Aerion Targaryen being forced to marry you because your dads fought together at some point. He despises the thought of it all, remembering how you used to go and cry to his father when he tugged your hair. You were weak, of a lower noble household, and he knew for a fact they you didn’t have any prospects of marriage. Your family was small, many of them belonged to an older generation, and those who didn’t were known for being brats. Hell, he hadn’t even seen you at the funeral of your father and brother because you had fallen violently ill from stress. A typical damsel.
So, when you showed up with a simple steed that had a cart attached to it, it shocked the Targaryen boy. You had lost weight, had an air of confidence, and your long hair did not fall past your shoulder blades. No knights had accompanied you from your house, which he had later learned it was due to your family not approving of the pact your fathers made. They were absorbed into the houses of the older generations, under the command of everyone but you. Yet, you had still come when you were requested, a pair of riding trousers and a loose tunic on you, a bow on your back and knife at your side.
You dismounted, bowing to his uncle.
“Good day to you, Prince Baelor.” His uncle nodded in acknowledgment, your calm gaze turning to Aerion. Recognition crossed your face, but you did not outrightly greet him. “I apologize for arriving late today, packing and loading took longer than I expected on the day I started my journey.”
“Did your maids not help you? Or did your household fall into ruin after your father and brother died?” You pause, holding his cruel stare for a long moment. He longs to see your eyes shed tears, the thought making him grow hard. It doesn’t happen, but a disgusted expression takes over your face for a brief moment. One directed at him. Completely meant for him to take offense. Then you turn back to his uncle, completely ignoring him.
“Apologies, is there anyway I can go to the chambers prepared for me? My journey has been long and quite tiring.” The smile you give his uncle, sweet, genuine, makes him grind his teeth. He aches to see you cry like you once did, to scream so lovely when he bit you as children. No matter that you were two years older than him, mature in a way he did not see in the whores he laid with. Perhaps he could break down your smugness, completely shatter your confidence, before making you a pliant toy.
“Of course, my lady.” After you and prince Baelor left the courtyard, Aerion’s father and older brother did too. Aegon looked up at his cruel brother, watching the way he so violently glared at you. He knew that you would be harmed in the marriage, possibly killed, if the reaction of his brother was anything to go off of. God save you.
