♡

the crier stepped out into the mud, stopping at the fence splitting the field, and turned towards prince baelor and his brother with a deep breath. you already knew who he was about to announce. the thread tightened on your finger, choking the flesh and stopping the blood, though when you looked down it was unchanged from that morning. you flexed your hand and rubbed at the joint, your lips pinching at the phantom throb.

aerion.

he took delight in snapping your attention towards him, reminding you of his looming presence, niggling at you from afar.

the closer you got, the stronger the hold he had on your fate tie felt. his reach had its limit however; you’d noticed so after suffering through a week of his childish games during the last tourney but three moons back. the tugging had been insistent and never ending after you’d given your favour to another knight, keeping you up late at night even, only for it to stop suddenly as the distance grew between you when you travelled home.

the relief was immediate, but closely followed by a gaping absence, a throbbing grief for where aerion had burrowed and made himself home in the back of your mind. you were restless for the last portion of the trip home, squeezing your own finger in comfort to try and still your foolish need to move and get close again.

it had been like this for two years almost, dipping in and out of each others’ lives, tasting what it could be like together as aerion somehow got more brazen and clever with each meeting and you tried to ignore your budding fondness for him.

you weren’t sure of the exact date you’d first crossed paths, but you could remember the warmth of kings landing and the last of the preparation for egg’s name day celebration rushing around you as you followed on your mother’s heels, determined not to make a fool of yourself.

it was your first visit there as a lady in your own right, no longer a child, a girl holding tightly to your mother’s dress, but a woman that must make her own connections. it was for this reason that your father was looking after your younger brother, tomas, for the day instead of you or your mother.

you were taking lunch with a group of other lesser houses’ ladies and their daughters outside, sat quietly while the older women gossiped among themselves in between sips of wine. it was hot, as it always seemed to be in king’s landing, and your dress felt too thick. coming from the north, it was difficult to find dresses appropriate for the weather, and you only had so much money to spend on the higher priced tailoring at this end of the kingdoms, but the thick cotton you favoured was a touch too heavy for the heat of blaring sun.

your mother had a dress or two held back from her previous visits across the kingdom with your father, so she was faring better than you were, but you knew she’d run out of dresses made of airy material before the week was done and she’d soon be sweating alongside you.

you swallowed drily, and took a sip of your water, peeking longingly at one of the younger women sat with you as she fanned herself in the steady heat. a single drop of sweat trickled from behind her ear to her collarbone where it soaked into the delicate, twisted braid resting over her shoulder.

you looked back down to your hands and sneakily wiped the condensation from your glass into the folds of your dress, hoping the sweat wouldn’t stain the material too noticeably.

you had brought your embroidery with you; a handkerchief for your father that you’d had to restart three times over so far on your mother’s request. your skills in sewing, practical or decorative, were questionable, though you were determined to improve, so you had thought to take the spare time during the visit to keep practicing, hoping to seize the opportunity to ask your peers for any advice if they seemed friendly enough not to boast over your disadvantage.

just as you were starting on the second of your house’s three flowers, you pricked your finger roughly.

“seven bloody hells,” you swore under your breath, your finger rearing back before you sucked on it. you pulled it from your soft mouth at your mother’s harsh glare and dropped your head, your lips a thin, pinched line of regret even as you wanted to shake your hand out to ease the throbbing.

“hmm. unable to tell where the needle will be?” one of the other ladies spoke up, humming disapproval.

“it can be a terribly tricky thing to get the hang of when you’re first starting, i’m sure,” a second piped up before sipping at her wine with a smirk. “i remember my elissa struggling… when she was little.”

you kept your mouth closed, having no urge to tell them that you’d been learning since you were five as most girls did, you’d just never been able to pick it up quite as quick. the careful hand for fine details escaped you.

“perhaps you should find the maester to look at it if it was so painful as to yell. the walk may steady your hands for when you get back so there are no further accidents,” your mother suggested bluntly, giving you no option to decline.

you tightened your clenched hold on the handkerchief, thread hanging loose and needle discarded on the table beside you, and nodded with a wane smile.

“of course, mother.” you stood and left the garden, following the path back to the castle. when you looked down at the soft silk in your hand you wanted to cry, the tiniest speckles of blood stained the pale material from your finger.

you would try again. perhaps the fifth attempt would be the most fortuitous.

you wiped preemptively at your dry eyes, the familiar ache of building tears enough to have you reflexively reach up while quickening your pace to reach the maester’s working quarters.

“what upsets you, my lady?” a voice called out, pulling you to a temporary stop as you turned to find the man it came from.

his eyes were intrigued as he took in your wobbling pout and wide eyes, but he didn’t seem empathetic in his curiosity. you recognised him as a prince immediately from his pale hair and vivid purple eyes. he carried his grandfather’s targaryen looks proudly.

he raised his eyebrows expectantly when you stayed silent, staring. “well?”

“i pricked my finger, just a silly accident,” you tried to laugh off, your nerves turning into shambles over speaking to a targaryen without chaperone.

he scoffed.

“and so where were you hoping to go? to the maestar, to heal such a damning wound?” he mocked.

your lips pinched as he stepped closer, the cruel twist to his features became more evident, but you didn’t move as he lifted your wrist carelessly to gaze at the single, tiny pearl of blood gathering on the pad of your finger.

he cooed with an insincere sympathy, laughing as you tugged your hand away in barely concealed anger and offence.

“i believe the fresh air of the walk will do me more good than an actual visit to the maesters,” you said sharply, feeling your hand twitch and throb where you held it staunchly by your side. “i’m sure they’re quite busy.”

“quite.” he stared at you, like a brightly coloured insect he’d found beneath a rock. unsure if he wanted to poke and prod, but unwilling to look away. the silent attention pulled taut at your nerves.

“is there something i can help you with?” you finally asked, a little brusque, but more clearly anxious as you picked at the small wound with your nail. your manners left bereft and wanting.

“now, now,” he tutted with a barely contained smile. “do not snap at your prince, not when i was simply extending my concerns to a lady walking alone around the castle grounds.”

your eyes widened once more and you wanted to curse your loose tongue.

“please accept my sincere apology, my prince. it must be the heat that has me acting out of sorts,” you said, ducking into a deep curtsy and quickly turning on your heel. you walked away with speed, biting your lip and praying to the old gods and the new that he didn’t—

your hand tugged back towards him sharply, but when you looked he was still several paces away. aerion’s own hand had risen and he was looking just as confused as you were until his eyes caught on your hand and he tilted his head and closed the distance between you.

you saw a pale flash of red from his hand as he lifted yours once more, gentle this time as he rubbed his thumb over the thread linking your pinkies together.

his jaw was slack, the tip of his pink tongue visible behind his teeth as he tilted his head lower, enraptured by the invisible tie between you slowly developing thicker and stronger.

you ran the tip of your middle finger over his own tie and he shivered, the red grew bold in colour. his eyes darted up to yours and you held your breath.

he lifted your hand higher and took your injured finger in his mouth, pressing his tongue flat and broad against the pad to lap at the burst of blood until you came to your senses and pulled it back and stumbled out of his reach.

you cradled your hand to your chest, flushed and hot and no longer able to blame it on the high sun. you gawped at the smiling prince, unable to find words as he looked at you like he wanted a second taste.

without a word more you ran back to your mother and the other ladies as though he might’ve given chase. you slowed your pace as you got closer and stayed quiet for the rest of the day. though his spit had soon dried upon your skin, the heat of his tongue became unforgettable.

the last few days of the celebration were spent trying to avoid aerion as best you could, hoping the connection would break or grow weak, that the gods would realise their mistake. but it did no such thing and the red thread stayed tied tight and you could feel his eyes on you at all opportunities, sizing you up and seeking you out in the crowds.

you’d catch his lilac gaze across feast tables as he sat with his father and brothers, or over his shoulder, benches apart, as a play was performed in honour of eagon’s ninth name day. he found you at every turn, but made no move to come close, apparently aware of how skittish you were and adapting to it.

you’d thought you had maybe managed to lose his interest by the end of the week, having not spoken to him a second time and resisted with all your might the temptation to play and pull at the thread on your end. you could feel him sometimes, testing its give, but you’d ignored it until you’d gotten back home where you scratched and tugged at the thread freely, easing the urge that had grown recklessly in you every time you saw red in your peripheral.

you weren’t mindless, however, and you’d made sure your parents and little brother never caught you fiddling with what they’d see as air on the journey back.

you’d barely unpacked the evening of your arrival home, so distracted by the tie around your right finger, that you were caught by surprise when your parents called for you.

you left your travel trunk for your handmaid to see to in the morning and met with your mother and father in the small library. your mother pulled you to sit by her side, a warm smile gracing her face as she tucked you in tightly so the warmth of the fire would reach you. you longed for the warmth of the south as the snow of your home bled back into your bones.

“you know we’ve done our best to fend off unwanted proposals over the years,” you mother started as your father stared pensively into the fireplace. “tried to protect you for as long as we could.”

“of course,” you whispered as dread seeped in faster than the cold ever could.

“but it is no longer proper, not for a woman of your age,” you mother said. she stroked a gentle thumb over your round cheek, her touch light and fleeting. mourning.

“we’ve received an offer,” your father spoke up, finally looking at you. his gaze was heavier than it had been that morning, he looked at you differently. “we’re considering it.” your mother cleared her throat and your father sighed heavily and looked away. with a nod seemingly to himself he continued, “i’m going to accept.”

who would this man be? a knight, a lord, a kind man or a cruel one? someone powerful enough to have your father back down, at least. you’d always half-thought he’d push you towards becoming a septa with how he coveted you from other men in the region.

you thought back to aerion and wondered if he would stop this matrimony before it had chance to take place. if he heard news quick enough you thought there was potential; there had been enough rumours around the keep during your visit of his jealousy, enough comparisons of his dragon-like hoarding, that you’d believe he’d do so just to prove he could. a flash of his family’s power and wealth, and his control over even the most inconsequential things.

perhaps he’d do it by sending forth a counter offer your father would be unable to refuse. perhaps—

i’m going to accept.

“what house does he bear, father? do i know him?”

your father’s lips pursed.

“we don’t need to discuss this any further,” your mother interrupted smoothly. she ran a hand down your back comfortingly, but it set your further on edge. “the details have not been struck, you will know all you need to as the time comes. for now, you’ve had a long day or travel, you should go rest, as we should. we will speak in the morning.”

despite your unsatisfaction to her non-answer, you knew you’d get no more from her if you pushed. you nodded and bid them both a good night as you left with your heart racing.

before you reached the stairs, you saw your father’s solar door cracked open. with a brief look behind you, you went inside and thanked the old gods that he’d left a candle burning on his desk.

you couldn’t get his pensive look out of your head, the tense hold of his back as he’d refused to look at you, the grey of his beard glittering sharply in the firelight. and no matter how much your mother had smiled, you had seen the worry buried in the lines around her eyes.

you saw the letter, unfolded and abandoned on the corner of his desk.

“…my apologies for placing this letter among your belongings, lord fenn, it was imperative that we discuss this matter without any further delay. i’d have liked to do so in person but the knowledge of our childrens’ fate tie was only made known to me the morn you were set to ride and so…”

your breath caught and you flipped the top of the folded letter down to find the targaryen seal set in red wax.

slowly you released a thin breath and put the letter back down. you knew what it would say, you didn’t need to keep reading. aerion had told his father about you and your fate tie. he had sealed your lives together without a second thought, you had never lost his interest.

—

you pulled yourself back into the present and looked down to the grounds, letting your eyes drift over the opposing knight first before finding finding aerion’s eyes already set on you from where he sat atop his steed. it felt like he had a sixth sense as to where you were at any point in time with the way he could locate you in a crowd, as though you stood out in any regard.

his wrists were crossed nonchalantly over his saddle’s horn, the reigns loose in his hold as he gazed up at you with a small, patient smile. your lips pursed.

he was leant back in the saddle, satisfied and calm despite the charge he was about to ride. he’d caught you looking at the other man and you knew nothing good would come of it, regardless of it meaning nothing. you tugged discreetly at your thread and watched his smile widen before he trotted forward to face his uncle and father. after a brief look shared with his blood, he lowered his visor and turned back to head to his starting place. you watched anxiously, toes curling in your shoes.

it was a blur as the horses moved, your brows tugged together snugly as you desperately tried to keep your squinting eyes on the two men hurtling towards each other. aerion’s lance dropped low at the last moment and broke off into the knight’s leg.

you bit your tongue at the agonised yell, your face pinching in distaste. you didn’t delight in pain like your fated seemed to. you watched as he trotted along, his visor lifted now as he watched the other knight grasp at his bleeding leg with shaking hands.

his eyes lingered between the man and you, a sick pride flourishing in his chest. he was better.

he urged his horse forward with a subtle shift of his hips.

the knight’s squire stood by the injured knight’s side, just short of the horse’s back, where he tugged too roughly trying to release the lance head from his leg. every spurt of blood was accompanied by a new, sharply bitten swear echoing across the flat grounds. the joust would continue if the man didn’t forfeit or move from his horse and aerion was taking his time heading back towards his own squire and second lance.

the injured knight’s squire saw this and tried to corral the horse and his knight back to their end, desperate to hand him his own lance if he couldn’t relieve the pain.

with your heart beating like thunder you watched as aerion waited for the other knight to hitch his lance with tired arms before kicking his horse into action. you waited for him to drop his forearm again, but tugged at your fate thread hard before he could, flinching his arm off target enough to correct his purposely harmful aim. it still hit the knight in the ribs and knocked him from his horse, and aerion was skimmed at his shoulder, but a second lance was not dug deep into flesh and for that you were grateful. perhaps the knight would have a chance to live now.

“father, did you see that? prince aerion was barely even scathed,” your little brother chittered excitedly by your side, clapping along with the crowd as aerion paraded and peacocked for a moment before leaving the grounds free for the next set of knights.

you watched the injured man get carried off away from the stands and tried not to remember his face or name, the colours on his house flag. it’d be easier to ignore the damage aerion caused if you didn’t notice the man’s absence at the next games.

“one day i’ll be able to best prince aerion in a joust,” your brother continued, his arms flailing as he pretended to thrust an invisible joust forward. your father only hummed.

you sat quietly as another two sets of knights won and lost, their names barely having chance to register as your patience wore thin and your attention was pulled to aerion, out of sight but plucking at your thread. gentle twangs and tugs that felt carefully leading, like he was encouraging you to come find him.

your distraction throughout the next jousts must have not been as well hidden as you’d hoped as your father cleared his throat during a break between competitors.

“perhaps we should congratulate prince aerion on his win,” he suggested.

“and wish him luck for the next,” tomas added eagerly, already taking your hand to lead you from the stands despite your hesitance. your brother was barely seven, but his grip was strong as he tried to push through the crowd to get to aerion sooner, only slowing to look over his shoulder at your father to check he was still headed in the right direction.

you father had stayed silent behind you on the walk, only stepping forward once you reached the pair of kings guards stood outside the bright red tent. they recognised you easily enough, but your father still introduced himself for propriety’s sake.

ser roland crakehall let his eyes linger on you over your father’s shoulder for a moment before he dipped into the tent. you heard soft mutterings before aerion’s voice broke through rudely.

“i don’t want to see any guests, send them away, they can find entertainment with my cousin or daeron if he’s been unable to climb his horse,” he scoffed.

you felt heat rush to your face, anger over embarrassment, and you dropped your brother’s hand temporarily to rub harshly at your finger where your thread hung limp. you tugged it harshly, glaring at the tent and hearing ser roland explain exactly who was outside of aerion’s tent waiting to see him, your name whispered with purpose.

the air seemed to still before suddenly aerion was opening his tent flap with a frown, his thumb rubbing at his own threaded finger irritatedly. his eyes softened at the sight of you; you’d be tempted to call the look fond if his smug smile didn’t ruin it, the way he held his shoulders back full of pride and satisfaction. the caution you’d felt in his tugs not long before had all but disappeared now that you stood before him.

you knew he’d be insufferable about your appearance, and gods help you, you couldn’t help but let a small smile of your own grow; your anger all but fizzled out as quickly as it had grown.

“what a pleasant surprise,” he started, sparing but a glance and a nod for your father before looking back to you. “impressed by the performance so far?”

you wanted to roll your eyes, but a lady would do no such thing. and even with your mother absent from your side, busy with commitments back at home, her voice rang loud and you didn’t forget your manners. instead you opened your mouth to give a neutral review of aerion’s violence, but tomas interrupted first.

“it’s been fantastic, prince aerion, you were spectacular!” his big eyes looked up at aerion like he’d hung the stars and you pursed your lips in worry. aerion wasn’t known for his patience and this would be the first time he’d spoken to your brother since he was a toddler.

“is that so?” he asked, turning his attention down. he knelt, lowering himself to below your brother’s height and you stared on in shock. “and are you after becoming a knight yourself one day?”

tomas nodded enthusiastically, leaning into aerion’s orbit inadvertently.

it was easily done; you’d found yourself doing the same over the years, for as tiring and sharp as aerion was, he could be just as charming and quietly calm.

“then perhaps one day we shall train together, hm?” aerion offered, watching as your brother’s eyes got bigger in awe. you weren’t faring much better, unused to aerion playing so patiently, especially with a child, with someone he couldn’t gain something from. “i’m sure you’ll make a worthy opponent,” he joked. “you could train with me when you come to king’s landing to visit your sister.”

there it was.

you stiffened, your smile thinning out into a pinched grimace you tried to hide as soon as you felt it.

“isn’t that right?” he turned to you directly as he stood back up.

aerion delighted in winding you up; he knew you’d declined the proposal, or would have if you’d had the option, but he also knew your parents had said yes as soon as they’d received maekar’s letter all those years ago. this unfound patience, this slow courting, had been for your benefit to grow used to your bound fate. no matter how protective your parents were, you couldn’t really say no. not to him.

it was the lack of choice that curdled your stomach, though you had known all your life it would be like this. the way aerion liked to remind you of his power and parade your obedience around had you acting out like you were still a girl and not a grown woman.

it wasn’t as though you didn’t want to marry aerion. the gods had willed it and though you may have started this proposal hesitant to be fated to aerion brightflame, and the violence that followed him, he had managed to slowly burrow his way closer to your heart. like a rat in search of a warm, dry home.

there was just a part of you that couldn’t help but want to make it difficult for him as nothing ever had been for him before. your mother would call it petty difficulty, but it wasn’t. there was a fondness to your actions that you couldn’t ignore.

“that’s right, of course you can visit as often as you’d like,” you said to your brother. “though we don’t have to think of that right now, i won’t be leaving home any time soon.”

“hmm,” aerion’s mouth pulled down in a moue as he teased, “sooner than you think, perhaps. the gods grow impatient, as do i.”

“i wouldn’t want to test the gods’ patience,” you hummed.

he smiled. “smart girl.” pausing to fully take you in, he smiled as he registered what dress you were wearing. “you look beautiful as always, my lady. that colour suits you.”

“you had it made for me, my prince, i would have hoped you’d pick a colour you thought would flatter,” you said, your tone leaning more teasing than berating. aerion’s tongue poked at the corner of his lips, enjoying your bite, as toothless as it was.

“i won’t have my future wife dressed in anything less than what she deserves. you’re the one that insists on keeping your family crest and colours apparent.”

“we’re not yet married, my prince, it wouldn’t be proper to wear targaryen colours—“

“you could do as you pleased and i would make sure not a word was said about it,” he said decisively.

before you could rebut his push for you to be regaled in red and black, head to toe, every time you stepped foot in king’s landing, your father cleared this throat. aerion dragged his eyes away from you and over to him, barely hiding his immediate switch to impatient boredom at the interruption.

“your skills in jousting flourish each year, my prince.” your father could barely hide his distaste for the unnecessary violence and gore from the fight, but he pushed out the complimentary words nonetheless.

aerion paused, sizing your father up for a moment before looking over at your brother and then back at him. his eyes had dragged up in down in the same lazy way they had to you, but there was no warmth to be found in his gaze now. it instead felt unpleasantly dismissive as opposed to heavily wanting.

“have you spoken to my father today, lord fenn?” the question caught your father off guard and he floundered a for a second before shaking his head and answering no. “hm. you should visit us after the tourney; come back in one of our carriages, im sure your wife will enjoy the sun for a while longer instead of returning to the cold so soon.”

“prince aerion, my wife is not with us on this visit. im not sure—“

“you should discuss it with my father, he has been eager to speak with you on other matters,” aerion said, turning away with a sharp sniff, his nose scrunching as he faced you once more. “he’ll be having lunch with my uncle and cousin in their tent i suppose. you know the way?”

your father pursed his lips at the unsubtle dismissal. he nodded once, stiffly.

“lovely, i’m sure little aegon will be there to entertain the boy,” he gestured down to your brother who had begun to peek inside aerion’s tent. with a sharp whistle from your father tomas moved back to his side with a lowered head, one hand gripping the fabric of your father’s britches behind his knee. when aerion saw your father hesitate, eyes twitching to you, he continued, “not to worry, i can stay with your daughter while you discuss it. it’s not proper to make a lady walk back and forth in the mud and heat, hm? she’ll be in safe keeping with the king’s guard nearby, and i’m sure i can keep her entertained until you return.”

you resented the way you were being spoken about as if you weren’t present, but you’d grown used to it from being young. and you knew tugging on your fated connection would only encourage aerion to do so again in the future to garner a reaction. you almost had to provide attention to him like a treat, reinforcing positive behaviour instead of when you wanted to react in response to his more vile habits.

you watched your father clench his jaw as he realised the trap he was laid in; unable to say no to the prince without upsetting him despite the impropriety of leaving behind his unwed daughter alone with just her fated. it would have every bone in his body screaming in protest, but as the king’s guards shifted on their feet, watching, your father could do nothing but nod silently.

a part of you hated him for it; his cowardice and submission, but as you felt aerion guide you into his tent with a light hand between your shoulders you felt akin with your father. you were not so stupid as to be unaware of the position aerion had placed your family in, even if you were secretly ashamed of how quickly they rolled over for him.

once in the tent, the front flap closed once more and the king’s guard left posted on the other side, aerion surprised you by linking your pinkies.

your eyes darted down to look at where the tie had shortened with your proximity, wrapping and tangling around your fingers tightly to keep them together after being so far apart for so long. seeing your tie act so possessively, so needy, only encouraged aerion you knew. you looked for longer than necessary, entranced by a short, loose drape tickling at your other dangling fingers.

waiting for an explanation or for his next move, you looked back up at him.

“why do you avoid me?” he asked softly, once again doing the opposite of what you’d expected. he stared into your eyes deeply, unwaveringly focused on you in his tenuous grasp.

“i- i don’t, i do not avoid you, m—“

“you do,” he corrected before you could continue to stutter out an excuse. “you’re frightened,” he spoke aloud your secret plainly, offering space for your fear to breath. “you need not fear me, we were made for each other by the gods; old or new, i care not to know. but there is nothing to be afraid of, i know you shall not disappoint me.”

your eyes darted away, his words settling an anxiety deeper into your bones than before.

“you cannot guarantee that,” you whispered. finding a pinch of bravery at your very core, even as you hid from his gaze, you continued in your hushed tone, “and you cannot guarantee you won’t disappoint me.”

he scoffed, like the idea wasn’t worth thinking about.

“you want for compassion,” he said after a brief silence, reading you easier than a book.

he tilted your chin back to face him with his spare hand, his eyes amused, almost kind. you pursed your lips, feeling petulant.

“you will learn to want for your prince and what he gives you.” his hand dropped to your waist, his fingers rubbing at the cooling silk he’d draped you in, rubbing as though hoping to dig through the sleek material to feel your skin instead.

your ‘brows tugged down into a frown at his words, delighting him further as his sly smile grew.

“it’s not wrong to hope for tenderness,” you let the words continue to slip, contrasting the hand reaching towards his belt. the pads of your fingers trailed across the soft, expensive leather, starting from his stomach and ending at his hip.

“aren’t you tired of gentle hands and careful words?” he asked, hushed, his voice placating. “you may enjoy my touch more than you are expecting.”

his fate-tied finger curled unbearably tighter before releasing, his full hand moving instead to hold yours more securely. he brought it up to kiss your knuckles, his pale lashes fluttering over high cheekbones as his lips brushed your soft skin, before he rested your palm over his heart.

“you’re spoiled,” he noted, not unkindly, of your need for sweet handling. “but if i cannot oblige my tenderhearted wife, who am i to bend to?”

“i’m not yet your wife—“

“yet.” his thumb rubbed at your pinky finger laid across his doublet, catching the buzzing, red thread. “but inevitably.”

your gaze dropped to his plush lips, watching the words form on his tongue. you almost wished you felt a cold indifference to the prince, but his touch sent bees swarming between your ribs.

he tilted his head close and nuzzled your noses gently before nudging at your cheek, then finally letting his lightly parted lips brush against yours.

he stayed gentle in the kiss for longer than you’d expected, but the eager brush of your tongue, curious against the gentle curve of his upper lip, had him tugging you forward and curling over you. his hands moved to cradle you close, stilling your nervousness with an arm around your waist and stealing your breath with a hand at the back of your neck.

you were all encompassed. it should’ve felt claustrophobic, it should’ve felt embarrassing knowing his guards were mere feet away, likely listening, barely separated by thick cotton, but it didn’t.

wantonly, you tugged at his doublet, making no real move to escape him. your elbows were tucked in close to your ribs, your hips close to his, and you begged with the gods not to let anyone see how you moaned softly, desperately, into his mouth as he gasped and groaned against yours.

his hand dropped to your backside and your mouth moved to kiss along his jaw, desperate to find the air he was insistent on stealing from your lungs. you quietened your whines with a bite to his shoulder, growing frustrated when he laughed, unable to feel the strength of your teeth through the thick material lining his jacket.

feeling mean, but feeling free of consequences, you dropped one of your hands back to his belt, using it as a guide to find his stiffening cock through his trousers and squeezing it. his laughter broke off into a moan, huffed directly into your ear. the sound so addictive you were ready to do it again until he pushed you back.

your stomach dropped as you stared at him with wide eyes. you’d gone too far, you’d acted like a whore and now he wasn’t interested, you’d—

“how long do you think your father will last with mine before he’s sent back?”

you blinked; aerion’s hands were suddenly dropping to his belt, fiddling with the complicated clasp shaped like a dragon’s head as you tried to catch up. why were you talking about your fathers right now?

“depends,” you huffed, a little out of breath. aerion dipped close to kiss you once more and your eyes closed at the here-and-gone-again feeling. “how badly have you worn away at your father’s patience this morning?”

aerion scoffed, finally pulling his belt free and working at the loose tie to his britches before pausing, a serious look coming over his handsome face. “hm. perhaps we’ve not got long then.”

he tugged you back towards him.

“aerion—“

“the sooner we put a targaryen baby in that belly, the sooner the wedding shall have to be,” he whispered. your heart thumped painfully loud and your stomach lit alight with flutters. you shouldn’t. your mother would kill you, aerion was just testing your strength of will. “no more delaying it, my sweet.”

he kissed your cheek with a wet smack and began lifting your skirt.

you watched him drop to his knees before you, trousers half open and cheeks a ruddy, excitable pink as his hands climbed higher up your thighs, spreading them as you struggled to stay stood steadily beneath his eager pawing. heat spread thickly, like honey, between your legs and the urge to tell aerion to stop disappeared.

your right hand drifted to his blonde hair, tugging at what you could of the short length to keep his eyes up on you.

“it would satisfy the gods?” aerion licked his lips at your question, his eyes flickering to what laid between your spread legs for a moment.

“it will satisfy me,” he answered truthfully. “and i will satisfy you.”

the slow brush of his thumb back and forth across the soft skin of your inner thigh broke your gaze momentarily, a shyness overcoming you, even as you nodded. with a growing smile, you held up the ruffle of your dress skirt at the front and loosened your hold on his hair.

the confidence in his voice that he would please you had you forgetting the precarious position you were both in, and the first hungry lick of his clever tongue to your cunt had your body singing and your voice calling out louder than it should have given the lack of privacy the tent offered.

he’d managed to wring your first orgasm out of you and stood to shove your hand down the front of his open britches by time the familiar sound of your father’s voice returned outside the tent.

you laughed into aerion’s snarling mouth, legs still shaky and sweat clinging to your temples, as your father called for you.

You never thought it’d hit you like this until it does. Baby fever à la max. Even the word ‘fever’ undersells it—the feeling that overtakes you is like a blazing inferno, burning away every other want or desire apart from the one currently tearing you asunder. 

It’s all you can think about from that point on. Babies, babies, babies. The milky smell of their heads, the flexible cartilage of their noses, their pudgy, wrinkly yawns and soft sighs. You make excuses to visit, offering to babysit whenever they look like they could use a night out, your agenda so transparent that anyone with eyes could see it. 

All you can think when you look at them is that your life has been looking a lot like a house of cards these days: all style and no substance. 

They get in your head, alright. That ominous they; not a specific person or group, just a nebulous, widespread opinion permeating far too many corners of your world. All that fearmongering about babymaking windows and that talk of rapidly vanishing fecundity—your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when you come across a TikTok of a thirty-six year old calling her eggs geriatric—and by the end of it, you swear you can hear your biological clock booming between your ears, one swinging gong after another. 

You’re able to keep the beast at bay for a bit by tricking yourself into thinking that it’s just in your head. Just one of those things. You’re getting older—of course at some point you’d start to worry about the things you never got a chance to do. FOMO. Regrets blooming into full-blown crises. It’s only natural that it would start to get to you eventually. 

Trying to convince yourself of that is not enough to shake the damn urgency from your blood though. You’re like a dog with a bone, too many late nights spent scrolling through parenting forums and conception tips, neither of which are of much use to you as a childless, partnerless person not currently trying for a baby. What does it matter to you if smoking reduces your chances of getting pregnant by forty percent? You don’t even smoke. 

You might actually want to have a baby though. Mindblowing after all this time, to think that maybe it wasn’t just a fleeting fancy. 

Mindblowing, then abruptly terrifying. 

Your present situation is a bit dire. It’s been several years since you last had a partner, none you ever would’ve ever considered having a baby with. Absurd—worse than absurd even. And despite everything, despite the self-imposed countdown ticking away in your head and the stress causing your spine to curl in a half-inch more every single day, you are, thankfully, not desperate enough to reach out to any of them. 

So you try. For a short period of time, you make a real, concerted effort to find a partner, going on three dates in a week, each more appalling than the last. It’s the last one that breaks you, your date not only unbearably dismissive to the waitstaff but also entirely uninterested in discussing anything about your life, completely preoccupied with recounting the minutiae of his own life story. 

A swing and a miss. You made an effort at least, put yourself out there. Tried to do things the old-fashioned way. 

It’s the twenty-first century though, for goodness’ sakes; there are more ways to start a family than just the tried-and-true method. 

And that’s how you wind up here, at a fertility clinic on a Tuesday afternoon, PTO plugged into your work calendar with a secretive little “Appointment” reason left for being out of office. It’s no office-busybody’s business though. They don’t need to know about the increasingly debilitating need to have a baby that’s been overtaking you these past few months. 

It would clear a lot of things up, but it still isn’t anyone’s business.

The waiting room is a simple, unadorned roost of a room, the walls lined with plastic eggshell-like chairs for all the eggs soon to be hatched. An oddly sterile space for the purpose it serves. It would be a little uncomfortable if it weren’t like every other waiting room in existence, minus any snivelling sick people.

There are other people besides you. Or rather, there were people. People that have already come and gone, not quite so anxious as to turn up an hour early for their two o’clock appointment, their stomachs grumbling from skipping lunch. 

And so after the third couple goes in for their appointment with the specialist, you’re left on your own for a bit until a new person walks in. 

A man this time, all by his lonesome. 

And boy is he a specimen so fine that you can’t help but hope that he’s come to make a deposit. If they let you pick your donor based on build and gait alone, you think you’d have your man right here. You can barely drag your eyes away from him, glued to the rounded muscle of his back, gliding over the curve of his shoulders and up the thick of his neck.

After a brief conversation with the receptionist to check in, he drums his fingers across the counter and takes a seat on one of the little egg chairs along the wall facing yours. 

Where he then proceeds to lift his head and lock eyes with you. 

In retrospect, you wish you could describe it as a magical moment, but in reality, you just freeze in place, embarrassed at being caught staring. He’s a decently handsome enough man to be good fodder for any later self-care. Square-jawed and bearded.

Good hairline for his age, which you don’t want to take a crack at guessing, but if you had to, it would have to be somewhere around his mid-forties. Maybe late. But it touches him in just the right way, evident in the lines on his forehead and the pull of the skin around his eyes, his beard just ever so slightly flecked with the barest hints of grey. 

The writing on the threadbare shirt he has on, almost hidden beneath the plaid shirt layered over it, is barely legible after countless washes. You can almost see straight through it. If you pinched the fabric between your fingers, you think your nails would poke right through. You could rip it right off him, get a better look at the dense pecs that you can just barely make out through his shirt.

You swallow, that thought catching you off guard. 

Despite your own embarrassment, his gaze holds steady. Some people aren’t born with shame as a built-in foghorn. Some people look out into the world and genuinely believe it is theirs to conquer, raised on a diet of self-confidence and boldness, free-range audacity. 

He’s bold enough, in fact, to rise to his feet and cross to the other side of the waiting room, taking a seat right beside you. He sits down beside you like you're old friends, like there's nothing strange about a man sitting beside a veritable stranger in a completely empty room.

It’s such a bold move that you don’t even know what to say at first, head turned towards him in the chair next to you now with some dumb expression on your face, gobsmacked.

“Can I help you?” you hear yourself ask, years of socialization coming to the rescue. Thank god the gears start turning in your head after that brief second of bewilderment. 

“Not at all.” And what a voice too, as if his looks weren’t enough. All unintentional deep-chested purr, leonine English rumbling out of the depths of him, Northern accent to top it off. “Just thought I might introduce myself. Be polite, seeing as how we’re both here for the same reason.”

Unless he ran ahead of a wife still on her way up the elevator, you don’t think that’s the case. You glance around him just to double check the door. “Are we?”

“Maybe a pick-up instead of a drop-off in your case,” he concedes, a droll little note curled up in his voice. “But that’s not so different when the end result’s the same.”

You swallow and force an awkward smile, ignoring the way your heart speeds up. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, nice to meet you, um, circumstances aside.” You hold out a hand, which he doesn’t hesitate to take.

“Nothing wrong with the circumstances, but pleasure to meet you too, love.”

His palm feels huge around yours, a warm, firm grip that only yields a few moments later when you have to make an effort to pull your hand away, holding on for the fleetingest of seconds, long enough for a spark of anxiety to shoot through your chest. 

You hope that’s the end of it when he finally lets go of your hand. Not because you don’t want to chat up an incredibly attractive stranger, but because you couldn’t imagine the timing being worse. 

He, however, seems to have no qualms with carrying on. “Has it taken yet or are you shopping for donors today?”

It’s a horribly invasive question, but you answer it anyway, all buttoned-up and ginger. “Um. No, I’m just here for a consultation. There’ll probably be a lot of paperwork before, um…before we get started.”

“A lot of nonsense for something I reckon we could get done a lot easier together.”

It doesn’t register until it does. Then you just have to look at him and blink, confused. 

“Excuse me?” you ask. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “I haven’t got this wrong, have I? You said you’re here for a baby?”

“Uh, yes, that’s—that’s what I just said.”

“And I’m here to help someone like you have a baby. Seems like we’d be making both of our lives easier if we just skipped all the red tape and saved you the expense.”

“‘Save me the expense’?” you repeat, stunned. 

“Won’t cost anything the natural way.”

You know what he’s insinuating, but you can’t believe it. You actually can’t believe that this man—a stranger, handsome as he might be, good-looking as he might be, husband-envy-inspiring as he might be—would openly proposition you in the waiting room of a fertility clinic. Offer to get you pregnant ‘the natural way’, as if it were a cold drink on a hot day. A side of fries with your order. 

“I—I’m sorry, but that’s incredibly inappropriate,” you eventually wheeze out. 

That gets a laugh out of him, one of those amused huffs that erupts out of him like a bear flicking a bee off its snout. “Can’t be cagey about this sort of thing, love. You have to be direct when you want to get things done.”

“You do know we’re in public, right?”

“I’d be happy to take this somewhere private.”

The heat under your cheeks might actually result in a physical burn. “I…think I’m going to find somewhere else to sit.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that, love, I’m gonna head out anyway.” A satisfied smile tugs at his mouth. “I think I got what I actually came for.”

Your frown deepens. “You haven’t even been called in yet.”

“Not what I meant.”

Before you can ask what he means, he shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you for just a second, but long enough for your heart to suddenly go wild and your pupils to go big as dinner plates. 

“Here,” he grunts, lifting a hip to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, flicking it open and plucking out a business card. He flips your hand over and puts it down on your palm. “That’s my number. When you’re done here, give me a call. I’m sure we can come up with something better than this.”

He taps the card in your hand with a finger. It ricochets through you, the tap rippling up your arm and chest, nearly rocking you back in your seat. Everything he does must be punctuated with the same echoing weight. 

He nods to you on his way out, a secretive smile on his lips, just the barest hint of a lift that you might’ve missed had you not been staring at his face. All you can do is stare though, still absolutely floored, practically speechless as you watch him leave. 

And then you’re alone again, in an entirely different headspace than when you first sat down. 

“John Price?” the receptionist calls out from behind the desk suddenly, but with the man gone, there’s no one else in the waiting room apart from you. “Mr. John Price?”

You blink, stun-locked. You can’t have been the reason he decided to back out of his appointment at the last minute. He must’ve decided to bail at the last minute before throwing a Hail Mary in an attempt to get laid. 

That has to be it. He wouldn’t leave because of a brief interaction with you. 

The waiting room feels a lot emptier without him now that he’s gone, as if by being made aware of his presence, everything has been indelibly altered. Changed. Slightly less interesting somehow.

You hover somewhere between bewilderment and affront until a flicker of giddiness steals in. Tamp that back down. He's gone, and with him the impossible audacity of what just came out of his mouth. You stare at the door that he just disappeared through, lips parting around a reply you'll never get to deliver, then let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. The gall. 

And yet, despite yourself, you can't quite smother the giddiness bubbling low in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers curl around the business card in your hand. 

Eventually it’s your turn. You almost miss the sound of your own name until a lady in purple scrubs repeats it, sending you shooting to your feet. You follow her as she leads you down a hall and towards an open office just as clean and spartan as the waiting room. All there is in her office is a desk, a bookshelf, and a mobile ultrasound machine. Practically empty for all intents and purposes.

Ok lady, you think, sitting down across from her, what’s it gonna take to put a baby in me?

“Four thousand dollars,” she says matter-of-factly, the earlier part of your conversation long forgotten after hearing the price. 

That just about knocks all the wind out of you. “Oh,” you bleat, the prospect of ever getting pregnant suddenly a sad and distant dream.

“Per cycle,” she further clarifies, much to your dismay, sliding a couple pamphlets your way. “We’re always hopeful that it’ll take on the first cycle, but we typically see about three to four cycles of IUI before conception occurs.” 

IUI—intrauterine insemination. The sperm they have to shove up inside you to just and knock you up. At four thousand dollars a pop. 

“There’s no…first time discount?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like the, um…like the home buyer’s loan.”

She seems vaguely apologetic when she shakes her head at least, though that doesn’t really ease the sting. “No, unfortunately. Most of our customers are first time parents, so—”

It wouldn’t make much business sense. “Yeah, no, I get it.”

You do your best to pay attention to the rest of the conversation and ask the right questions, but the sticker shock makes it hard to focus. At some point, the consultation must end because she sends you off with a folder full of pamphlets and QR codes to scan, and a follow-up appointment booked two weeks out for a blood test and a pelvic ultrasound.

No music on the drive home, just silence to let the events of the day marinate. 

You know it’s likely just this clinic. It’s not like there aren’t other, probably cheaper clinics. But it’s the principle of the matter, the one factor that you hadn’t considered in this whole endeavour—you’d assumed, obviously, that raising a child in and of itself wouldn’t be cheap, but you hadn't even contemplated that the run-up to actually getting pregnant might be so cost prohibitive. 

If you even get pregnant. You exhale in a rush, the thought hitting you like a sledgehammer. God, you might not even get pregnant. You might go through the whole treatment, waste thousands of dollars, and go half-crazy begging the universe to let you get knocked up, and it might not even take. 

Dinner is a glass of white wine and burrito straight from the freezer, in no mood to cook or clean even a single dish. You should be cutting down on your alcohol consumption in anticipation of fertility treatments, but that’ll be a task for a later, less devastated you. You’ll rinse the hot sauce off your plate when you’re done eating and leave it in the sink for tomorrow morning. 

It’s not how you wanted the day to end. You were hoping to come home invigorated and inspired, already prepping for the next steps in the process. Instead it feels like you’ve taken a massive step back. 

Occasionally you like to look up flights to other countries just to imagine what it might be like to get away from your life for a bit, but the ticket price always brings you back down to reality. 

This isn’t like that though; this isn’t some temporary flight of fancy or some pie in the sky that you’ll spend decades chasing down in your dreams, hoping for just a single bite or even just a whiff. This is something you actually, genuinely want. A baby. Something you can take with you into the future, something you can build your life around.

There’s got to be another way. 

It’s a physical weight in your front pocket. You can feel it now, burning a hole in your hip. When you pull it out, the name John Price is printed on the card in a crisp, typewriter font, his phone number and occupation printed in the same sized font just beneath it. 

You stare at the card long enough for your eyes to go dry. Blink. Breathe out, reluctance giving way to acceptance, as tentative as it might be. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ever happen. A fun night with a good-looking man, with the added benefit of getting a baby out of it, no strings attached. Not the most irresponsible decision anyone has ever made. Some people join the army, after all. 

A shiver runs up your spine when you remember the way he worded it though. Sweat on your upper lip that you have to lick off, the salt sinking into the ridges of your tongue. You don’t think he meant turkey basters and plastic cups by getting it done ‘the natural way’. You saw the way he looked at you.  

You could do it for a baby. Let him—and here, you have to squeeze your eyes shut and cover them with your fists—let him do what he has to do to get you pregnant. Cut out the middle man and just let him fit the heavy weight of his body over yours and pry your legs apart to let him sink between your—