been like. Month after month. The taste of tansy and pennyroyal, the cramping, the pain because of her refusal to let her body become one more thing that belonged to him.

She did that ever since she became Caleb’s concubine.

She did that while brushing your hair, while smiling at you, while reassuring you, while staying with you, and laughing with you in the gardens as if nothing were wrong.

You roll onto your side and press your face into the pillow, and you do not sleep for a very long time.

VII

The banquet is in honor of the Emperor's birthday.

All of the court is required to attend.

You are six months pregnant now, your stomach round and obvious beneath your formal robes. You move slowly, carefully, one hand always resting on your belly as if to reassure the child within.

Mei walks beside you, her presence a comfort in the overwhelming crowd. Caleb is somewhere ahead, fulfilling his ceremonial duties as a prince of the blood. You will join him at the high table once the formal presentations are complete.

The Emperor sits on his throne, receiving tributes and well-wishes. The hall is filled with nobles, officials, foreign dignitaries. Everyone who matters in the empire is here. Including the Emperor's concubines.

There are four of them. 

You know their faces, their names, their positions in the complex hierarchy of the inner court. The eldest, Lady Qi, is kind and has always treated you with courtesy. The second, Lady Qin, is ambitious but intelligent, someone you respect if not quite trust.

The third is Lady Xue.

She is the youngest of the Emperor's concubines, only recently elevated to her position. She is beautiful, clever, and hungry for power. Her family is wealthy but not particularly well-connected. Her position depends entirely on the Emperor's favor, and that favor is slipping.

You have heard the whispers. The Emperor has lost interest in her. He visits her chambers less frequently. He has been seen courting a new woman, a merchant's daughter with a sharp wit and considerable political connections.

Lady Xue is desperate.

She needs to do something dramatic, something that will remind the Emperor why he favored her in the first place. She needs to prove her value, her indispensability.

She needs a victory.

You do not know that Lady Xue has been watching your household, noting the Emperor's pleasure at the news of his grandchild. You do not know that she has decided removing Caleb's heir would destabilize his position, would create chaos that she could exploit. You do not know that she has already bribed one of the servants to poison your wine.

The banquet proceeds. 

Courses arrive in endless succession, delicate soups, roasted meats, fish cooked in wine and spices, steamed dumplings, sweet rice cakes. You eat sparingly, mindful of your pregnancy and the rich food.

Mei sits beside you, as is proper for a concubine. She barely touches her food. She has been tense all evening, her gaze constantly scanning the crowd.

"Are you well?" you ask quietly.

"I do not like this." Mei's voice is low. "Too many people. Too much attention on you."

"It is the Emperor's birthday. We cannot avoid attending."

"I know, but I do not like it."

You squeeze her hand briefly to reassure her.

"You think too much. Nothing will happen. I am perfectly safe."

Mei does not look convinced.

The wine arrives. It is a special vintage, brought out only for imperial celebrations. The servant fills your cup, then Mei's, then moves down the table.

You raise your cup to drink. Mei's hand closes around your wrist.

"Wait." Her voice is low, urgent.

"What—"

"The servant." Mei's eyes are fixed on the man retreating down the table. "He poured yours differently. He tilted the bottle at the end. Everyone else received a straight pour."

You glance at your cup. The wine looks the same as everyone else's, dark red and sweet smelling.

"Mei, you are being…"

"And he looked at someone when he set your cup down, across the hall. I saw his eyes move." Mei's grip tightens on your wrist. Her knuckles are white. "Do not drink it."

"It is the Emperor's wine. No one would dare…"

"Someone already has." Mei's voice is steady, but her hand is trembling. She is not guessing. She is reading the room the way she always does, with the sharp, relentless attention of someone who has spent her entire life watching for threats against you.

You set the cup down.

Mei stares at it. Then at you. Then at your rounded stomach.

You see the decision form behind her eyes a half-second before she moves.

"Mei, no…"

She snatches up your cup and drinks the wine in three quick swallows.

The hall goes very quiet. People are staring, someone laughs uncertainly, thinking this is some kind of joke. Then Mei's face contorts. She doubles over, gasping. The cup falls from her hands, shattering on the stone floor.

"Mei!" You lunge for her, but she is already collapsing. You catch her as best you can, supporting her weight, lowering her to the ground.

"Get the physician!" someone shouts. 

Caleb is there suddenly, shoving people aside. He kneels beside you, staring at Mei's face. She is convulsing, foam flecking her lips, her skin turning an awful grey.

"What happened?" Caleb demands. "What did she drink?"

"My wine." You are shaking. "She drank my wine."

Understanding and horror dawns on Caleb's face. The wine was meant for you. For the child you carry.

Mei would have known that. She would have known the poison was meant for you. She drank it anyway.

The physician arrives, but it is clear almost immediately that there is nothing he can do. The poison is too strong, too fast-acting. It is burning through Mei's body, shutting down her organs one by one.

She is dying.

You pull her into your lap, heedless of propriety, of the watching court. You cradle her head against your chest, your tears falling onto her face.

"Stay with me," you beg. "Please, Mei. Please stay."

Her eyes flutter open. She looks at you, and despite the pain, despite everything, she smiles.

"I love you," she whispers.

The words are so quiet you almost miss them. You stare down at her, and in that moment, you understand. 

You finally understand everything. Not Caleb. Never Caleb. You.

Mei has always loved you.

Caleb is there beside you, holding Mei's hand, weeping openly. He leans close, his face twisted with grief.

"I love you too," he sobs. "Mei, I love you. Please do not leave. Please."

He thinks she is talking to him. He thinks her final words are for him, but Mei is not looking at Caleb. She is looking at you. Only at you.

Her lips move again. You lean closer, and you hear her breathe three more words. 

"Protect the child."

Then her eyes close and her body goes still.

Mei is gone.

The hall erupts. Guards are summoned. The physician declares her dead. The Emperor demands to know who poisoned the wine. Servants are questioned, dragged away. Lady Xue’s face is pale with shock, she did not expect her plan to fail. 

She did not expect Mei to intercept the poison.

You hear none of it. You sit on the cold stone floor, holding Mei's body, and you cannot breathe. You cannot do anything except stare at her lifeless face and try to understand that she is truly gone.

She loved you. She has always loved you. And now she is dead.

Caleb tries to pull Mei from your arms. You resist, clutching her tighter, but eventually he succeeds. He lifts her body, his face streaming with tears, and carries her from the hall.

You sit there, alone, blood and wine staining your formal robes. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shaking. Someone, your maidservant, perhaps, helps you to your feet. Someone leads you from the hall. You move like a ghost. When you reach your chambers, you collapse, and finally, finally, you let yourself scream.

VIII

The funeral is held three days later.

Mei's body is prepared with the traditional rites, washed, dressed in burial silks, laid in a lacquered coffin. Incense burns at the four corners. Mourners file past to pay their respects.

You attend because you are required to. You are Caleb's wife, and Mei was part of your household, but you feel absent from yourself, as if you are watching from a great distance.

Caleb is devastated. He weeps openly during the ceremony. He talks about how he loved her, how he will always love her, how her death has left a hole in his heart that can never be filled.

Every word is a knife, because he is wrong. He is wrong about everything. Mei did not love him. She never loved him. 

She loved you, and he will never know that. 

He will spend the rest of his life believing she died loving him, that her last words were meant for him. The truth will die with her.

After the ceremony, after Mei's coffin is carried to the burial ground, after the earth is mounded over her and the final prayers are spoken, you return to the palace.

The investigation into the poisoning has concluded. 

Lady Xue’s involvement has been proven beyond doubt, servants have testified, silver has been traced, the poison itself has been identified.  She has been arrested, stripped of her position, sent to face imperial justice, but that is not enough for the court gossip.

The court needs someone to blame, and Lady Xue's arrest is not dramatic enough for them. A concubine's failed plot is politics. A jealous wife's poisoning is tragedy, and tragedy sells.

So the rumor takes root, you did it. You, the patient wife, the dignified presence at every function, finally cracked under the weight of your husband's obvious preference for his concubine and killed the woman he loved.

It does not matter that Lady Xue confessed. It does not matter that the poison was traced, the servants questioned, the evidence laid bare. The court has chosen its story, and your innocence is not part of it.

Caleb does not correct them. That is what breaks you, not the whispers, not the sidelong glances, not the women who draw back when you approach. 

His silence. His refusal to stand beside you and say my wife did not do this. He is too deep in his own grief to notice yours, and the court takes his silence as confirmation.

Three weeks after the funeral, he comes to your chambers.

You are in bed, still in your sleeping robe even though it is midday. You have not bathed in days. You have not cared enough to bother. Caleb stands in the doorway, looking at you with an expression you cannot read.

"We need to speak," he starts.

You sit up slowly. You do not ask him to come in. You simply wait.

"The court is talking," he continues. "The rumors about you and Mei, about the poisoning, they are damaging my reputation and the imperial family."

"I did not poison her." Your voice is hoarse from disuse.

"I know that."

"Then why do you not say so? Why do you not defend me?"

Caleb looks away. 

"Because I cannot bear to look at you."

"What?" you whisper.

"Every time I see you, I think of her. I think of Mei, lying dead on the floor. I think of how she is gone and you are still here. And I…" His voice breaks. "I wish it had been you."

The room tilts. You clutch at the sheets to keep from falling.

"I wish you had been the one who died instead of her. I wish…" Caleb cannot finish. He is weeping now, his shoulders shaking. "I cannot do this anymore. I cannot live in this house with you. I cannot look at you and not see what I have lost."

"Where would you have me go?" Your voice sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking.

"I have a summer estate. Three days' journey north. I am sending you there. You will stay until the child is born. After that… we will decide what happens after."

He is exiling you.

"And if I refuse?"

"You will not refuse. You will go. You will leave this palace, and you will not return until I send for you."

He turns and walks away, leaving you alone in your chambers. You sit very still for a long time after he leaves. Then, carefully, you look down at your wrist.

The names are still there. Caleb and Mei, written in the same shimmering ink. Mei's name has not changed. It is still the same as it was the day the marks appeared. You trace it with one finger, and finally you let yourself cry.

Not for Caleb. Not for your marriage or your position or your reputation. For Mei. For the friend who protected you. For the woman who loved you back and never told you. For everything you could have had if you had only understood sooner.

IX

The retinue assigned to escort you to the summer estate is small but capable. 

Two guards, a driver, and your maidservant. They load your belongings into the carriage. You watch from the window of your chambers, already feeling like a ghost haunting your own life.

Your mother comes to see you before you leave. She looks older, worn down by the scandal. She does not embrace you. She does not say she believes in your innocence.

"Try to stay out of sight," she tells you. "Let the rumors die down. Perhaps in a year or two, people will forget."

"Perhaps," you echo, because what else is there to say?

Your father does not come. You are not surprised. To him, you were always a tool for power. A disgraced daughter is worse than no daughter at all.

The carriage journey begins. You sit in silence, watching the palace disappear behind you. The capital fades into countryside, rice paddies, small villages, rivers winding through green hills. It should be beautiful, you cannot bring yourself to care.

On the second day of travel, you notice something strange. The driver has taken a wrong turn. You lean forward. 

"Where are we going?"

"To your destination, my lady." His voice is calm, steady.

"This is not the road to the summer estate."

"No, your highness. It is not."

Your maidservant reaches over and takes your hand.

"We are taking you somewhere safe," she says gently. "Somewhere you will be welcome."

"I do not understand."

"The summer estate is not safe for you. The other servants in the prince's household do not believe you are innocent. They believe the rumors. If you go there, you will be alone, unprotected, and when the child is born…" She stops. "We do not trust what might happen."

"Where are you taking me?"

"To Lady Mei's family."

You stare at her, confused.

"How…who arranged this?"

"Lady Mei did." Your maidservant's voice is gentle. "Some time before the Emperor's birthday banquet, she told us that if anything happened to her, we were to bring you to her family instead of the summer estate."

"Mei did?"

"Yes, my lady. She knew something was going to happen. She did not know what, exactly, but she sensed danger. She wanted to ensure you would be protected."

"She planned this." You cannot breathe. "She planned all of this."

Your maidservant squeezes your hand. 

"She wanted you safe, so she made arrangements."

You sit back, stunned. Even in death, Mei was still taking care of you.

The journey takes five days instead of three. The roads grow rougher, the villages smaller. You are traveling west now, toward the mountains, away from the luxuries of the capital and into harder country. By the time you arrive, you are fevered and exhausted.

Mei's family home is modest, a compound built around a central courtyard, simple but well-maintained. As the carriage stops, you see an older woman emerge from the main building, her hair streaked with grey, her face lined with years of work.

She looks like Mei. The same eyes, the same determined set to her jaw. Mei’s mother, whom you have not seen since the announcement of your betrothal to Caleb.

You try to stand, to exit the carriage properly, but your legs buckle. The world tilts, going dark at the edges. You hear voices, feel hands catching you, but it all seems very far away. The last thing you remember is the smell of rain and the feeling of being lifted, carried inside.

When you wake, it is night. You are in a small, clean room. A single lantern burns in the corner. You are tucked into a bed that smells of herbs and soap.

A woman sits beside you, pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Mei's mother.

"You are awake," she says softly. "Good. You have been fevered for three days."

Three days. You have lost three days.

"Where am I?"

"My home. My husband and I brought you inside when you collapsed. We have been caring for you."

You try to sit up, but she pushes you back gently. 

"Rest. You need rest. The baby needs rest."

"Why are you helping me?" The question comes out sharper than you intend. "I am the one…they say I am the one who…"

"You did not kill my daughter." Mei's mother's voice is firm. "I know that as surely as I know my own name."

"How can you know?"

"Mei wrote to me." Her voice breaks slightly. "Several weeks before the Emperor's birthday, she sent a letter. She believed that you and your child were in danger. She told me she had made arrangements for your safety, that she had paid your servants to bring you here if anything happened to her. She told me…" Mei's mother stops to compose herself. “She told me that if you arrived at my door, it would mean she was gone, and that I should care for you as I would have cared for her."

"She knew something would happen."

"She knew danger was circling. She did not know the specific form it would take, but she knew, and she chose to protect you rather than herself." Mei's mother strokes your hair, the gesture so like her daughter's that it makes your chest ache. "That is who my daughter was. That is what her love looked like."

You cannot speak. You can only weep.

"She wrote to me every week since she entered your household," Mei's mother continues quietly. "She told me everything. About the tea she was taking. About how she would never bear that prince's child. About how her only happiness was you."

"She told you she loved me?"

"She told me she had always loved you, since you were children. Since the day you cried under that apple tree and she swore to protect you." Mei's mother's own eyes fill with tears. "She told me about the soulmarks. She knew that you were her great love, but you did not know, and that you believed the prince was yours."

"I do not understand." Your voice is shaking. "If she loved me, why did she never say anything? Why did she…"

"Because you asked her not to. You begged her to be what the prince wanted, to go along with the arrangement, to stay in that household for your sake." Her  voice is gentle but unyielding. "My daughter would have done anything for you even if it meant giving up her life for you.."

The truth of it crashes over you. Mei sacrificed everything. Her happiness, her future, her very life. All because you asked her to. All because she loved you.

"I did not know," you whisper. "I did not know she loved me that way until…. I thought…I thought she was my companion. My friend. I thought Caleb was…"

"Caleb was her great love?" Mei's mother makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No, child. You had it backwards.”

"What do you mean?"

"My daughter knew the truth of all three marks. She knew which name was which for each of you."

I love you. Not to Caleb. To you.

"She also knew," Mei's mother continues, "that Caleb's great love was you. Not her. You. You were his great love, just as he was yours, but both of you were too blind to see it, too convinced of your own assumptions."

You stare at her. 

"That cannot be right. Caleb loved Mei. He pursued her. He mourned her. He…"

"He loved the idea of her. The unattainable woman. The one who would not love him back." Her voice is sad. "But his great love was always you. My daughter knew that. She knew she was the companion to both of you. That her purpose was to walk beside you, to support you, to help you find each other."

"Then why did she drink the poison?" Your voice breaks. "If she was only the companion…if her death would not destroy him the way a great love's death would…why did she do it?"

"You were carrying his child. She knew that poison was meant for you, and if you died, you would both lose everything. She could not let that happen." Mei's mother wipes her eyes. "She removed herself from the situation. She knew that with her gone, you and the prince would have to face each other without her in the middle. She hoped…I think she hoped…that her death would force you both to see the truth."

You cannot speak. Everything you thought you knew is wrong. Every assumption, every certainty, all of it built on misunderstandings and blind hope and the failure to simply ask the right questions.

Caleb is your great love. You are his. And Mei knew that. 

She always knew. She loved you anyway, with the quiet devotion of a companion who puts her great love's happiness above her own.

"I would have chosen her," you whisper. "If I had known. If she had told me, I would have…"

But the words falter before you can finish them. Would you have? Truly? If Mei had come to you at fifteen and confessed everything,  if she had taken your hands and looked you in the eye and told you that she was your great love, not Caleb, would you have believed her? 

Would you have turned away from eight years of longing, from the boy who lifted you out of apple trees, from the ache in your chest every time he entered a room? Or would you have held Mei's hands and felt sorry for her and gently explained that she was confused?

You do not know the answer. That is the worst part. You want desperately to say you would have chosen her, that you would have defied the court and your family and every expectation placed on you, but you are no longer certain of anything you once believed about your own heart.

"I would like to think I would have chosen her," you amend, and your voice is very small.

Mei's mother strokes your hair and does not argue. Perhaps she knows the truth. Perhaps she is kind enough not to say it.

"I know." Mei's mother pulls you into an embrace, and you sob against her shoulder. "I know, child, but she could not ask you to make that choice. She could not ask you to give up your position, your family, your future. She loved you too much for that."

You cry until you have no tears left. You cry for Mei, for yourself, for Caleb and the tragedy of three people who could not see what was written on their own skin. When you finally pull back, exhausted and hollow, Mei's mother smooths your hair.

"You will stay here," she says. "You and the child. You are safe here. You are welcome here."

"But what about…"

"No one knows you are here except those who brought you. Your servants…they are loyal to you, not to the prince. They will not betray your location." Her voice is firm. "You will stay. You will have this baby, and then we will decide what comes next."

You are too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything but nod and let yourself be cared for.

That night, lying in a small room in Mei's childhood home, you dream of apple orchards and stolen pies and a girl with fierce eyes who promised to always protect you.

You wake crying, but this time, someone is there to hold you through it.

X

The months pass slowly in Mei's family home.

Your pregnancy progresses. 

Your stomach swells more, the baby moving constantly now, pressing against your ribs, making you breathless. The discomforts of late pregnancy are compounded by grief that never fully leaves, that sits like a stone in your chest.

Mei's mother attends you with quiet care. 

She brings you ginger tea for nausea, rubs salve into your aching back, sits with you during the long afternoons when you cannot sleep.

She tells you stories about Mei as a child. 

How stubborn she was, how fierce, how she once punched a boy who made fun of her younger brother. How she learned to sew because she wanted to make you a dress. How she wrote in her diary about you constantly, pages and pages of memories and hopes and quiet, desperate love.

You listen to these stories and feel yourself break a little more each time.

You also grow weaker.

At first, you attribute it to the pregnancy. 

Late pregnancy is exhausting, everyone says so, but as the weeks pass, you notice things that worry you. You are tired all the time, sleeping twelve, fourteen hours a day. You have no appetite. Your hands shake.

The local healer examines you and shakes her head. 

"The baby is fine. Strong heartbeat, good position. But you… You are not well."

"What is wrong with me?"

"Your body is giving up. Grief sometimes does that. Takes root in the bones, drains the life away."

"Can you treat it?"

"I can give you herbs to strengthen your blood. But the real medicine…" She pauses. "The real medicine is wanting to live, and I am not certain you do."

She is right. 

You are not certain you do.

You go through day by day. 

You eat when Mei's mother insists. You walk in the small garden behind the house, placing your hand on the rough bark of the apple tree that grows there. You sit in the sun and try to feel warmth.

But everything is distant, muted, you are a ghost drifting through someone else's life.

Seven months pregnant. Eight. The baby will come soon.

You wonder if you will survive the birth, part of you hopes you will not.

Mei's mother seems to sense your thoughts. 

One evening, she sits beside you and takes your hand.

"You must live," she says. "For the child. For my daughter's memory. For yourself."

"I am trying."

"Try harder." Her voice is fierce, so much like Mei's that it hurts. "You have a choice, here. You can give up, let grief swallow you, or you can fight. You can live. You can raise this child and give them the love you never got to give my daughter."

"What if I cannot?" Your voice is small. "What if I am not strong enough?"

"You are. You have always been strong. You survived a marriage you did not want, a household that did not value you, the loss of your dearest friend. You can survive this too."

You want to believe her. You want to find that strength within yourself.

But as the weeks pass, as your body grows heavier and your spirit lighter, you feel yourself slipping away.

You think about the orchard often now. 

Those golden afternoons with Caleb and Mei. 

The three of you together, before everything went wrong.

You think about Mei's hands always finding yours first. The way she used to brush your hair. How she looked at you when she thought you were not watching.

You think about Caleb's laugh, bright and careless. How he used to help you down from trees. How his eyes would light up when he saw Mei, not realizing the person he was truly seeking was standing right beside him.

You think about the baby growing inside you. 

Caleb's child. 

The heir he wanted. The person who will carry both your grief and your hope into the future.

You hope the baby looks like Caleb. You hope they have his laugh, his kindness, his capacity for joy.

You hope they never make the mistakes you made. Never assume, never fail to ask, never let pride keep them from admitting what their heart already knows.

The contractions begin on a spring morning.

The sky is clear, the air warm. Cherry blossoms are blooming in the garden, pink and delicate.

You labor through the day and into the night. 

It is long and difficult. Your body is exhausted before you even begin. Mei's mother stays with you, holding your hand, murmuring encouragement.

"You can do this," she says. "You are almost there."

But you already know that this is the end for you.

You have enough strength to bring the child into the world, but not enough to remain in it yourself.

The baby arrives just before dawn. 

A girl, small but healthy, with a powerful cry and perfect tiny fingers.

They place her in your arms, and you look down at her face and see Caleb. 

She has his eyes, that distinctive purple that marks her as imperial blood. She has his nose, his chin, his delicate features.

She is beautiful.

"What will you name her?" Mei's mother asks.

You do not hesitate. 

"Mei."

Mei's mother's eyes fill with tears. 

"Are you certain?"

"She is named for the only person who truly loved me." Your voice is weak, fading. "Let her carry that name. Let her carry that legacy."

You hold your daughter for a long time, memorizing her face, the weight of her in your arms, the sound of her breathing.

Then you look at Mei's mother and speak the words you have been preparing.

"Take care of her. Raise her here, away from the capital, away from the court. Do not tell Caleb where she is unless…" You pause. "Unless he comes looking. If he never comes, let her grow up here, in peace."

"And if he does come?"

"Tell him I forgive him." The words are important. They need to be said. "Tell him I understand. Tell him it was not his fault, any of it. We were all blind."

"I will tell him."

"And tell Mei…" You look down at the baby. "Tell her she was loved. Tell her she was wanted. Tell her…"

But you cannot finish, your vision is blurring, darkening at the edges.

Mei's mother takes the baby gently from your arms. 

"I will tell her everything. I promise."

You smile, or try to. You are not certain if your face is moving anymore.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For everything. For taking me in. For…"

"Hush now. Rest. You have done well."

You close your eyes. The last thing you feel is warmth, sunlight streaming through the window, or perhaps just the memory of warmth, of spring afternoons and stolen moments and a hand that always found yours first.

You slip away thinking of apple orchards.

XI

The weeks after he sends you away are quiet.

Caleb returns to his duties. He attends the court. He trains with the imperial guard. He sits through the imperial council meetings and says the right things at the right times.

He visits Mei's grave every third day, kneeling in the dirt, speaking to her headstone as if she might answer.

He does not visit your chambers. There is no reason to, they are empty now, but sometimes he finds himself walking that corridor anyway, his feet carrying him there out of habit before his mind catches up. He stops outside your door, hand half-raised, and stands there for a moment before turning away. He does not examine why.

Your maidservants have been dismissed or reassigned. The rooms are being cleaned and closed. A servant asks whether your personal effects should be packed and sent to the summer estate, and Caleb opens his mouth to say yes, then stops.

"Leave them," he orders. "Leave everything as it is."

He does not examine that either.

At night, he reaches across the bed in his sleep. His hand finds empty space where a body should be, and he wakes confused and grasping, unsure who he was reaching for.

He assumes it is Mei. It has always been Mei.

After her funeral, Caleb checks his wrist obsessively. Waiting for the sign, for the darkening that would tell him his great love had passed, but both names remained unchanged, clear, vibrant, exactly as they had been since he received them.

He did not understand. How could Mei be dead and his mark remain the same? He convinced himself it was a delay. That fate took time to register death, that eventually, the change would come and he would finally have confirmation that Mei was his great love.

Then, three months after Mei's death and your exile, he wakes one morning and sees it.

Mei's name has changed. It did not darken as he expected, it faded. The characters have turned grey.

Grey. The mark of a companion.

He stares at his wrist, and the world tilts beneath him. No. That cannot be right. 

Mei was his great love. She had to be. He loved her for years, pursued her, mourned her… But the marks do not lie.

If Mei's name is grey and she was his companion. Then that means…

He looks at your name. Still there. Still unchanged. Still shimmering.

The realization crashes over him. You. You were always the great love.

And suddenly, everything that felt wrong about Mei makes sense. The way his longing for her was always tinged with frustration, never peace.  The way she never quite fit into the space in his heart he tried to force her into. The way loving her felt like chasing something perpetually out of reach. Because she was not meant to be caught, she was the companion. The friend. The bridge.

And you.. He remembers the last words he said to you. I wish it had been you.

The memory hits him. He told you he wished you had died instead of Mei. He looked at you, pregnant with his child, grieving your closest friend, accused of murder by the entire court, and he told you he wished you were dead.

He sent you away while heavily pregnant with his child. He had known about your mother's difficult pregnancies. He had known, and he had sent you away regardless.

And Mei died protecting you. Protecting you and the child. That was her last act of love for you, drinking poison meant for you, sacrificing herself to save you both. And he repaid that sacrifice by exiling you. By telling you he wished you were dead. By sending you away when you needed protection most. When Mei would have wanted him to protect you.

"No." The word tears out of him. "No, no, no…"

He is running before he realizes it, shouting for servants, for guards, for horses.

"The summer estate," he gasps. "Ready a retinue. Now. We leave immediately."

"Your Highness, it is barely dawn…"

"Now!"

The ride takes three days. Three days of riding hard, stopping only when the horses must rest. Three days of Caleb checking his wrist obsessively, looking at your name, praying it does not darken. Praying he is not too late.

He will apologize. He will beg for forgiveness. He will tell you he was blind, that he was wrong, that he convinced himself Mei was his great love when you were standing beside him the entire time.

He will make this right. He has to make this right.

When he arrives at the summer estate, he dismounts before his horse has fully stopped. He strides through the entrance, calling your name.

Servants appear, looking confused. The head of the household, a middle-aged woman with stern features, bows low.

"Your Highness. We did not expect…"

"Where is she?" Caleb demands. "Where is my wife?"

The woman's confusion deepens. 

"Your Highness, she is not here."

The world stops.

"What do you mean she is not here? She was sent here several months ago. Where is she?"

"We received no such person, Your Highness. We received word that Her Highness would be coming, yes, but she never arrived."

Caleb's blood runs cold. 

"That is impossible. She was sent here. With guards. With servants. They were to deliver her safely…"

"We have seen no one, Your Highness."

He tears through the estate like a madman. He checks every room, every chamber, every corner. He finds nothing. No belongings. No sign you were ever there. He returns to the capital and summons the servants who escorted you. They kneel before him, trembling.

"Where is she?" His voice is deadly quiet. "Where is my wife?"

"We delivered her to the summer estate, Your Highness," the driver says. "We saw her enter…"

"Liar." Caleb's hand goes to his sword. "The estate says she never arrived. Where did you take her?"

"Your Highness, we…"

"WHERE IS SHE?"

The servants exchange glances. Fear is written on their faces, but beneath it, something else. Defiance. Loyalty to someone who is not him.

"You told us you would come when the child was born," one of the servants he brought from the estate finally speaks up. "You made it clear you did not wish to see her until then. We thought, when she did not arrive at the estate, we thought you had changed your mind. That you had made other arrangements."

"What other arrangements? Where is she?"

Silence.

"ANSWER ME!"

But the servants from the retinue he assigned you do not break. They kneel there, silent and stubborn, protecting your location even under threat of death.

Caleb wants to execute them all. He wants to torture the truth from them, but a part of him, the part that remembers Mei's sacrifice, that understands these servants cared for you more than he did, that part stops him.

"Get out," he says finally. "All of you. Get out of my sight."

They leave, and Caleb is alone.

He sends men to every province, every village, every corner of the empire. He offers rewards for information. He follows every rumor, every possible lead.

Every morning, he checks his wrist. Your name remains unchanged. This gives him hope, irrational, desperate hope. If you were dead, the mark would darken. It has to darken. That is how it works. So you must be alive. Somewhere. Hidden, angry with him, but alive.

He will find you. He will make this right.

Seven years pass. Seven years of searching. Seven years of checking his wrist every morning, seeing your name unchanged, telling himself you are still out there. Seven years of guilt and desperation and the faint, foolish hope that maybe, when he finds you, you will forgive him.

Then he sees her.

A little girl in a market by the countryside, six or seven years old, who looks exactly like you the first time he saw you in the orchards. She has your smile, your features, the way you tilt your head, but her eyes, her eyes are his, that distinctive imperial purple, and standing beside her is a woman who looks like an older Mei.

Caleb stops dead in the middle of the market. People flow around him, annoyed at the obstruction, but he cannot move. 

It is your daughter. Your daughter and his. The child you were carrying when he sent you away.

The woman holding the girl's hand looks up, and her face goes still when she sees him. She knows who he is, everyone knows the third prince by sight.

"You," Caleb says, and his voice is rough. "I need to speak with you."

The woman, Mei's mother, pulls the girl closer. 

"We have nothing to say to you, Your Highness."

"That child…"

"Is not your concern."

"She has my eyes. She is… she is mine." The words break. "Please. Please tell me where her mother is. I have been searching…"

"Her mother is dead." The woman's voice is flat. "She died giving birth."

Seven years. You have been dead for seven years, and his mark never changed. Your name is still there on his wrist, unchanged, as if you are still alive. But you are not alive. 

You have been dead for years, and the marks gave him no sign. No darkening. No confirmation. He checks his wrist again desperately. Your name is still there, still shimmering, still unchanged.

The marks are punishing him. They told him the truth about Mei but they refuse to tell him the truth about you.They leave your name unchanged, eternal uncertainty, no closure, no confirmation that you were his great love even though he knows, he knows you were.

"No," he whispers. "No, she cannot be... The mark is unchanged…" He sobs. "She cannot be…"

"She died in my home, far from you, far from the court that destroyed her and my daughter." The woman's eyes are hard. "She spent her last months in the same room my daughter grew up in. She named her baby after my Mei, and then she died, content that the child would be cared for."

"I tried to find her. Her servants would not tell me where they took her…"

"My daughter paid for them before she died. She made arrangements to keep your wife safe, to bring her here instead of your summer estate." Mei's mother's voice is sharp. "My Mei knew you would not protect her, so she did."

The words are a knife. Caleb stumbles, has to catch himself on a nearby stall.

"I need to see her." He reaches out, desperate. "Our daughter. Please let me…"

"You have no daughter." The woman pulls the girl behind her, shielding her. "You have an heir you never wanted, a wife you drove to death, and a legacy of cruelty. That is all you have."

The child, little Mei, peers around her grandmother's skirts, studying Caleb with curious eyes. 

"Who is he, Grandma?"

"No one important, darling. Come. We need to go home."

"Wait!" Caleb takes a step forward. "Please. I know I have no right to ask…but please. Let me know her. Let me… I can provide for her. I can give her everything. Education, a title, a place at court…"

"She has everything she needs here." The woman's voice is final. "She has a home, a family who loves her, a quiet life away from politics and from the court. Why would I give that up to send her to you?"

"Because I am her father."

"You are the man who got her mother pregnant and then cast her out while she was heavy with child. That is not a father. That is a stranger who shares her blood and nothing more." Mei’s mother softens slightly, pity flickering across her face. "Go home, Your Highness. Go back to your palace. We do not need you. We never needed you."

She takes the child's hand and walks away, disappearing into the market crowd. Caleb stands frozen for a long time. Then he makes his way to the nearest inn and requests a room.

That evening, a messenger arrives. He carries two letters, one from Mei, one from you.

Mei's letter is long, detailed. She explains everything, the marks, the truth about who loved whom and what she hoped would happen after she was gone. She apologizes for not telling him sooner, for letting him believe she might love him someday, for not having the courage to simply say no.

You and my lady were always meant to be together, she wrote. I was merely the bridge. I pray that my death will help you see what was always written on your skin.

Your letter is shorter, simpler. I forgive you. That is all. No recriminations, no anger, no long explanations, just forgiveness, simple and complete.

Caleb reads both letters three times, then he folds them carefully and places them in his robes, over his heart.

That night, he dreams of apple orchards. He sees you as a child, seven years old, stuck in a tree, afraid to come down. He lifts you onto his shoulders. You laugh. He sees Mei, nine years old, fierce and protective, swearing to always guard you. He sees himself, blind and foolish, chasing the wrong person while the right one stood beside him the entire time.

When he wakes, his face is wet with tears.

He sends letters to Mei's family. He sends money, gifts, offers of support. Everything is returned, unopened. He tries three more times to visit. Each time, he is politely but firmly turned away.

He will never see his daughter again. This is his punishment, and he accepts it.

The marks on his wrist remain unchanged, Mei's name in grey, your name still shimmering as if you live. 

He sees them every morning when he wakes, every evening when he undresses. They are a constant reminder of everything he failed to understand.

The absence of darkness on your name torments him more than any blackened mark could. It is a punishment worse than confirmation. It is eternal uncertainty, eternal hope that maybe, somehow, the marks are wrong and you are still alive somewhere. But you are not alive. 

You were his great love, and you are gone.

He never remarries. He never takes another concubine. He lives alone in his household, performing his duties, serving the empire, but never truly living again.

Sometimes, on quiet evenings, he takes out your letter and reads it again. I forgive you.

He does not forgive himself. He will carry that weight until the day he dies.

XII

The orchard is exactly as you remember.

Apple trees heavy with fruit, grass soft beneath your feet, sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns. The air smells of summer, earth and apple blossoms and something indefinably sweet.

You are wearing a simple robe, the kind you wore as a child. Your feet are bare and your hair is loose, unbound by pins or ornaments. You feel light, as if a great weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

"Hello."

You turn.

Mei is standing beneath an apple tree, smiling at you. She looks exactly as she did at sixteen, before the marks appeared, before the arrangement, before everything went wrong.

"Mei."

"Hello, my love." She holds out her hand. "I have been waiting for you."

You run to her. You do not walk nor do you maintain dignity or decorum. You simply run, and she catches you, and you bury your face in her shoulder and sob.

"I am sorry," you gasp between tears. "I am so sorry. I did not know…"

"Hush." Mei strokes your hair, her touch gentle. "There is nothing to apologize for."

"I asked you to stay with him. I made you..."

"You made me nothing." She pulls back, cupping your face in her hands. "I chose to stay. I chose to drink that poison. I chose everything, knowing what it would cost, because I loved you."

You stare at her, and finally, you let yourself understand.

"You were my great love."

"No." Mei's smile is sad as she shakes her head. "You were mine, but I was not yours."

"The marks…"

"Do not match perfectly. They never had to." Mei traces a finger down your cheek. "My great love was you. My companion was Caleb. Your great love was Caleb. Your companion was me. Each of us loving different people, bound together by fate but not identically."

"He was my great love." You say it aloud, testing the words. "Truly?"

"Yes, and you were his. You were both too busy looking elsewhere to see it."

You look at your wrists. The marks are gone. Your skin is bare.

"They fade after death," Mei explains. "They no longer matter here. What matters is what we carry in our hearts."

You take both her hands.

"I love you, Mei. Maybe not the same way you loved me, but I loved you. I love you still."

"I know." Mei's smile is infinitely tender. "And that is enough. It has always been enough."

You stand there in silence, holding hands beneath the apple tree. The question rises in your throat before you can stop it.

"Do you think we would have been happy? If I had chosen you instead?"

Mei is quiet for a long moment.

"I think we were happy together in this life, in our own way. We loved each other, supported each other, shared moments of joy even in the midst of sorrow." She squeezes your hands. "What we had was real. Messy and painful at times, but real. I would not trade that for some imagined perfect version."

"But I could have loved you better. If I had known…"

"You loved me as well as you could with the understanding you had. That is all anyone can do." Mei guides you to the base of the apple tree. You settle into the grass together, shoulders touching. "We are here now. Together. As we were always meant to be, in some way."

"Will we see Caleb again?"

"Eventually, when his time comes." Mei glances at you. "Do you want to?"

You consider this. 

Part of you wants to see him, to understand what he felt, what he wishes he had done differently, but part of you is afraid it will hurt all over again.

"I do not know," you admit.

"You have time to decide." Mei's voice is gentle. "This place is patient."

You sit in silence for a while, shoulders touching, listening to the wind move through the orchard. You think about Caleb, about the years he spent chasing Mei while you stood beside him, and you wonder if Mei ever resented being caught in the middle as much as you did.

Then Mei speaks, and her voice is different. Smaller and less certain.

"I was not always graceful about it. Loving you."

You turn to look at her.

"There were nights I hated you for not seeing me." She does not meet your eyes. "After he came to your chambers and you let him stay, after the Moon Festival, I lay in my room and thought terrible things. I thought, she knows. She has to know how I feel, and she simply does not care. I told myself you were selfish and blind and that I was a fool for staying."

Her hands are clasped tight in her lap.

"It passed. It always passed. By morning I would see you at breakfast, tired and sad and trying so hard to hold everything together, and the anger would dissolve, and all that remained was the wanting." She exhales. "But the resentment was there. I carried it alongside the love, and some nights, the resentment was louder."

You reach over and take her hands, uncurling her fingers.

"You are allowed to have been angry with me."

"I know, but I wanted you to hear it from me, not imagine me as someone who never struggled. I struggled. I raged. I wept into my pillow and cursed the marks and wished I had been born loving anyone else." Mei finally looks at you. Her eyes are bright. "And then morning would come, and you would smile at me, and I would think, oh, there you are, and it would start all over again."

You pull her close and hold her, and she lets you, and neither of you speaks for a long time. Then something shifts, a thought that has been circling the edges of your mind for longer than you want to admit finally settles where you can see it clearly.

"I did to you what he did to me."

Mei goes still beside you.

"Caleb kept me close but never truly saw me. He valued my presence but not my heart. He decided what I was to him before he ever asked." Your voice is steady, but your hands are not. "And I did the same thing to you. Every day. For years."

"That is not…”

"It is." You do not let her soften this. "You tried to tell me. In the kitchen with the herbs, you were telling me in the only way you had left, and I walked away. When you asked me for permission to refuse him, I said no, not because it was the right thing, but because it was easier for me. I made you carry his attention so I would not have to watch my marriage fall apart. I used you, Mei. The same way the arrangement used all of us, I used you."

Mei is quiet for a long time.

"You did not mean to."

"Neither did Caleb. He did not mean to overlook me. He was not cruel on purpose. He simply never questioned what he assumed." You turn to face her. "I never questioned either. I decided you were my companion and I stopped looking. I stopped asking what you needed, what you wanted, whether you were happy. I saw what was convenient and I never looked deeper."

"You were suffering too. You were trying to survive."

"So was he. That did not make it hurt less when he looked through me." You take her hands. "I am not asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to let me say this, because you deserve to hear someone name what was done to you instead of dressing it up as fate or duty or sacrifice."

Mei's composure fractures. It is small, a tremor in her jaw, the unshed in her eyes, but it is the most unguarded you have ever seen her.

"I waited a very long time," she whispers, "for someone to say that."

"I know. I am sorry it took me dying to get here."

A sound escapes her that is half laugh, half sob. She presses her forehead against your joined hands.

"You insufferable woman," she breathes. "Even now, you find a way to break my heart."

"I think that is what we do to each other. It seems to be our particular talent."

Mei finally laughs, wet and raw and real. You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the trembling to stop. Long enough for the orchard to settle around you again.

When you finally pull apart, Mei wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and the gesture is so ordinary, so human, that it makes your chest ache

"Tell me about my daughter," you say softly.

"She has a wonderful life. Bright and curious and loved. She grows up with her grandmother, learning to sew and tend the garden. She laughs often. She is happy."

Relief floods through you.

"Good. That is good."

"She looks like you, except for the eyes. Those are all Caleb."

You close your eyes. The orchard is peaceful, and safe, you could stay here forever.

"Mei?"

"Yes?"

"I am glad you are here. I am glad we have this."

"So am I.”

"Even when the marks fade?"

"Especially then. Because when the marks are gone, we know the love was never about what was written on our skin. It was about what we chose to give each other, day after day, even when it cost us everything."

Mei leans in and presses her lips to your forehead, soft and lingering.

"Rest now. You have been tired for so long. Rest."

So you do.

You rest in the orchard, in the place where your childhood lived, where your memories are sweetest.

You rest beside the girl who loved you more than you ever knew, who gave everything for you and never asked for anything in return.

And for the first time in forever, you sleep without grief.

The End

⚜ an: writing let the light in part two frustrated me so much because i can't get the angst right that i ended up focusing on this fic instead. this is also my first attempt writing an f/f fic so please be kind to me. as always your likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

⚜ tags: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world,@kingraspberry12-blog

sometimes, you wonder what this man actually looks like in real life — or what his job was, considering you earn boatloads of money per night curtesy of this mystery voyeur. but knowing the freaks that actually did spend their savings on porn pages, you naturally chalk it up to someone who probably couldn’t please any real girls because of his tiny dick.

after hitting the pretty big milestone of 50k subscribers, you were finally running out of ideas. cramping your fingers each time just wasn’t enough, thus came the p.o box you set up for your loyal gooners (and goonettes, probably) to send you dozens of toys to try, fulfilling each and every one of their twisted fantasies.

you collect the first gift less than two days after announcing it to your subscribers.

the box itself is huge. in fact, you have to ask a friend to help you carry it upstairs, claiming you bought a new piece of furniture but somehow didn’t actually need any help unboxing or setting it up.

in your solitude, you cut the tape holding your very first package together. just the mere thought of showing off the contents to your watchers fills you with excitement and pools a familiar heat low in your belly.

until you peel away the cardboard flaps, staring at what looked like the most intimidating piece of machinery in your life.

the sex machine stares right back at you. the amount of metal, cold to the touch, was taunting. daring you to actually try it.

but who were you to bail on easy rent?

luckily for you, it came pre-assembled. the only thing left to add after ten minutes of googling how it actually worked was the attachment supposedly coming with it. lo and behold, after peeking back into the box, you weren’t mistaken.

you need both hands to take in all it’s glory — the hyperrealistic texture making your brain frazzle after running a finger down the prominent vein running to the base. a few thick inches still manages to escape your double grip before leading towards the tip, mushroomy and ready to split you in half.

additionally to all of this, you read the manual earlier and actually manage to bluetooth your brand-new hismith to your also-brand-new computer. now the only thing left to do was get ready and start the show — throwing on a miniskirt and, naturally, tossing your lace panties to the side.

“hi, everyone!” you beam, half-nervous and half-excited already to announce the first piece of mail. “how was everyone’s day?”

and just like that, the viewers flood your chat.

honored1 - missed u baby

monkeyh8er - cant wait to see tonites sesh

after some idle chatter and light teasing, you take a shaky breath and twist your webcam to the left. you’d already positioned the fuck machine to the edge of your bed, silently praying this wouldn’t make too much of a mess on your sheets. “guys, look at my first gift!”

despite trying your best to take it slow and ease into it, you clearly grew needier with each passing minute, constantly palming over your breasts through the taut, thin shirt you donned, driving yourself and your fans into an eager frenzy.

$50 , fushi.g43 - give us what we’ve been waitin on doll

so you do. you turn yourself around, making your way to your decorated bed and flashing your glistening slit on the way there.

you left nothing to the imagination when you position yourself in front of hundreds of thousands of viewers. with the 9 inch silicone behind you, you’re slowly easing back and letting the tip graze your fluttering hole.

$100 , honored1 - fuck, look at her

“thank you for the h-hundred,” you mumble, not even paying attention to the actual message as you begin to rock yourself back and forth. it’s a delicious type of agonizing, the cock stuffing you deeper and deeper with every roll of your hips and eliciting desperate little whines out of you.

already, you’re questioning if the buyer behind this mystery gift bought some type of deluxe version attachment — the tip kisses your g-spot perfectly every time, bunching your skirt around your waist like some kind of dress-up doll with every lewd fwop! fwop! fwop! of the sex machine in your gummy walls.

“w-whoever— hahh! — bought me this,” you make an attempt to at least thank whoever the culprit was but instead clamp your palm around your mouth, the sparks of pleasure becoming overwhelming within minutes, “fuck, fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

$120 , fushi.g43 - perfect lil body

$90 , monkeyh8er - wish that was my cock bby

an off-white ring spills around the base of the dildo before you flop yourself down on your back, tip still looming near the entrance to your walls.

“that was a fun test-ride!” you pant, still looking oh-so cute as your doe eyes lock with the webcam, “apparently it has a bluetooth thingy, hold on…”

you should’ve at least waited a little longer, should’ve took a few more minutes to fiddle with your phone. you’re already squirming without trying because of your involuntary clenches around the cock’s head and you had initially no idea what was about to come.

the tip-activated hierarchy pops up in your screen minutes before the first round. it goes up in power and time — 20 bucks at the very least for something slow and short, 200 for a whole minute and a half of the toy straight up jackhammering into you.

“here we go,” still in the same position you ended your first run in, you’re running your hands all around your body as you wait for the first donation, “it’s up to you guys now!”

it doesn’t take long before there are tens of donations in the queue, thirty second intervals between them to give you at least some breathing space.

however, something in the queue makes your jaw drop almost instantly after announcing the startup.

$20 , fushi.g43 : slow 30s

$50 , fushi.g43 : intermediate 30s

$200 , fushi.g43 : fast 1m30s

so on and so-fucking-forth, of course your top subscriber buys the first ten spaces. you don’t even have a moment to collect your thoughts, the heavy machinery on the edge of your bed turning your squint of confusion to one of absolute helplessness.

“o-oh my god!” the newfound sensation has your thighs clamping together within seconds, the thirty second interval feeling like nothing but a deep breath when the speed and power increases — all curtesy to the absolutely deplorable freak spending hundreds just to watch a silicone cock pound your sore cunt from a machine. “ohmygod ohmygod!”

if you had to experience this for up to ten, maybe more, rounds, you’re sure you’d go limp. the hospital trip would be so humiliating — though there’s no time to be thinking about that. matter of fact, there’s no time or ability to even think at all.

the donated thrusts were relentless, bottoming out to the hilt of your pussy before dragging every girthy inch out and stuffing it right back in. tiny whimpers grow into moans loud enough to wake the complex, headboard practically banging against your pretty pink wallpaper in a reflectively brutal rhythm.

safe to say you weren’t leaving the apartment tomorrow.

even so, as your head lolls to the side, you take a look at the viewer count for tonight’s stream only to find it’s the highest number yet. you’d already received tip after tip — no pun intended — and yet the number continues to multiply itself with every passing shlck! of your juices gushing all over your duvet.

twenty minutes of this flew by as quick as you came the first three times. your legs were aching, trembling and too heavy to move anymore. you’re sure you’ve earned yourself a two week trip to any five-star resort after this show — you consider it a reward for putting up with each and every one of the tip activated rounds using your new personal favorite dildo.

just before you make an effort to try and sit up, one message in particular catches your eye.

$100 , fushi.g43 - took it so well sweet girl. one more for daddy?

$70 , fushi.g43 : slow 1m

“f-fuuck!” you’re already groaning in ecstasy, the sinfully tedious strokes from the silicone cock giving your poor, overstimulated cunt much less chaos from before. in spite of that, you wanted more. “feels s-so — nngh! — s’fuckin’ good!”

anything else spilling out of your mouth tonight consisted of pathetic little mewls and incoherent babbles. droplets of drool slips out from your slacking maw, clearly fucked stupid from only the first gift of many to come in that godforsaken p.o box.

monkeyh8er - love watching u cry on some dick

ignoring the overwhelmingly hefty sensation of your thighs, your hips buck — chasing your nth high given to you so generously by the one man practically keeping your apartment’s rent on time. the mix of pushing yourself to the limit and craving your orgasm like oxygen is driving your head into fog, eyes falling further into the back of your head with every time the pinkish tip gently bullies at your cervix again.

your cunt is already spasming and leaking a thick, creamy substance before you expect it. a wave of relief washes over your delirious face, the gooey liquid forming a sticky puddle between your jellied thighs.

$150 - fushi.g43 - atta girl

moments of silence pass as you lay on your bed, hair toussled and splaying over the fucked-out expression etched into your doe eyes. nothing makes a sound other than your calming pulse, thumping with post-adrenaline and catching up with the rest of your exhausted body.

“thanks, whoever bought me this…” you mutter, probably under your breath and too sleepy to care about the bubbly routinic ending to the stream you’d usually perform. right now, the only thing that matters is how comfy you’d be if you passed out in your tangled sheets — you could clean up later. “i’ll — hic! — see you all tomorrow.”

you don’t remember how you managed to turn the webcam off, nor do you remember how you managed to get your full 8 hours of rest without bothering to change into some pyjamas.

you clean the place up with your jammies back on — hot coffee on your bedside, two hands juggling antiseptic wipes and tissues. it’s a wonder nobody’s complained about you yet but you didn’t feel like jinxing yourself this morning, opting for a quiet day of lounging on the couch after such a long, hard night.

the fuck machine’s been put to one side and you’re ready to throw away the packaging until a note stuck to the bottom waves at your peripheral. perhaps you missed part of the instruction manual, you think, before actually reading it, face turning pale.

“can’t wait to watch my cock stuff your pretty cunt baby. love, fushi.g43 <3”

maybe you should start adding private video calls to your page.

a/n ahh ! this took me forever , but it was worth it. thank u all so very much for 2k , it means a lot to me ^-^ i hope this special is worth the wait hehe the ending was a little rushed .. now i can write the fun requests in my inbox woohoo !! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

As you both grew into maturity, Dainsleif began to be admired by everyone. Yet as his popularity grew, he grew distant and quiet.

His face was one of masculine beauty, so, so beautiful yet manly. You couldn’t describe it very well but you understood once you saw it. His light strawberry blonde hair, his sparkling eyes, his build. Everyone’s dream man. Behind the beauty of course was a man of great talent with his sword.

Yet he closed himself off, retiring to his quarters once he left you for the night. Only to appear at your doorstep every morning to begin the same routine since he came into your life.

Until,

One day you followed him, as he bid you goodnight. He passed by maids politely bidding them goodnight as well, he did one last patrol before admiring the royal garden, looking up at your window with a certain yearning, lingering longer than he should've.

Playing with the kittens that lived in the greenery, until he finally arrived at his quarters, it was much more grand and gilded than the knights under him. As he opens the wooden door, he looks behind to find his highness (it's a wonder how he didn't find out earlier).

“…I’ll escort you back” he said without hesitation, taking your hand. "No Dainsleif, please let me in again"

"You've guarded me my entire life, you can't be closed off your entire life! Please, show me the stars like you promised."

His face stayed neutral, his twinkling eyes taking in your figure as he’d left it moments ago. He avoided your eyes when you mentioned the promise he had long forgotten, in place of it was his duty to you and your family.

There was a rumor that the beloved knight of the royal family was hopelessly in love with the eldest. You'd mention it once or twice, but Dainsleif never dismissed or denied the gossip.

He let you inside, excusing the mess of quills, astronomy books, papers, scrolls, scattering his floor and tables.

It was cozy and small, a few portraits on the wall of his family, furniture that seemed inherited, he apologizes quietly for the mess as he wasn't expecting company. Especially not you.

"Why would I want you to hide your true self" you ask grabbing his hand gently, "it seems your hunger for the stars hasn't been satiated"

His eyes met yours with a small smile, "yes... I've been studying them in my free time"

"If I'd known father would've made you an astrologist instead of a knight"

"Then I wouldn't have been your knight" he said standing up, towering over you- he'd grown so much compared to when you two were children. his hand moved to caress you cheek, "seems the rumors are true, there is a knight in love with one of the heirs"

He stiffened at the sentence, “it seems I can live in denial anymore can I?” he sighed. 

“Was it that obvious?” he mumbled the pink blush returning to his cheeks, “a bit” you teased leaning into his touch. “It’s not just gossip thought your highness” he replied his finger rubbing your soft cheek, “but I know you have a duty as heir-”

“But you’re a knight” 

“A knight born of lowly blood” 

“And here I believed the rumor you were a runaway prince” 

“What gave it away” he hummed, playing into the bit as he moved away to the kitchen. 

“Maybe your looks, your natural talent for everything and anything, kindness-” as you list all of his qualities you see his ears beginning to turn red, as he continued chopping vegetables. 

He was focused on making the soup when he felt arms around his waist and weight against his back, “I didn’t tell you because, well I didn’t want you falling in love with me” 

“Too late dain.”  Before he could process anything he felt your soft lips on his.

–

Dinner was long forgotten, his quills left on the desk alongside maps and books, his door was left slightly agape, the curtains slightly open. Just enough to see your beauty, the stars highlighting your perfection, Dainsleif could spend hours looking at you.

 Your body leaned up against his pillows as you looked solemnly into his eyes, his twilight eyes looking into yours taking in everything. He knows this won’t happen again, the way he's pressed against you, feeling your heart beat, your scent on his sheets. 

His nose pressed against your temple, it didn’t feel sexual. It felt like love, pure adoration. 

His large palm rested on the side of your head, whispering soft lovely things about you.

"Its a dream come true, your highness."

Your hand on his bicep, tracing the beauty marks the moonlight lit. They looked like small constellations scattered about. 

It was like an eclipse, the moon, you the sun. Always behind, never in front. Yearning, hoping for something from you. 

Until it all came together tonight, the sun and moon finally together.  

genshin master list

ao3

Your marriage was uninhabited, devoid of love. Your husband was constantly preoccupied in tasks—never spoke unless needed—and seemed to ignore your existence. This was a long ways away from the princess fantasies that engulfed your adolescent years.

You envisioned yourself being married to a handsome and charming prince—one that would cherish you as a divine being, and would treasure you as if you were a goddess in the mortal realm. Unfortunately, your dreams could never be played into reality and had faded with time. As the only daughter and youngest child of your family, it was your job to be married off, to be a wife.

You hummed to yourself while looking outside of the window. Though you could leave the estate at any time, you were a prisoner of your family name, your marriage. (and it wasn’t much fun to walk around the city with 2 maids on your back at all time).

“Wife.” A cold wind seems to blow through the enclosed room, immediately making it seem a lot smaller than it actually is. Strange, he rarely stays the night.

Satoru’s cerulean eyes narrowed and lingered on your figure for longer than usual. Expectingly, he looked away, almost in disgust.

“Would you like me to close the curtains?” You asked, it was as if you were stepping around glass.

“Keep them open.” He said, his voice stern. You hummed almost inaudibly in response. “Tomorrow is my day off.”

“Ah, how do you plan on spending it?” Small talk wasn’t popular between the two of you. Even normal talk was rare. Your last conversation was a week prior and had barely lasted 5 minutes.

“I haven’t yet decided.” He was now behind you, his hands wrapped around your waist, “Will you be standing here all night?”

Before you could respond, he trailed kisses from the bottom of your neck to your ear. Instead of an ‘oh’ , a slight moan escaped your lips. In the past 4 months of being married, you’ve had intercourse with your husband only once, on your wedding night. After that, he would seem almost disgusted at the prospect of being near you. Of course, you had thought that there was something wrong with you to make him detest the idea of you. Could you not satisfy him? Perhaps you weren’t attractive enough? Or was it your sheepish personality? Whatever it was, no thought had ever pacified your insecurity.

Before you could register what was happening, had led you to your bed, placing you on his crotch. After removing your fur robe—revealing the lace night gown underneath—he began to trail kisses from your bosom, to again your neck, all the way to your cheeks, and finally your lips. His lips were intoxicating—everything about him was electrifying—from the way his snowy white was styled, to how commanding but gentle his touch was, and how his tongue roughly fought for dominance in your mouth.

“Do you wear this under your robe everyday?” Satoru asked, now positioning himself on top of you. You nodded, your face red. Why is he so handsome? He loosened his pants, you stared, mouth agape, as he casually released his member. You had forgotten about how large it was, easily 6 1/2- no 7 inches. His rough hands pushed apart your legs and placed them on his shoulders. You were already so soaking wet.

As soon as his cock entered, your back arched, eyes rolling back. “S…Satoru…” Your moans were delicate, soft. After a series of slower thrusts, he quickened the pace, now ramming himself into your cunt.

Each shove of his cock was a test to see how deep he could go inside of you, to see how your hips or your face would react to different sensations. “Look at you, so prettily wrapped around my cock.”

He slammed into you, even harder than before. The sound of each smack echoed throughout the room, bouncing on the walls and glass. You couldn’t even speak, only whining and whimpering under him.

“O-oh my-“ You felt so good against the soft silken bedsheets while Satoru was bruising every inch of your gummy walls. The feeling of his massive cock against you was almost euphoric. “I-I want-“ You couldn’t even finish your sentence, you could barely form any words as all of them slurred together.

“You want what?”

“I-I want t-to-“ Your words mushed together, partly clouded by the sounds of his heavy cock dragging in and out of you. “-heir, I-I wanna g-give you a-an heir to the Gojo n-name.” Obviously a bit surprised, he quickened his pace as creamy white precum formed at his tip. Now he was just sloppily, stupidly fucking you. He swallowed every inch whilst slamming recklessly into your sloppy cunt.

“Mmmm… f-feels so good….” You felt his tip twitch against your cervix as he pounded into you. Your pussy could perfectly and snuggingly fitting his cock inside, milking it for everything that it had. All you could feel was waves of pleasure from your disgustingly wet channel, flooding your insides. “Cumming-“ With barely a warning you released your juices all over his cock as it continued to ram inside of you.

Now, your poor, neglected, greedy cunt was just milking him of his hot white semen. He released thick, creamy cum inside of your soft gummy walls, overfilling you to the brim. The squelching sound of his release rang through the room and eventually echoed throughout the halls of the castle.