𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁

Reading, I discovered that the region mentioned by him [the Count] lies near the borders of three states: Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the Carpathian Mountains. I also read that the population of Transylvania consists of four nationalities: the Saxons to the south, mixed with the Wallachians, descendants of the Dacians; the Magyars to the west; and the Szekelys to the east and north.

I am travelling to the region inhabited by the latter, who claim to be descendants of Attila and the Huns. I have heard it said that the most curious superstitions in the world exist there.

My plans for the coming days are as follows: to take the train tomorrow and proceed to my final destination the day after.

I shall update further shortly. Writing has been a good exercise for my mental health, and I do like how organised my handwriting looks on the page.

---

5 May

I am now on my way to Count Dracula's castle. It is... amusing how events have unfolded thus far. Yesterday I took the train again and spent the entire day watching the landscapes change from the windows, like a watercolour that never dries and is always running. There was a special air about the landscape that would not let me look away. I suppose it is a very human thing to be impressed by something as simple as trees and cows, by clouds and the sun. The food on the train was a light meal, and now and again I could overhear conversations around me. It was lonely to travel by oneself, but I knew that soon enough I should be home.

When at last I set foot on solid ground, I walked to the Golden Crown Hotel. The Count himself had made a reservation for me weeks in advance, and there the staff handed me a letter which he had left for me.

I append it here.

[My friend: Welcome to the Carpathian Mountains. I await you with great expectations. I wish you a good night's rest, and tomorrow, at three o'clock, take the coach bound for Bukovina, in which a seat has already been reserved for you.

At the Borgo Pass, my carriage shall be waiting for you and shall convey you to me. I trust that your journey from London has thus far been good, and I am certain that your stay in my beautiful country shall be pleasant. Yours faithfully, DRACULA.]

I did not sleep well, however. The room was cold at one moment and hot at the next, and when at last I fell asleep, I was haunted by the vision of red eyes and pointed teeth. Smoky figures danced in my sight and laughed. The chambermaids who woke me in the early hours said that I was screaming and thrashing about. I remember lying on the floor, on the other side of the room, as though I had dragged myself there in my sleep.

They were terrified, and told me that evil spirits were prowling the land at this time on account of an approaching holiday. I did not ask which holiday.

Brândusa, the youngest maid, put a crucifix around my neck. She seemed most convinced that it would protect me from everything and everyone, and I let her believe it, being unable to say that I was a disbeliever in anything I could not see and understand.

Ecaterina, the other maid, helped me to my feet. After that, things moved very quickly, for I did not sleep again, preferring the company of my old friend coffee to keep me awake. I was not exactly afraid of another nightmare, but I had no need of such things weighing upon my mind at that moment. I occupied myself with counting how many floors of different shades painted the ground.

And before I knew it, morning had come. I hastened to forget the occurrence as best I could and proceeded with my plans, and so here we are.

Half the journey is already behind me on the road to the Count's castle.

The driver who guides the carriage slowly is a robust man with hands marked by scars which his skin has not been able to conceal, a thick moustache beneath an aquiline nose, and he is not, by any stretch, a talkative fellow either. Whenever I ask how much longer until we arrive, he points ahead and says, "There." Yet there is nothing there. At least, nothing I can see.

Only mountains, mist, and a grey sky that seems to stretch on without end. Everything appears to hide a secret that only he is able to unravel, naturally, from having lived here far longer than I have been alive, though he loathes to share anything beyond the local superstitions.

There is a jovial tune beneath his breath. Something I have never heard before, sung in Romanian. Perhaps, I think, it is a local song. But the fervour and intensity remind me of a rhythmic prayer, a mantra repeated to repel something specific. A little while ago he hummed softly, something my rusty Romanian understood only as: Pleacă, creatură, creatură ticăloasă.

It made no sense whatsoever, but I did not take those words into consideration, for my head was flooded with worries and anxieties. I try not to think of anything beyond what I must do. Much is at stake at this moment, and I cannot afford to fail simply out of laziness or superstition.

I was to travel to Transylvania and finalise the purchase of a property for Count Dracula, a local nobleman interested in acquiring lands in my good old England. The contract is in my brown portfolio. Clauses and signatures which I have read and reread until I could recite every letter written on those pages without having to look at them. There are thirteen in total. All I need is a signature.

Afterwards, I shall return home. Or what remains of it. For no family awaits me within those walls, but my friends do. I promised them it would be only a few weeks and that I would bring back little souvenirs, yet the things most given to me in the villages were crucifixes and blessings.

I do not think they would make interesting gifts for them.

The mountain air is cold and cuts at the lungs. It is not something to which I am accustomed, nor do I know how one ever could become so; my warmest clothes, the warmest I had, still did not protect me as much as I had thought they might.

The driver speaks again: "We are nearly there. We must be careful of his wolves."

I think it a joke. But he does not laugh.

PS: I write this on my lap, inside the carriage. The handwriting is terrible. But I must record it. I have a foreboding. I know not whether it is of the place... or of myself. But for now, I am content to hope for the best.

---

[Entry 2]

It is late when we finally arrive. The castle is exactly what the records describe: ancient, imposing, built of dark stone that absorbs the light; something old that seems to reverberate against my bones, as aristocratic as I imagined it would be, and I realise at once that the drawings I had seen did not do justice to the beautiful castle that stretched before me and made me feel like an ant, so gigantic was it that I felt insignificant beside those walls.

I stood staring at that castle for a good long while, enchanted, wondering why the Count should wish to move away, but I dare not ask the driver that. He would only look at me again with those scrutinising eyes, as though I had asked a foolish question.

[Mental note: purely out of curiosity, ask the Count about this.]

Yet no records mention the smell that comes from the castle. Damp earth, burnt candles, and something sweet, like withered roses. It was strange; not like the incense I imagined they might use in the chapel on Sundays, nor any cleaning products. It was more unique. It was far easier to grow accustomed to this than to the cold.

The driver left me at the main gate. My luggage was deposited beside me, and then, as if by magic, he vanished before I could thank him. Before I could even blink, as though I were a mere sacrifice to be left behind for some hungry, forgotten god. I was troubled by the fact that the man had disappeared into the mist as if he had never existed at all.

I tried to listen for the sound of hoofbeats, but that too had vanished as if it were merely a product of my imagination. Before I could say anything, the doors were opened by a beautiful woman with hair golden as gold itself, with eyes so expressive that upon seeing myself reflected in them I felt a flush of embarrassment — not because I was dishevelled, but because her beauty was of the sort that makes you stop and stare.

She was as dazzling as the castle.

The woman laughed. Her laugh was beautiful too, sweet as honey dripping down the walls of the hive.

"I take it you are Miss Harker?" I nodded, still quite lost and clutching my two suitcases like a child about to be led by its mother on an exciting excursion. "Please, come in, you shall freeze out here, dear."

I admit, I stared at everything I could without any discretion whatsoever. The hall is enormous. Crystal chandeliers covered in cobwebs. Staircases that rise into shadows. Portraits on the walls.

"I hope the journey was not too exhausting?" The woman spoke, and I had become entirely lost in her cadence, taking a second or two to register her words. At last, I nodded.

"It was quite pleasant. I was eager to arrive."

I was so anxious for this contract to succeed because being the only female solicitor in England in 1897 is not exactly easy. I qualified like any man, yet my responsibilities are often transferred to men, for they deem me unfit to practise such a profession. They say I ought to have become a teacher or gone to work in the factories like all the other women. I disagree.

Mr Hawkins, the man who adopted me shortly after I lost my parents, gave me a chance to prove what I know. It is a contract of great importance owing to Dracula's lineage being long and aristocratic for ages, and in the absence of the other solicitors, he had no choice but to send me to settle all the details.

"Forgive me, I did not ask your name," I noted as she guided me towards the guest room, which was already prepared.

"Lisa. The Count's wife."

The records said she had died years ago. I do not mention this, but my heart tries to warn me that there is something wrong in the taciturn manner in which she speaks. I take a deep breath once, twice, long enough to manage not to show any confusion. Perhaps the records were not so reliable?

"Welcome to our home," she continues softly, her fingers lightly touching my arm as she takes my luggage. Embarrassed, I try to stop her. "Oh dear, it is quite all right. I hope you do not mind that I carry the bags. Our servants have already retired for the evening."

"I can carry them, my lady."

"Lisa. Just Lisa." She smiles. The smile is sweet and warm, making me forget what truly matters at this moment. It was maternal in a way I did not remember.

"I hope you like the room. It has been made up and cleaned, waiting for your arrival." We stop before a half-open oak door which Lisa pushes open with her foot. I enter after her. "Your room. Rest, dear. We shall dine in an hour, and then you and Vlad may discuss the contract."

The door closes by itself behind me as she departs. The people here have a habit of leaving before I can answer, but it is no matter. I survey the room. It is comfortable. A large bed with two chests of drawers and a wardrobe at the foot. The fireplace is already lit.

Lastly, a desk with paper, ink and a pen. I sit to write. My hands tremble.

I cannot stop thinking how a dead woman can be alive. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I have one hour to keep calm, to tell myself a lie, and to act accordingly.

---

[Lisa's Diary]

She is... a frightened dove, very easy to read for one with eyes as sharp as mine. She is clever and rational, but full of anxiety. As we walked, I could not help but notice how she looked for imperfections in her clothes, in her nails, how she swallowed saliva even when there was none. I do not think she notices these behaviours, for she seems the sort of person who has never had time to rest.

I wonder if Vlad's plans make sense, but I shall not interfere in his affairs. The years may have changed him. Yet he remains the same to me, from all those years ago when I entered his castle in search of knowledge and studied medicine, anatomy and herbs. He is still gentle and tender when we are alone.

And incredibly stubborn.

Adrian wishes to observe the little dove tonight. I approved. After everything that has happened, he does not trust strangers so easily.

---

[Entry 3]

Y/n's Diary.

The dining room was smaller than I had imagined, cosier and more intimate than the other rooms. A fire crackled in one of the walls, casting dancing shadows. The table was long, of dark wood, with places for twelve. Only four settings were laid, I noticed, confused. I rubbed my eyes and looked again.

There were still four settings, plates and glasses.

Myself. Lisa. Dracula.

Who would sit in the fourth seat?

"My son, Adrian, shall dine later," Lisa explained, seeing my expression, laughing softly. "He is... reserved. And distrustful of strangers. Do not take it personally."

I nodded, though curiosity gnawed at me. None of your business, I reminded myself. You are here for the contract. Nothing else.

Dracula entered. I did not hear his footsteps, nor his breathing. He was simply there all of a sudden, seated at the head of the table as though he had always been.

He was tall. Much taller than I had expected. Long dark hair tied at the back with a red ribbon. Black clothes, old but immaculate. And his ruby-red eyes regarded me with a mixture of suspicion and pleasure.

"Miss Harker," he said. His voice was deep, with an accent that dragged the vowels like mist over the mountains. "Welcome to my home."

"Count Dracula," I replied, inclining my head. "Thank you for your hospitality."

My plate was piled high with dark meats, vegetables and freshly baked bread. The servants must have risen only to serve me, and I confess I felt a pang of pity for them. I hated to put people to trouble.

For a moment, I thought we should sit in the heavy silence that begs to be filled. But Dracula said softly: "Pray eat freely. I hope you will forgive me for not keeping you company; but we have already dined and are not accustomed to supper."

I waved a hand to indicate it was quite all right. Suddenly, I remembered something and withdrew a letter from my pocket. Mr Hawkins had asked me to deliver it to the Count as soon as possible.

I handed him the sealed letter and watched as he opened it and read it gravely. Then, smiling kindly, he returned it to me that I might read it myself. At least a passage of it gave me great pleasure:

"I regret that an attack of gout, an illness which frequently afflicts me, absolutely prevents me from undertaking any journey in the near future; but I am pleased to inform you that I am able to send a fully capable substitute, in whom I place absolute trust. It is an energetic and talented young person, in their own way, and very loyal. They shall be at your disposal, to assist you when you wish, and shall receive your instructions regarding all matters."

Mr Hawkins was rather reserved in expressing his affections, so reading this warmed my heart for a moment. While Dracula and Lisa served themselves more of that viscous wine, they made a handsome couple.

"How did you meet?" I asked curiously, not wishing to intrude and offering them the chance to change the subject.

They exchanged a glance, and Dracula smiled.

"At medical school," he said. But there was a secret in his eyes that told me this was not the whole story. I did not try to discover more. I sensed he would not tell me, in any case.

"Vlad was one of the cleverest in the class. Although he was rather grumpy. That was what charmed me at the time." Lisa laughed.

"You say that, but it was you who was persistent, always chasing after me." This time it was he who laughed, swirling his wine glass slowly while watching the liquid move.

Amidst their stories, I ate at my leisure. The flavour of the food was so delicious that I should have asked for seconds, all the while amusing myself listening to their memories. Eventually, I reached the end of my meal and, judging the moment perfect, attempted to change the subject.

"Count," I began, laying down my cutlery. "About the contract, I might explain the..."

"Tomorrow, Miss Harker," he interrupted, without taking his eyes from his empty glass. There was a strange shadow on the crystal, smeared in the wrong way, viscous, as though he had been drinking something with a different consistency to wine.

"Transylvania has its own laws, Miss Harker." Now he looked at me. His eyes glittered in the firelight. "One of them is: never speak of business during supper."

Lisa smiled softly but cast a glance at her husband. "He does not mean to be rude. He only believes that a good bargain begins with good food and good company."

"And with a good night's sleep," Dracula finished. "You have travelled for days. You are tired. Tomorrow we shall speak at our leisure."

For a moment, I grew restless. I had rehearsed so many ways of conducting this conversation, and in none of my suppositions had I imagined the Count would prefer to talk on the following day. But I realised how much this anxiety stemmed from the fear of failure.

I drank a little more water instead of trying to counter the Count's arguments. I suppose he was right. Only a little.

"You have heard quite enough of us," Lisa said in a friendly tone, diffusing the situation which, though not tense, was becoming awkward. "Tell us a little about yourself."

I tried to think of something to say, but for a few seconds I only drank more water.

"There is not much to tell, my lady. When I am not working, I read or occasionally play games with my friends."

"And does your family not worry about letting you travel so far and alone?"

The word hung in the air. I hesitated.

"Not exactly. My parents... died. Some years ago."

"We are very sorry," Lisa said, and she seemed sincere, almost awkward and unsure what to say next. "To lose one's family is... a wound that does not heal."

Dracula watched her. Then he watched me. "So you are alone in the world," he concluded. It was not a question, but a bare and naked statement.

"I have friends," I corrected, perhaps more sharply than I intended. "I have Mr Hawkins, who raised me. I have a life that I built brick by brick and surrounded myself with the best people I found."

"Then let us drink to old friends and to new friends," proposed the Count.

"Agreed," I nodded.

We toasted, and I sipped the wine slowly. It was warm and far too sweet. It was different from the alcohol served in London.

The conversation that followed was pleasant. Lisa asked about London. About the weather, the people, the customs. I told them about the office, about Hawkins, about the busy streets and the parks in autumn. She listened with genuine attention. Count Dracula too, though he spoke less.

"The people in the towns have some amusing superstitions, by the way," I said, remembering the driver, the hotel maids, the overheard conversations during the train journey.

"They spoke of monsters. But they never explained more than that. One of the women gave me a crucifix and asked me never to take it off.

As I recounted the fanciful events that had surrounded my journey, Lisa and Vlad exchanged a glance.

"They are mere fantasies," explained the Count. "People here is incredibly superstitious. Everything must have a reason, and what has no reason is cursed and frightening. It is ignorance to believe in such things."

It seemed plausible.

We spoke so much that I fear I cannot remember any other exceptional occurrences to write down. For a moment, I felt so welcome that I forgot the contract. Forgot the deadline. Forgot that I was there as a professional, not as a friend.

For a moment, I felt at home, as I had when my parents were still alive. And that frightened me more than anything.

---

Alucard's Surveillance Report

First night of the guest.

· 19h00: Miss Harker came down to supper. Dressed formally. Attempted to mention the contract, but Father interrupted every attempt on the grounds that it was already late. Miss Harker seemed discontented with this but did not insist.

· 19h30: Ate well, although her gaze wandered into the distance at times, as if she had left something behind, miles from here, in her dear England. But she seemed genuinely happy to be in my parents' presence; she did not treat everything merely as work, but as a means of touching souls and understanding her client's needs in order to conduct discussions about the properties.

· 20h00: Mother spoke of family and hobbies. Miss Harker listened attentively. When Mother mentioned "loss", Miss Harker averted her gaze. Sensitive to the subject.

· 20h30: Supper ended. Miss Harker returned to her room and did not lock the door. Very naive of her. If we were savages, she would be done for.

· 21h00: She wrote two letters. She does not seem to intend to send either of them. She kept them in her suitcase. I shall read them later.

· 21h30: Extinguished the candles. Took to her bed.

· 22h00: Still awake. Tosses and turns a great deal. Probably thinking of the contract.

· 23h00: Fell asleep.

· 01h00: Woke. Went to the window. Observed the wolves.

· 01h15: Returned to bed.

· 01h30: Fell asleep again. Sleeps restlessly and murmurs many things I could not understand.

Initial assessment: Resistant but curious. Tries to keep focus on the work, but her eyes wander over the walls, the portraits, over us, as though we were ghosts.

Proceed with the plan carefully.

— Adrian

---

Y/n's Diary.

I cannot sleep.

The room is comfortable, the bed is soft, the fire still crackles. But something keeps me awake. I think of Mina. I think of the office. I think of the contract that needs to be signed. I think of Lisa, of her smile, of her cold hands. I think of Dracula, of his eyes that glitter in the dark, of his serious manner.

I think of the son — Adrian — who did not appear. Where is he? What is the reason for his distrust of strangers?

Against my better judgment, I decide to rise. I go to the window, and outside the snow falls in heaps. The mountains are only shadows, but there is something that makes my heart tremble within my breast. Beyond the snow that painted most of the scene, there were eyes. Many eyes. Yellow. Glittering in the dark.

Wolves.

The driver told me to be careful. It is not merely the howling that frightens me. It is the fact that the wolves are guarding the castle, watching and waiting. As if something — or someone — had told them to keep watch.

The behaviour is not normal, and frightened, I draw the curtains. If I do not see them, then they do not exist, is that not so?

I return to bed. For the first time since I arrived, I wonder whether the chambermaids at the Golden Crown Hotel were not right about the evil spirits. Nothing very terrifying has occurred, except that a dead woman is alive and well, in the prime of her beauty.

I do not wish to think of anything. I truly believe I am quite tired and only now allow myself to feel it. I hope that when I close my eyes now, sleep shall not flee from me.

Avavsss the foretelling dream 😭😭😭 man, I would think that was a message from higher ups and just not leave.

Abshshss the carriage driver wbwhbss there over there.

Ohhh a Lisa 👀👀 miss harkins so strong willed because I would run away once I saw a dead woman walking abansnsns

WBABSHS I might have laughed too much at the medical school bit and her chasing him lolol

Alucard in the shadows watching. Omg a meme popped into my head, the one that goes “effervescent”

𖹭.ᐟ Mirror. (Best friends with Columbina)

; columbina, your best friend, is practically a copy of you. she wears the clothes you have in your closet, she eats the same food you love, and she likes the shows you watch. you don't see anything wrong with it for the most part.

𖹭.ᐟ Abhorrently. (Marriage of Convenience with Flins)

; the man you were promised to since you were both children turns out to be a bit of a creep. it's in your hands if you want to sever this marriage through divorce, or lean into his all-consuming obsession.

𖹭.ᐟ Gameboy. (Brother's best friend with Dan Heng)

; you've known dan heng growing up, watched as he protected you from mean boys with his imposing presence. he's always one call away or just outside the living room playing another competitive game with your brother. in a way, dan heng's like another brother, too.

𖹭.ᐟ Petticoat. (Not like other girls with Furina)

; many consider you to be an outlier. while other girls go out to clubs and get their faces done with immaculate makeup, you stay cooped up in your room blasting your favorite tv shows. boys your age don't go after girls like you. but furina does.

𖹭.ᐟ Moneybags. (Billionaire boss with Arlecchino)

; working as a secretary for a strict CEO takes years off your lifespan at the end of every shift. you go home with unfinished work, you're required to attend to her out of shift, and she always needs her morning coffee at 7:30 AM sharp. at the very least, the pay is good.

𖹭.ᐟ Springtime. (Push-and-Pull with Phainon)

; becoming enamoured with phainon is an inevitability that you had no chance of ever resisting. but it stings how he'll never see you beyond a dear friend from kindergarten. the moment you move on, however, begins a shift in your dynamic with him.

𖹭.ᐟ Propellant. (Bad boy with Scaramouche)

; resident campus troublemaker scaramouche is bad news, everyone knows that, including you. but a drunken shared conversation with him starts to tempt you into getting involved in his life. there is something deeply wrong with him, but maybe you can be the cure to that. your father always taught you to fix rather than discard, after all.

itoshi rin

rin gets exposed against his will because he thinks he’s being subtle when he absolutely is not. 

he never follows celebrities. ever. his feed is empty, clean, emotionless. 

then one day, people notice he follows exactly one female influencer account: you. 

and suddenly the internet turns into the FBI. 

fans start zooming into reflections in his sunglasses during airport photos and realize he’s watching your videos on his phone. 

there’s also an interview where his search history briefly pops up when he’s screen sharing something for a sponsorship. 

the first search? “[name] favorite movies.” 

the second? “does [name] have a boyfriend.” 

he closes the tab so fast. 

the clip spreads across tik tok at lightspeed with captions like: “HE’S JUST LIKE ME.” “RIN ITOSHI DIGITAL FOOTPRINT NEVER LIES.” “THIS MAN IS DOWN HORRENDOUS.” 

rin pretends not to care, but it gets worse because fans start noticing he unconsciously copies little things from you. 

you once mentioned liking silver jewelry stacked on hands, and suddenly, rin is wearing rings in every photoshoot. 

you said rainy days help you think creatively and this man posts a picture of rain on his story for the first time in his life. 

his fans are losing their minds because this is the same rin who usually looks like he wants to fistfight human interaction. 

then someone edits together clips of rin softening whenever interviewers mention you. 

“which celebrities do you know?” “… i know of her.” 

the pause before answering? just pack it up, bro. 

and rin’s absolutely terrible at handling it because every time reporters ask about you, he looks annoyed in that very specific way people look when they’re trying to hide embarrassment. 

which only confirms everything. 

the final nail in the coffin is when your livestream chat starts spamming: “RIN ITOSHI IS WATCHING THIS BTW.” 

and you laugh like, “wait, the soccer player?” 

meanwhile somewhere across the world, rin is staring at his screen in complete silence, considering how he’s going to delete the internet entirely. 

itoshi sae

sae gets caught because he has the terrifying disease known as, um… “quiet rich man obsession.” 

he doesn’t publicly interact with you at all. no follows. no likes. nothing (which honestly makes it worse). 

fans only discover it after a spanish interviewer casually asks him which creators he watches in his free time and sae – who normally gives interviews like he’s being held hostage – suddenly answers with actual detail. 

“[name]’s content is interesting.” 

the room goes silent because INTERESTING??? from sae itoshi??? that’s basically a love confession. 

then he keeps talking. 

“she’s intelligent. her business decisions are impressive.” 

brother why do you know her business strategies. 

people immediately clip it and now everyone’s investigating. they discover he’s been spotted multiple times carrying products from your luxury brand. then your fans realize someone anonymous has been buying out limited edition launches within minutes every release. 

guess who. 

it becomes even funnier because sae clearly thinks he’s being private. meanwhile he’s doing things like: showing up to events you might attend. standing suspiciously close to your section during fashion week. once turning his head so fast during a red carpet interview because he heard your laugh nearby. 

that clip gets slowed down frame by frame by fans like it’s sports analysis. 

and sae’s problem is that he’s too composed. he never denies anything. he just gives reporters this calm expression that somehow screams “mind your business.” 

which makes the internet spiral harder. 

then one day you mention in a podcast: “i don’t really watch sports, but there’s this one soccer player who seems cool.” 

THE INTERNET EXPLODES. 

sae sees the clip and for the first time in recorded history, shidou witnesses this man smiling at his phone. 

he immediately starts screaming. “GAH DAYUM HOW DO I GET YOU WRAPPED AROUND MY FINGER LIKE THAT???” 

nagi seishiro

nagi gets caught because he literally falls asleep watching your livestreams. 

reo exposes him by accident. 

they’re doing a casual gaming stream together and viewers suddenly notice nagi’s phone propped beside him with your stream playing quietly in the corner. your voice is softly talking about skincare or what fictional men you would definitely date while this man is half-asleep listening like it’s a bedtime story. 

chat instantly starts spamming: “IS THAT [NAME]???” “HELPPPPP” “NAGI WAKE UP YOU’RE EXPOSED” 

reo notices too late and starts crying laughing while nagi slowly blinks at the camera. 

“oh… yeah. i watch her.” 

except he forgot to mention he watches your content daily and religiously. 

fans later compile evidence that: nagi somehow knows obscure lore about your life, he once referenced a joke from your second channel nobody remembers, his recommended youtube page during a vlog was literally all your videos, he owns a volume of your favorite manga and uses it as a mousepad support because “it’s sturdy.” 

he also starts accidentally quoting you. you once said “work smarter, not harder” and suddenly nagi’s saying it in interviews like it’s philosophy. 

the funniest part is that he genuinely doesn’t understand why everyone thinks it’s a big deal. 

“i just like her.” “you watched her 6-hour charity stream from beginning to end.” “yeah. she’s funny.” “you donated $10,000.” “… she said thank you.” 

reo is in tears because nagi says all of this with the same tone someone would use discussing grocery shopping. 

then you react to an edit compilation titled: “nagi being the president of [name] nation.” 

and you laugh so hard you wheeze and kinda snort out your entire drink everywhere. 

nagi clips that reaction and saves it immediately. 

mikage reo

reo gets exposed because people with a billion dollars to their fucking name are physically incapable of being discreet when they have a crush i guess. 

it starts when fans realize he attends an alarming amount of events connected to you. brand launches? there. charity gala? there. random influencer boxing match you attended for fun? somehow there, too. 

people joke that he appears like a summoned entity whenever your name is mentioned. 

then one fan makes the horrifying realization that reo has been investing in companies connected to you. 

“wait… didn’t [name] mention wanting to expand into fashion?” 

cut to reo casually funding a luxury textile startup three weeks later. 

this man treats crushing like a corporate merger. 

he also reposts your achievements constantly. you hit 10 million subscribers? story repost. you launch a new business? repost. you post a blurry sunset picture with no caption? somehow reposted with a white heart. 

fans are clawing at the walls. 

and reo is SMOOTH about it, too. he doesn’t act embarrassed. he acts like your biggest shareholder. 

“she’s talented. supporting talented people is normal. especially in the business world.” meanwhile nagi is beside him like: “you changed your lockscreen again.” “bro stop, people are already on my case I BEG.” 

then the internet catches the biggest piece of evidence of all. 

during an interview, reo gets asked: “which celebrity would you want to collaborate with?” 

without hesitation: “[name].” 

immediate answer. no thinking. no pause. terrifying. 

then he keeps going. “i think her vision is refreshing. she’s hardworking, creative, ambitious–” 

the reporter did not ask for an analysis of your character, but they’re nodding along. 

this is when fans start calling him “linkedin boyfriend.” 

it fits so perfectly. 

the funniest part is you genuinely have no clue any of this is happening until your manager casually goes: “so apparently, one of the world’s most famous soccer players is in love with you.” 

and you’re just sitting there like: “… the one with purple hair?” 

bachira meguru

bachira gets caught because he treats his crush on you like a community activity. there is no shame. no secrecy. no survival instinct whatsoever. 

it starts during an interview when someone asks what he watches to relax before games and he goes: “oh! [name]’s videos. she makes me happy.” 

HAPPY. 

the interviewer blinks because bachira says it with the same dreamy expression people use when talking about soulmates in romance movies. 

and from there it only spirals. 

he starts mentioning you constantly in completely unrelated conversations. 

“what inspired your assist today?” “hmm… [name] uploaded while i was stretching.” SO THOSE CORRELATE?? 

then fans realize he comments on your posts like a proud golden retriever boyfriend despite the fact you’ve never met. 

not thirsty comments either. somehow worse. 

things like: “you worked hard today!!!” “this color suits you so much :)” “don’t forget to rest <3” 

and because he’s verified, your fans start losing their minds every single time. 

eventually, compilations start popping up titled: “bachira being [name]’s emotional support subscriber for 8 minutes straight.” 

he watches your livestreams while doing literally everything. stretching, eating, getting his hair dyed. once he accidentally opens your stream during HIS OWN livestream and smiles unconsciously when he hears your voice. 

“oh. hi, [name].” 

LIKE YOU TWO ARE FRIENDS. 

chat goes feral immediately. 

the final death blow happens when you post a vlog trying soccer for fun and bachira uploads an instagram story 30 seconds later screaming: “YOU DID SO GOOD!!!!!!” with seven exclamation points and yellow emojis. 

everyone collectively decides he has the cutest celebrity crush alive. 

shidou ryusei

shidou gets exposed because subtlety has never existed in his bloodstream. 

this man sees one interview clip of you laughing and immediately becomes UNBEARABLE online. 

he follows you on every platform within 10 minutes. likes posts from 3 years ago. comments things that sound vaguely illegal. 

“YOU’RE SO HOT IT’S MAKING MY HEART BENCH PRESS.” 

people don’t even know how to process him. 

then during an interview, he gets shown a photo of you for one of those “smash or pass” type games and instead of answering normally he leans forward like he’s receiving divine revelation. 

“oh THAT’S my wife.” 

the room ERUPTS. 

the clip gets reposted everywhere because he says it with such confidence that even the interviewer starts doubting reality. 

and shidou genuinely does not care about hiding his obsession. he reposts your selfies with captions like: “MOTHERRRRR” “SHE’S EVERYTHING TO ME” “[NAME] NOTICE ME AND MY LIFE IS YOURS” 

sae blocks him temporarily after shidou sends him 17 screenshots of your latest photoshoot at 3 AM. 

it becomes even funnier because your fans start recognizing his username in comments sections. they’ll open your newest post and there he is within 6 seconds. 

“GOOD HEAVENS.” “THIS DRESS IS KILLING ME.” “BARK BARK BARK–” 

eventually, paparazzi catch him watching your youtube videos before a match and smiling like it’s cinema. 

the internet unanimously agrees that shidou does not have a crush. 

he has a full-time occupation. 

karasu tabito

karasu gets caught because he talks about you the way finance bros talk about startup investments. 

he first mentions you on a podcast. 

“[name]? she’s smart as hell.” 

people don’t think much of it until he keeps going. 

“most influencers don’t know how to market longevity. she does.” 

why is this man analyzing your business model like a university lecture… 

suddenly, fans realize karasu has consumed every interview you’ve ever done. he references obscure details from old podcasts. he knows your favorite coffee order. he once quoted something you tweeted in 2021. 

and because karasu’s naturally teasing, people can physically SEE the difference in how he talks about you versus everyone else. 

usually he sounds smug and amused. when talking about you? bro suddenly sounds sincere. horrifying. 

then someone catches him liking a fan edit of you with the caption: “she could ruin my life.” 

which becomes ten times funnier because karasu unlikes it three minutes later after realizing. 

too late. screenshots exist forever. 

the internet also notices he gets weirdly defensive when people insult you. 

during one livestream, somebody comments: “[name] kinda overrated.” 

karasu pauses the entire stream. 

“nah. y’all just hate successful women.” 

the silence afterward is deafening because WHOA??? 

he then continues gaming like he didn’t just expose his soul. 

fans nickname him “podcast boyfriend” because every time he talks about you it sounds like he’s halfway through falling in love during an intellectual debate. 

kaiser michael

kaiser gets caught because he’s too pretty and dramatic to function discreetly. 

he first discovers you through an interview clip and suddenly you become his favorite person to observe. 

not interact with. observe. 

he never comments. never likes publicly. but eagle-eyed fans begin noticing strange things: he starts attending luxury events you’re rumored to be at. photographers catch him looking directly at you in the background of pictures. his spotify playlist suddenly includes songs you publicly said you liked. he once wore a necklace suspiciously similar to one from your brand launch. 

and the thing about kaiser is that he acts like he’s above celebrity crushes while actively behaving like a victorian man yearning through a window. 

then comes the fatal mistake. 

during a livestream, ness accidentally opens kaiser’s private pinterest board. 

the title? “visions.” 

the contents? YOU. 

your editorials. your outfits. aesthetic photos that remind him of you. random quotes you’ve posted. it genuinely looks like the moodboard of a man writing poetry under moonlight. 

ness closes it so fast, but the damage is DONE. 

fans are screaming because michael kaiser – ego the size of a supergiant star – apparently spends his free time curating a digital shrine for a woman he’s never spoken to. 

and kaiser somehow makes it worse because when reporters ask him about it he just grins. 

“can you blame me?” 

OH BROTHER. 

the internet collapses immediately. 

he also starts doing this thing where he watches your interviews with this tiny amused smile like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. fans catch it during behind-the-scenes clips and lose their minds because kaiser literally never looks at people that softly. 

ness, meanwhile, is fighting for his life in the background. 

ness alexis

ness gets exposed in the most humiliating way possible because he accidentally turns into your biggest fan account. 

it begins innocently. he follows you because you’re “interesting.” 

then fans notice he’s in your comments constantly. 

not flirting either. somehow even more embarrassing. 

he writes PARAGRAPHS. 

the starter sentences are always like: “your perspective on creative discipline is truly inspiring.” “the lighting in this video beautifully reflects your emotional transparency.” 

WHO TALKS LIKE THIS. 

people start joking that he comments like a literature student trying to impress his professor. 

then one day somebody discovers a secret: ness runs a fan account. a FULL fan account. 

nobody knows it’s him at first because the username is something vague and anonymous. but then during a livestream he accidentally logs into it on screen for 2 seconds. 

… 

before chat explodes. 

because this account has: archived clips of your livestreams. organized playlists of your interviews. captions defending you from criticism like he’s your lawyer. edits with glitter transitions and that sparkling wand effect. 

ness nearly dies on the spot. 

kaiser is crying laughing beside him while ness is trying to end the stream with shaking hands. 

and the thing is? the fan account is genuinely dedicated. terrifyingly dedicated. there are timestamps. color-coordinated highlights. thoughtful captions analyzing your growth as a creator. 

fans start calling him “employee of the month.” 

it gets even worse when someone finds tweets from the account saying: “her smile today seemed tired. i hope she rests well.” 

like okay, everyone just stopped breathing. 

and somewhere out there, you’re just casually posting skincare routines while one german midfielder is accidentally becoming your strongest soldier online. 

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."

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