Exile, you discovered, was a surprisingly festive occasion.

The harbor bustled from sunrise. Sailors shouted over one another, ropes creaked against wooden masts, and gulls circled overhead with all the dignity of drunken courtiers. The smell of salt, fish, tar, and seaweed clung stubbornly to the air, settling over the docks like a damp blanket. Ships rocked lazily against their moorings while merchants complained, sailors cursed, and somewhere nearby a man was loudly losing an argument with a crate.

A crowd had gathered along the waterfront.

Not because exile was particularly rare.

But because Aerion Targaryen being exiled was apparently an entertainment.

Prince Maekar stood at the front of the gathering, grim and immovable as a carved monument. He looked exactly like a man who had spent the last several weeks regretting every decision that had led to this moment. Servants darted through the crowd carrying trunks and supplies while several ladies pretended not to stare.

They all stared anyway.

You stood among them, naturally, because as Aerion's wife, failing to attend his departure would have raised questions. Questions were dangerous. Questions led to conversations. Conversations led to explanations. And explaining why your husband's exile felt suspiciously similar to receiving a gift from the gods seemed unwise.

So you attended. You stood dutifully among the gathered nobles and courtiers and tried very hard to look devastated. You even practiced beforehand— the result was a strange expression that made you look either mildly constipated or recently widowed.

And unfortunately for you, your lips kept attempting to smile.

Across the dock, Aerion was arguing with three different people simultaneously while sailors loaded his belongings onto the waiting vessel. It was genuinely impressive, to say the least.

One sailor was attempting to explain that no, his hunting hounds could not occupy the captain's quarters. Another was trying to convince him that six barrels of wine counted as excessive provisions for a journey that would last less than two weeks.

A third appeared to be defending himself against accusations that he had somehow personally arranged the weather.

All three were losing.

"You are transporting a prince," Aerion informed them loudly. "Hhave some ambition."

"The cabin physically cannot fit twelve dogs, my prince."

"They are sensitive animals."

"They bite people."

"They are discerning."

The sailor looked ready to throw himself into the sea.

Nearby, one of Aerion's men was attempting to load a trunk large enough to conceal a horse.

You narrowed your eyes.

A trunk.

The sight of it immediately filled you with unpleasant memories. You decided you hated trunks.

Aerion continued talking— or complaining.

At this point the distinction hardly mattered.

His silver hair caught the morning light as he paced the dock, gesturing dramatically enough that several sailors had begun avoiding eye contact altogether.

The exile had been announced days ago and the kingdom had known peace ever since.

Aerion, however, had spent those same days informing anyone willing, or unwilling, to listen that the punishment was unjust, outrageous, politically foolish, personally insulting, and possibly treasonous.

The fact that he had threatened multiple people before being exiled seemed, in his opinion, entirely irrelevant. According to Aerion, the punishment was excessive, unfair, politically foolish, and a personal attack orchestrated by people who lacked both imagination and gratitude. Most disagreed. People said he deserved it—some quietly, others not so quietly.

His recklessness, his temper, and his endless appetite for trouble had finally caught up with him. More importantly, his actions had contributed to the death of Prince Baelor, and that was not something even a prince could simply laugh away. The court had spent weeks whispering about it in corridors and behind closed doors, and for once those whispers had reached the king. Exile, many thought, was a mercy. Aerion, naturally, disagreed.

Your gaze drifted toward the ship.

Lys.

Of all places, they had chosen Lys.

You felt a flicker of disappointment.

Exile was supposed to be miserable. Remote. Unpleasant. The sort of place people were sent to suffer and reflect upon their mistakes.

Lys was none of those things.

Lys was warm. Beautiful. Rich. Full of gardens, fountains, music, and enough pleasure houses to keep Aerion occupied until the end of time. Frankly, it felt less like a punishment and more like a reward.

You had spent half your childhood trying to convince your family to leave Lys and travel somewhere exciting. Aerion had indirectly killed a prince—no, the prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne, and somehow been granted a seaside holiday.

It was deeply irritating.

Still, at least he would be several hundred leagues away.

There was comfort in distance.

Not enough comfort, perhaps, but enough that you found yourself hoping the ship sailed very, very slowly.

And as Aerion boarded the ship, you could only hope he never returned.

Not in the dramatic sense. You did not wish for storms. Storms were unpredictable and had a habit of affecting innocent people. Nor did you wish for pirates. Pirates tended to be enthusiastic about everyone else’s problems. Shipwrecks seemed messy. Assassinations seemed excessive.

No.

You simply hoped he stayed there.

Forever.

Lys was lovely. Lys was warm. Lys was beautiful. Lys was full of vineyards, musicians, fountains, silk, and enough distractions to occupy Aerion until the end of time. Surely, somewhere within that city, there existed a problem dramatic enough to capture his attention permanently.

Perhaps he would fall hopelessly in love with a Lysene courtesan. No— you scoffed, Aerion out of all people wasn’t capable of love.

Perhaps he would offend the wrong magister and spend years arguing his way out of prison.

Perhaps he would become obsessed with some absurd Essosi hobby and refuse to leave.

Perhaps he would simply forget Westeros existed.

You were not particularly concerned with the details.

The important thing was that he remained several hundred leagues away from you.

The ship slowly drifted from the harbor. You watched it pull farther and farther from shore, the sails swelling in the sea breeze as sailors moved across the deck like tiny figures against the morning sky.

Aerion stood near the stern as the ship drifted farther from the harbor, one hand braced against the railing while he argued with someone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.

Even from this distance, it was obvious.

The other man looked increasingly exhausted.

Aerion pointed toward something in the distance. The sailor pointed elsewhere. Aerion threw both hands into the air in outrage.

Remarkable.

The man could start a dispute in an empty room and somehow emerge convinced he was the victim.

A laugh almost escaped you.

Instead, you lifted a hand to your face. Not to wave. Merely to shield your eyes from the sun. At least that was what you told yourself.

The ship continued onward.

The sounds of the harbor slowly swallowed the last traces of it. The shouting sailors became indistinct. The creaking wood disappeared beneath the cries of gulls overhead. The red-and-black Targaryen banners that had snapped proudly in the wind began shrinking into little more than splashes of color against the sea.

You watched longer than you intended.

Perhaps to ensure it was truly leaving.

Perhaps because after everything, it felt strange seeing him go.

For all his faults—and there were enough to fill several books, Aerion had occupied every corner of your life since your arrival in Westeros. He had been an irritation, a humiliation, a disappointment, and occasionally a genuine threat to your continued existence.

And now he was becoming smaller by the second. The ship diminished into a dark shape upon the water.

Then a speck.

Then little more than a pale shadow against the horizon. You kept staring even after it was nearly impossible to distinguish from the sea itself.

Finally, being a kind, generous, and forgiving woman, you offered a few final wishes for your husband.

May his wine always be slightly sour.

May his boots leak whenever it rains.

May every chair he sits upon wobble just enough to be irritating but never enough to be fixed.

May every meal arrive cold.

May every horse dislike him on sight.

May every woman find him exhausting.

May every pillow be warm on both sides.

May every bath be slightly too hot or slightly too cold.

May his sleeves catch on door handles.

May he forever lose one glove and never the matching one.

May-

Well.

The sentiment was there.

You lowered your hand. The ship vanished completely. Nothing remained but the sea.

For a moment, you simply stood there, letting the wind pull at your sleeves. The harbor bustled around you. People resumed their conversations. Sailors returned to work. The world continued as though nothing remarkable had happened.

Perhaps nothing had.

Yet the absence settled over you immediately. Not grief. Certainly not grief. But something that felt suspiciously close to relief.

By the time the ship vanished entirely from sight, you felt lighter than you had in months.

Perhaps years.

The following weeks passed pleasantly.

Then months.

The palace settled into a quieter rhythm without him. His absence left behind an unexpected peace, like a storm finally moving beyond the horizon. Meals became calmer. Servants no longer looked constantly terrified. Nobody threw goblets at walls.

You spent your mornings in the library. Your afternoons overseeing your school. Your evenings reading beside candlelight without wondering whether Aerion was currently setting something, or someone on fire.

Life, for the first time since your arrival in Westeros, felt manageable.

Letters arrived occasionally from Lys. At first, you could not understand why. The very existence of them seemed absurd.

Aerion did not like you. You did not like Aerion.

This was a fact both of you had established repeatedly and with remarkable consistency.

And yet the letters came.

Every few weeks a servant would appear carrying another sealed parchment bearing Aerion’s name. Sometimes the seal was broken. Sometimes wine stained the corner. Once there appeared to be scorch marks.

You read the first few, mostly out of curiosity. The first was three pages dedicated entirely to an argument he had started with a ship captain. Aerion maintained the man had insulted him.

The second letter involved a Lysene magistrate. The third somehow involved the same magistrate, a horse, and a public fountain.

You never learned exactly how because the writing tended to wander. Aerion would begin discussing one subject before veering abruptly into another. Half his letters were complaints. The other half were descriptions of people who had apparently disappointed him.

The city disappointed him.

The food disappointed him.

The magistrates disappointed him.

The weather disappointed him.

One memorable letter was devoted entirely to explaining why a particular tavern owner deserved imprisonment for serving wine that Aerion described as “an insult to grapes.”

Not once did he ask how you were.

Not once did he mention missing home.

Not once did he mention missing you.

You found this reassuring.

After several months you stopped reading them altogether.

There hardly seemed a point.

Instead, the letters accumulated unopened upon a table in your chambers until eventually even that became tiresome. You instructed a servant to place them elsewhere. You never asked where.

Curiously, the letters continued arriving for some time after that. As though Aerion had convinced himself you were reading them.

Or perhaps he simply enjoyed complaining and required an audience, even an unwilling one.

Then, one day, they stopped. No letter arrived that week. Nor the week after. A month passed. Then another.

You found yourself noticing the absence immediately.

Not because you missed them. Gods, no. Quite the opposite, actually. The silence felt like relief. A deep, unexpected relief.

Perhaps he had finally forgotten about this place. Perhaps he had become distracted by Lys. That seemed likely.

Lys excelled at distracting men.

Perhaps he had discovered some new amusement. Some new scandal. Some new woman patient enough to tolerate him. Perhaps, at long last, he had decided to remain there permanently.

The possibility settled warmly in your chest.

And as the months continued to pass without a single letter from across the Narrow Sea, you allowed yourself to hope. Just a little.

Perhaps Lys had finally decided to keep him.

The months continued to pass.

Seasons changed.

Your school grew.

The memory of your husband slowly became less of a daily irritation and more of a distant nuisance, like an old scar that only hurt when touched.

And so, almost peacefully, an entire year slipped by.

Unfortunately, Aerion Targaryen did not.

One year later, standing upon that very same harbor beneath a pale morning sky, you found yourself staring across the sea at a familiar vessel cutting through the water.

For a moment, you merely watched it. Then your stomach sank.

The ship drew closer.

Closer. And closer.

Until the black-and-red banners became visible against the wind.

Around you, servants began moving with excitement. Someone announced the prince’s return. A knight laughed (one of Aerion’s so-called friends perhaps). Another called for preparations.

You simply stood there in silence.

The gods, it seemed, had received every one of your prayers.

And ignored them completely.

ONE YEAR AGO

You settled quickly into life without Aerion. Perhaps too quickly.

The moment the ship carrying your husband into his well-deserved exile vanished beneath the horizon of Blackwater Bay, a suffocating weight had lifted from your chest. In his absence, you carved out a quiet, deliberate existence. The charity school you championed became your sanctuary, occupying the vast majority of your attention. You spent your mornings matching names to eager young faces, listening to the scratched scratching of quills on cheap slate, and finding a profound, grounding purpose in the simple act of teaching.

And the library occupied whatever remained of your waking hours. There, hidden away in a sunlit corner where dust motes danced in the quiet air, you lost yourself in histories of the First Men, treatises on old medicine, and maps of lands you would likely never see. The days bled into weeks, and the weeks into peaceful, seamless months.

It was a serene, predictable routine, so beautifully unhurried that you occasionally forgot you were technically married to a monster exiled across the sea. You were a wife in name only, and you thanked the Seven for that mercy every single night.

Then King Daeron ruined everything.

Well– not intentionally.

Probably.

The King, after all, was known for his gentle disposition, but a monarch’s kindness could be just as disruptive as a tyrant’s whim. A royal summons arrived one crisp autumn morning, delivered by a solemn page and bearing the heavy, intimidating weight of the King’s personal crimson wax seal. The parchment unfurled to reveal elegant, sloping script informing you that His Grace believed it would be highly beneficial if you took up residence at the Red Keep for the foreseeable future.

The reasoning laid out by the crown, apparently, was loneliness. King Daeron, in his infinite, misplaced paternal worry, believed that a young woman left to her own devices in a quiet estate must be rotting away from isolation.

You stared at the letter, the ink blurring slightly before your incredulous eyes.

Then you looked up at Meriel, who was sorting through a basket of fresh linens.

Then you looked back down at the letter.

“I am not lonely,” you stated flatly, as if stating it to the empty air would somehow manifest the truth across the small palace and to the Red Keep.

Meriel stopped her folding and glanced at the overwhelming piles of leather-bound books, loose scrolls, and heavily annotated ledgers completely surrounding your chair. Her expression remained utterly deadpan.

“You spend most of your days speaking to parchment,” she observed dryly.

“I enjoy parchment,” you shot back, defensively tapping the edge of a heavy historical tome.

“Be that as it may, His Grace believes female companionship would be beneficial for you,” Meriel countered, a faint, teasing smirk threatening to break her composure. “He thinks you need the laughter of noble ladies, not the scent of old glue and dusty books.”

You looked utterly horrified, the very concept of being dragged into the gossiping web of the courtly maidens sending a cold shiver down your spine.

Unfortunately, kings were remarkably difficult people to argue with.

Especially when they were correct about being king.

And so, several grueling weeks later, you found your peaceful isolation shattered. You found yourself riding through the massive bronze gates of the Red Keep, returning to the very sprawling, blood-stone castle where your disastrous marriage had begun.

The familiar, looming towers rose aggressively above the churning waves of Blackwater Bay, looking exactly as you remembered them.

Unfortunately.

The jagged silhouette of the Red Keep cut into the sky like an open wound. You had hoped never to see some of these corridors again, specifically the ones leading to Aerion’s old quarters, which still seemed to hold the faint, ghostly echo of his cruel, manic laughter.

The court, meanwhile, welcomed you enthusiastically.

Far too enthusiastically.

In a palace where the highborn starved for any scrap of novelty, a prince’s absent, abandoned wife qualified as premium entertainment. You were like a living curiosity: the girl who had survived the cruel prince and had now been summoned back by the King’s own hand.

The ladies of the court descended upon you almost immediately, like a flock of colorful, preening birds of prey trapped in a cage of silk and velvet. They cornered you in the gardens, crowded around your table at morning break-fast, and shadowed your steps through the lower galleries.

They discussed gowns down to the exact placement of expensive laces. They argued over jewels, measuring the worth of a house by the clarity of a diamond.

They debated marriage as if it were a game of cyvasse, plotting which second sons could be bartered off. They tore down other ladies with sharp, syrupy smiles.

They whispered endlessly about who was sleeping with whom.

They speculated wildly on who wished to sleep with whom.

And, most exhausting of all, they giggled over who claimed not to be sleeping with whom, despite very obviously sleeping with whom.

You hated every single, agonizing moment of it. Your face grew stiff from forcing polite, empty smiles. You missed the smell of your books. You missed the earnest, chaotic energy of your school. You missed the absolute, unblemished luxury of silence. Most of all, you missed the simple dignity of being left entirely alone.

Fortunately, the gods occasionally offered small compensations for human suffering.

In this case, your salvation came in the form of Princess Daena.

The youngest child and only daughter of King Daeron. Daena was a whirlwind of a girl.

She was only a few years older than you, though one would never know it from the way she carried herself. Where most women at court acquired a degree of restraint with age, Daena seemed to have actively rejected the concept. She possessed an astonishing, almost magnificent combination of supreme confidence and complete, unadulterated foolishness.

It was the sort of foolishness that could only flourish in someone who had spent her entire life being adored.

Perhaps it was because she was the youngest of the king’s children, born long after her brothers. Perhaps it was because she was the only daughter in a family full of princes. Or perhaps everyone around her had simply surrendered years ago and decided it was easier to indulge her than correct her.

She had been married once. A lord from a respectable house, if your memory served correctly. You never quite remembered which one because Daena never spoke of him with much enthusiasm.

The marriage had not lasted long though.

Her husband died during the Blackfyre Rebellion, leaving her widowed while still very young. Most women would have been expected to remain with their husband’s family or remarry eventually.

Daena simply returned to the Red Keep. And never left. No one seemed particularly inclined to force the issue. Not when she was the king’s only daughter. And not when she appeared perfectly content exactly where she was.

Years later, she still occupied her apartments in the castle as though she had merely stepped out for a brief visit and forgotten to go back.

She spoke constantly, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush that often seemed to outrun her thoughts. Conversations with her rarely followed a sensible path. One moment she would be sharing some scandal she had overheard at court, the next she would interrupt herself to wonder aloud whether horses had favorite colors. By the end of the conversation, neither of you could remember how it had started.

She approached every mundane aspect of life with the fiery determination of a seasoned warrior, combined with the fragile intelligence of a deeply distracted goose.

Within three days of your arrival, despite her complete lack of sense, she had become your favorite person at court. Not because she was particularly clever.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

But she was thoroughly, wonderfully entertaining. She was a breath of fresh air in a room full of perfumed suffocations. And unlike most of the venomous ladies at court, Daena possessed absolutely no talent whatsoever for subtle cruelty. She didn't know how to whisper a compliment that doubled as an insult; if she disliked something, she simply stated it with the bluntness of a warhammer.

“You read too much,” she informed you one bright afternoon, peering over the top of your thick tome while swinging her legs off the stone bench in the godswood.

“You read too little,” you replied without looking up, turning a crisp page.

“Books make me sleepy,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “All those tiny black letters look like ants crawling across the paper. It gives me a headache.”

“Books give you knowledge, Daena. For instance, they might teach you what animals eat. You once attempted to feed a lemon tart to a royal peacock.”

Daena sniffed defensively, tilting her chin up. “It looked hungry.”

“It tried to bite your fingers off.”

“Yes. A thoroughly rude animal,” she grumbled, entirely unrepentant. “No manners at all. Next time, I shall bring a stick instead of a pastry.”

The months passed pleasantly enough after that, the sharp edges of the Red Keep softened by Daena’s chaotic companionship.

Until the sickness arrived.

At first, it was little more than a collection of distant whispers. A sudden, shivering fever in the rotting alleys of Flea Bottom. A hacking, wet cough among the kitchen servants.

A handful of isolated deaths among the smallfolk that nobody in the upper keeps considered particularly alarming. People died in the slums every day, it was the tax of poverty.

Then, the whispers grew into a deafening roar.

The fevers spread like wildfire through dry brush, leaping over the city walls and defying the heavy oak doors of the wealthy. Entire noble households fell ill within a span of days, masters and servants dying in the same sheets.

The city began to change, stripping away its vibrant, chaotic skin. Doors remained barred and locked from the inside. The bustling markets emptied, leaving rotting produce and abandoned carts in the squares.

The ominous, rhythmic tolling of funeral bells rang far more frequently than the bells of the church septs.

People stopped gathering in crowds, looking at their own neighbors with raw suspicion. Fear settled over King’s Landing like a suffocating, physical shadow, choking the life out of the capital.

The Great Spring Sickness.

Even the name sounded deceptively gentle, evoking images of blooming flowers and morning dew. But there was nothing gentle about it.

It was a horrific, bloody scourge that turned a man’s blood to water and his lungs to ash within two days of the first chill. Every single day brought a fresh wave of reports to the castle. More deaths. More uncontrollable fevers. More black drapes of mourning hanging from balconies.

The Red Keep attempted to continue as normal, putting on a brave, stubborn face to prevent total panic in the streets.

For a time.

Then, the ultimate terror struck, even the royal family, with all their ancient valyrian blood and isolated privileges, began to fall ill.

Prince Matarys, young and full of promise, went first.

Then Prince Valarr followed his brother into the dark.

One right after another.

There was a crushing silence that followed. The sheer disbelief that washed over the courtiers.. The raw, jagged grief of a family being systematically hollowed out. It was a terrifying realization for the entire realm: that dragons could die just as easily, just as pitifully, as any beggar in the gutter.

The court changed overnight, its glittering facade completely shattering. Laughter disappeared entirely from the halls. Conversations became quieter, reduced to paranoid whispers in darkened alcoves. People began watching one another with a terrifying, hawkish intensity, staring at a neighbor's throat or forehead as though the sickness might be visible if one looked hard enough, terrified of a single cough or a sudden bead of sweat.

Then came the worst, most devastating blow of all.

King Daeron.

The kind, weary king who had summoned you to court because he genuinely worried you might be lonely in your quiet life. The Great Spring Sickness claimed him before the year was out, leaving his bedchamber cold and his throne empty.

The Great Sept of Baelor smelled of death. It was not the crisp, clean scent of the high-burning pyres, but the heavy, suffocating odor of hundreds of beeswax candles, stale incense, and the lingering, invisible phantom of the Great Spring Sickness.

The funeral of King Daeron II, and his two bright, promising grandsons, Valarr and Matarys, had ended hours ago. The highborn mourners had dispersed like smoke, leaving the massive stone structure hollowed out and freezing.

You remained behind.

You had not known the princes well. They were distant figures of duty and grace, but they had been good men. Kind men. In a dynasty so frequently plagued by madness and cruelty, they had been a promise of a gentle spring. Now, they were ashes, and the crown had slid heavily onto the head of Daeron’s second son, Aerys, a man who preferred dusty scrolls to the living world.

You knelt before the altar of the Mother, your hands clasped tightly against the rough wool of your mourning gown. You wanted to pray. You needed to pray, if only to find some semblance of order in a world that had tilted entirely off its axis in a matter of weeks.

"A crown," a voice rasped through the gloom. "A crown of gold, heavy with the weight of dozens... dozens of ghosts." You flinched, your hands dropping as you turned sharply.

Emerging from the shadow of one of the massive marble pillars was Maester Gladys.

Your breath caught in your throat. This was the man. The architect of your misery. It was Maester Gladys who, years ago, had whispered into the ears of your family and the Citadel, orchestrating the match that bound you to the nightmare that was Prince Aerion. You had hated him in silence since then.

But looking at him now, hatred gave way to a cold, prickling dread.

The maester’s robes were disheveled, the links of his chain clinking together erratically as he trembled. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and glassy as he stared completely past you, trapped in the throes of a waking delirium. The sickness had not taken his body, but it seemed to have shattered his mind. He was hallucinating, his hands clawing at the empty air as if tearing away a veil.

"They fall," Gladys whispered, his voice rising in an eerie, melodic cadence. He stepped closer, entirely unaware of who you were, seeing only a shape in the dim sept. "The dragons fall like autumn leaves. First the brave, then the beautiful, then the old king. The spring takes them. But the spring is just the wind that clears the field."

"Maester Gladys," you said, your voice trembling as you backed away from the altar. "You are unwell. Let me call someone to help y—"

"No!" He lunged forward with terrifying, sudden speed, his bony fingers gripping your wrists. His grip was like ice. His wild eyes locked onto yours, and for a fraction of a second, a horrific spark of clarity pierced his madness. "I saw it. Years ago, before I sent the letters. Before I bound you to the dragon's blood. I had a dream."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Let me go."

"A dream of a throne of swords," Gladys hissed, his breath smelling of sour wine and poppy juice. "I saw the royals... their descendants... dozens of them, blood on their doublets, ash in their hair. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. Not Aerion. Not Aerys. You, sitting upon the Iron Throne, the realm quiet at your feet. That is why you had to be here! The gods demanded you be planted in the garden before the fire began!"

Horror, cold and absolute, flooded your veins. You yanked your hands from his grasp with a desperate surge of strength.

He stumbled backward, laughing a breathless, broken laugh, still muttering about a throne made of bones and a queen crowned in shadows.

You didn't look back. You turned and ran.

You ran through the towering doors of the Sept, down the endless marble steps of Visenya’s Hill, the wind whipping your mourning veil against your face. Your lungs burned. The maester’s words chased you like a curse. It was madness. It was the fever talking. It had to be.

But as the days bled into weeks, the horror only deepened, because the world began to mimic the madman's dream with terrifying precision.

King Aerys I was crowned in a somber, muted ceremony. He took the throne, ignored his wife, ignored his realm, and buried his face in books of prophecy.

The crown sat precariously on a head that refused to look at the living, while the heavy hand of Bloodraven governed from the shadows. The Red Keep became a tomb of whispers and dust, but the true horror was not the silence of the new King, but it was the terrifying rhythm with which the Stranger kept reclaiming the dragon’s blood.

The madman— or should you say, Maester Gladys’s prophecy did not unfold in a single, sudden ruination. But instead, it eroded the Targaryen dynasty piece by piece, striking down the royals in ways so sudden and bizarre they defied all reason.

The first of these strange, chilling extractions happened right before your eyes, turning a rare evening of courtly pretense into a waking nightmare.

It was during a feast, a forced, hollow celebration meant to project a semblance of stability.

The air in the Great Hall was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spilled wine, and heavy perfumes meant to mask the lingering dread of the city. You sat at the high table, wedged into a space that felt less like an honor and more like a surveillance post. To your left sat Princess Daena, fidgeting with her silver fork. To your right sat Prince Rhaegal.

Rhaegal was a gentle, broken creature, a man whose mind had long since dissolved into a soft, harmless madness. That evening, he was in one of his distant, melancholic moods, his violet eyes glassy as he stared at his plate, occasionally humming a melody only he could hear.

“Try the lamprey pie,” Daena murmured to you, gesturing toward a massive, golden-crusted dish that had just been carved. “The cook swore he used the finest spices from Dorne, though I suspect he just spilled pepper into the broth.”

Before you could reply, Rhaegal reached out. With a sudden, childlike enthusiasm that often characterized his shifting moods, he took a massive, heavy portion of the pie, driving his fork into the rich, dark meat. He ate quickly, untethered from the rigid decorum expected of a prince of the blood, his mind clearly miles away from the Great Hall.

You turned back to Daena, smiling faintly at her chatter, when a sharp, wet gasp cut through the ambient noise of the feast.

You turned sharply. Rhaegal’s fork had clattered against his pewter plate. His hands flew to his throat, his face rapidly turning a terrifying, mottled shade of purple. The gentle prince was struggling for air, his lungs completely blocked by a thick piece of the heavy pastry.

“Uncle?” Daena asked, her voice dropping its playful edge, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic. “Uncle Rhaegal?”

Rhaegal didn't answer. He couldn't. His chest heaved violently, a horrific, choking sound tearing from his throat as he stumbled backward out of his high-backed chair. The heavy oak crashed against the stone floor, a sound that instantly silenced the immediate radius of the high table. Courtiers froze, wine cups suspended in mid-air.

You lunged forward, your fingers catching the sleeve of his velvet doublet as he began to sink to his knees. “Maester!” you shouted, your voice echoing off the high stone rafters. “Help him! He’s choking!”

But the response was too slow. In a court paralyzed by the fear of sudden death, everyone simply stared. Rhaegal clawed at his own neck, his glassy eyes rolling back into his head, fixed on the high, vaulted ceiling as if he could see the invisible threads pulling him down. He thrashed once, twice, a pitiful, desperate struggle for a single gasp of air, and then his body went entirely limp in your grasp.

By the time the Grand Maester finally scrambled up the steps of the elevated dais, robes billowing and chains clinking in a useless panic, the Prince of Dragonstone was already gone. The direct heir to the Iron Throne lay still on the cold stone. Rhaegal had lived through the horrors of the Great Spring Sickness, surviving a plague that had wiped out thousands, only to have his breath stolen by a greasy piece of crust.

A heavy, suffocating panic descended on the hall. Daena let out a small, terrified sob, clutching at your arm, but you could only stare down at Rhaegal’s still, purple face. Dozens of deaths, Gladys’s voice echoed in the caverns of your mind. A line completely severed.

And then, as if the Stranger were executing a meticulously planned script, the dominoes continued to fall with horrific precision. Rhaegal’s son Aelor was named heir, only to be killed in a freak, tragic mishap by his own twin sister, who soon followed him into the grave.

The line was being systematically hollowed out, leaving nothing but ashes and empty chairs. Finally, Aerys too passed into the histories. He left behind a fractured, bleeding court, a vacant throne, and a path that led straight back to the one man you dreaded most.

His name was mentioned over and over again. You heard they had a meeting; a grim, quiet gathering of the small council, tucked away in the council chambers while the King's body was still being prepared for the silent sisters.

The question of who would succeed Aerys was simple on the surface, yet entirely terrifying beneath it. Naturally, the crown belonged to Maekar. He was the last surviving brother, a veteran commander of the Blackfyre Rebellions, and a man made of iron and duty. But after so many sudden, bizarre tragedies, after watching a whole generation of royals vanish into the dirt in a matter of months—the council was terrified of what would happen if Maekar fell next. They couldn't just crown a king, they had to secure a line. They needed to lock down exactly who was standing in line after Maekar.

And that was where the room had completely fractured.

By all laws of Westeros, the succession should have flowed down to Maekar’s eldest son, Prince Daeron. But the lords of the small council flatly refused to accept him. The excuse whispered through the castle corridors was that Daeron was utterly unfit to rule—a notorious drunkard, soft-willed, and so terrified of his own shadow that he had once fled a tourney rather than face a real knight. The lords wanted a strong, formidable heir to guarantee stability after years of plague and chaos, not a prince who spent his days in wine sinks trying to drown his own cowardice.

With Daeron effectively cast aside by the council, the debate turned to the next brother in line.

His name, Aerion, was mentioned countless times.

You heard the arguments from your position near the doorway, your skin turning entirely to ice. The lords spoke of his fierce Valyrian blood. They spoke of his martial skill, his undeniable presence, and the fact that, despite his exile in Lys, he was a prince who would never be accused of weakness or cowardice. You scoffed at that. 

They argued that a fractured, bleeding realm needed a dragon with claws, completely blind to the monstrous cruelty that lurked beneath Aerion's beautiful facade.

Every time his name echoed off the stone walls of the council chamber, Maester Gladys's mad prophecy hammered behind your eyes. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you.

They were preparing to bring him back. 

They were clearing the path for the monster you had barely escaped, dragging him closer to the throne, and closer to you, than anyone had ever intended.

And so here you were, at the harbor.

The sea stretched endlessly before you, a vast, oppressive sheet of cold gray beneath a morning sky that offered no comfort. The salt air was heavy, thick with the sharp tang of low tide and the smoky breath of the harbor’s watchtowers. Waves slapped lazily, relentlessly against the massive stone docks, entirely unaware— or perhaps entirely uncaring, that they were delivering catastrophe directly to your doorstep.

 Each dull splash felt like a countdown, a steady rhythmic ticking toward the end of the quiet life you had fought so hard to build.

Around you, the chaotic gears of royal preparation were already turning with frenetic energy.

Servants hurried back and forth in frantic pairs, carrying heavy iron-bound trunks, stumbling over coil ropes, and hauling velvet-draped litters. Knights in polished armor gathered near the edge of the piers, their greaves clinking as they shifted their weight, checking and rechecking the alignment of the gangplanks. Courtiers lingered in tight, whispering clusters like crows on a fence, speaking in lowered voices that were not nearly as discreet as they believed. You could catch fragments of their murmurs drifting over the sound of the wind—words like succession, blood of the dragon, Lys, and the King’s heir.

You stood perfectly still amongst them, a solitary figure draped in mourning black, frozen like a statue carved from grief and dread.

Watching. Waiting. Dreading.

With every passing minute, the ship grew larger on the horizon. A year ago, you had stood on this very harbor, watching the sails of his vessel shrink into nothingness, praying with every fiber of your being that the sea would swallow him whole and that he would never return.

The gods, apparently, possessed a vicious, twisted sense of humor. They had not only kept him alive; they had cleared a path through his entire family just to bring him back.

Beside you, Princess Daena squinted out toward the gray water, shading her eyes with a delicate, ringed hand. She was completely oblivious to the cold sweat prickling at your spine.

"Which one is he again?" she asked casually, tilting her head.

You stared at her, your voice flat, drained of all warmth. "My husband."

"Oh." Daena blinked, her brow furrowing in a brief moment of mental calculation. A pause stretched between you, filled only by the screaming of gulls overhead. "The terrifying one?"

"Yes."

"The handsome, terrifying one?"

You closed your eyes, the memory of his cruel, beautiful face flashing behind your eyelids like a brand. "Yes."

"Hm."

You heard absolutely no concern in her voice. When you opened your eyes again, Daena was still staring toward the approaching vessel with open, childlike curiosity, as if she were waiting for a traveling circus to pull into port rather than a monster.

"I always thought he was exaggerated," she murmured, tapping her chin. "The stories the old ladies tell in the solar. They make him sound like a demon out of a fairy tale."

"He isn't exaggerated."

"Really?"

Your jaw tightened. The memories of his unpredictable, erratic whims swarmed your mind. "He once suggested I join him and another woman in bed as though he was offering me cake. No shame. No affection. Just a casual invitation over breakfast."

Daena blinked, her shielded eyes widening slightly as she processed the image. "Oh." Another pause settled over the stone pier. Then, she let out a small, bewildered breath. "That is rather strange."

Rather strange. You briefly, intensely considered pushing her into the sea just to give yourself something else to look at.

The ship was close enough now that individual figures could be clearly seen moving across the polished wooden deck. The distinctive three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped aggressively against the gray sky on a field of black silk.

The crowd stirred, a collective, nervous energy rippling through the smallfolk and lords alike. Someone called out a sharp command for the heavy timber gangplanks to be readied.

Further ahead of the crowd, standing at the very edge of the pier, Prince Maekar stood as rigid as stone. His massive frame was clad in deep crimson and charcoal, his hands resting heavily on the pommel of his sword. If he felt any emotion regarding his second son's return, if his heart ached for the monster he had fathered, he concealed it behind a mask of pure iron.

You doubted he was pleased. Maekar was many things—stern, unyielding, and bitter—but even he wasn't blind. The small council might have been locked away in their chambers discussing the technicalities of succession, and the high lords might have been speaking grandly of strength, Valyrian blood, and the necessity of dragons, but Maekar knew his son. 

Perhaps better than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, Maekar knew exactly what Aerion was capable of when left to his own devices. And that knowledge alone made this entire situation infinitely worse. The father did not trust the son, yet the realm was forcing them together.

The ship finally eased into the stone slip of the harbor with a massive, slow momentum.

Thick hemp ropes were thrown through the air, caught by straining dockworkers. Sailors shouted orders over the roar of the wind, their voices hoarse and salt-worn. The heavy timber of the hull groaned in protest against the wooden pilings, a scraping, agonizing sound that vibrated right through the soles of your shoes. The vessel settled, its great oars drawing back like a predator folding its wings.

For a terrifying, suspended moment, nobody moved. The entire harbor seemed to hold its collective breath.

Then, the heavy wooden gangplank was lowered, hitting the stone dock with a loud, echoing thud.

A profound, heavy hush seemed to ripple through the gathered crowd. Your stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. You hated that it did. You hated that after a year of absolute freedom, after all the peace and purpose you had carefully carved out for yourself among your books and your school, the mere possibility of seeing him again could still completely unsettle you. It made you feel weak. It made you feel like the frightened girl he had married, not the woman who had survived him.

The first men began descending the ramp. Guards in practical leather armor, Lysene servants carrying gilded birdcages, merchants in strange, bright eastern robes, faces you did not recognize, a blur of foreign wealth and colonial luxury.

Then– there he was.

Aerion Targaryen descended the gangplank as though he had personally conquered Lys and was returning to King's Landing to collect his rightful reward, rather than an exile being dragged home by a depleted family tree.

The bastard looked infuriatingly healthy.

If anything, his time across the Narrow Sea had only improved him. His silver hair had grown longer, catching the pale morning light, and the hot Lysene sun had darkened his pale skin to a warm, sun-kissed bronze. He wore expensive Essosi silks—a deep, shimmering violet doublet that perfectly matched his eyes—beneath a heavy travel cloak trimmed with fur that probably cost more than some small keeps in the crownlands. He looked rested. He looked powerful.

Which felt deeply, profoundly unfair.

You had spent an entire year secretly hoping for at least one visible hardship to have found him in the East. A limp from a tavern brawl. A jagged scar across his arrogant face. A missing tooth. Something, anything, to prove that the universe possessed a shred of justice. Instead, he appeared to have spent his entire exile drinking fine arbor gold, lounging in pleasure houses, and making everyone else's life thoroughly miserable while you dreaded his shadow.

Aerion’s boots stepped firmly onto Westerosi soil.

He paused at the base of the gangplank, and his violet eyes, bright, sharp, and terrifyingly lucid, swept across the gathered crowd. They passed over the armored knights without interest. They slid over the bowing servants. They dismissed the murmuring lords.

Then, they landed on you.

And stopped.

For one terrible, agonizing moment, neither of you moved. The entire harbor seemed to instantly disappear around you. The shouting of the sailors, the groaning wood, the crashing sea, the crowded pier, all of it was gone, reduced to white noise. There was nothing left in the world except those familiar, deadly eyes staring across the narrow distance between you.

Then, Aerion's mouth slowly, deliberately curved. It was not a smile of affection, nor was it a greeting. It was the sharp, curling smirk of absolute recognition. It was the look of a boy who had just found his favorite toy waiting for him exactly where he had left it.

You stared into his eyes, the madman Gladys's prophecy screaming in your ears, and you immediately regretted being alive.

There were many moments where you regretted being alive, but this was, without a doubt, the absolute worst of it.

It was supposed to be a simple family dinner. Simple, and yet every breath you took felt like swallowing glass. You spent the entire evening faking your smiles until your cheeks ached, holding your heavy silver utensils so tightly that the ornate patterns bit deep, permanent ridges into your palms. You didn't dare look up. You knew exactly what was waiting for you across the linen tablecloth if you did.

One after another, Aerion spoke of his time in Lys. He painted a picture of a paradise, his voice smooth and dripping with that familiar, theatrical charm that made the high lords lean in with rapt attention. He spoke of the towering pleasure houses of the Perfumed Garden, the sweet, spiced wines that never let a man go thirsty, and the effortless luxury of the Free Cities. He spun tales of naval skirmishes and foreign diplomacy as if he hadn't been kicked out of his own country for being a degenerate, but had instead gone on a grand, triumphant tour. To hear him tell it, his exile wasn't a punishment at all, it was more like a holiday.

“The Lysene know how to craft beauty,” Aerion said, his eyes sweeping across the table before settling on you. There was something in his tone that made your skin crawl. “Though there are some things even the wealthiest magisters cannot recreate.”

A knot tightened in your stomach. You lowered your gaze and forced yourself to take another bite of the roasted capon. The meat was tender, perfectly seasoned, and tasted like nothing at all. Ash filled your mouth instead.

To your left sat young Egg. The boy was a stark contrast to the rest of his family, sunburned from his hidden travels, his head recently shaved to hide his Targaryen features, and possessing a stubborn, grounded sense of reality that the rest of the court sorely lacked. He sat right beside you, kicking his legs slightly beneath the heavy oak table, his small fingers violently stabbing a piece of potato.

"He's a prick," Egg muttered under his breath, his voice so quiet it was nearly buried by the clinking of wine goblets. He leaned slightly toward you, his brow furrowed in a fierce, protective scowl. "A pompous, preening prick. He hasn't changed a bit."

A genuine, albeit fleeting, smile finally broke through your rigid mask. You didn't dare say a word out loud, but you let your fingers gently brush against Egg's sleeve in a silent, grateful acknowledgment.

Suddenly, the clinking of silverware died down.

"And what of your duties here, Aerion?" Maekar's voice boomed from the head of the table, heavy and demanding. The King-to-be hadn't touched his wine all evening. His dark eyes bored into his second son. "The council did not recall you from Lys to lounge in the capital like a perfumed magister."

Aerion set his chalice down with an agonizingly slow, deliberate grace. The silver rings on his finger clicked sharply against the gold rim.

"The realm needs a reminder of what a dragon looks like, Father," Aerion replied, his voice smooth, yet underlaid with a dangerous, purring edge. He didn't look at Maekar. Instead, his violet eyes slid deliberately back to you, locking onto your face with a predatory stillness that made the breath catch in your throat.

"And I intend to start my duties exactly where I left them. Beginning at home."

The oppressive, tense heat of that dinner faded, bleeding into the grand, echoey chill of the Great Hall days later.

The air inside the throne room was thick with the scent of burning tallow, heavy incense, and the collective sweat of hundreds of tightly packed nobles. Trumpets blared, their brassy notes reverberating off the high stone pillars, cutting through the low, reverent murmur of the crowd.

It was the day of the coronation.

Before the twisted, towering mass of the Iron Throne stood Maekar. He looked every bit the warrior king, his shoulders broad beneath heavy velvet, his face carved of unyielding granite as the High Septon raised the crown above his head. The crown itself was a heavy, formidable thing, a band of black iron set with square-cut rubies that caught the torchlight that almost looked like fresh, uncoagulated blood.

Your eyes locked onto the crown, tracking its slow descent toward Maekar's brow.

As the gold and iron caught the light, the grand hall seemed to bleed away. The blare of the trumpets distorted, turning into a low, rushing wind, and suddenly you were back in that dim, dust-choked chamber. You could smell the bitter herbs and the rotting parchment. You could see Maester Gladys's trembling, withered hands clutching at your robes, his milky, blind eyes staring right through your soul as his raspy voice tore from his throat.

A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. I saw you sitting on the Iron Throne.

The memory shattered as the High Septon finally placed the heavy crown onto Maekar’s head, declaring him the first of his name. A deafening roar went up from the crowd “Long live King Maekar!” –and the nobles burst into thunderous applause.

Standing in the front ranks beside the rest of the royal family, you kept your hands folded politely in front of your dress, your gaze never wavering from the rubies glittering on the new King's brow.

And for the first time, you didn't push the madman’s prophecy away. You didn't shudder in fear or wish to run. Instead, you eyed that heavy band of iron and rubies with a quiet, burning intensity, wondering with a sudden, sharp clarity if it really was all true.

If the line was meant to sever, then why shouldn't it end with you?

You looked at Maekar, and then your eyes slid slightly to the side, where Aerion stood basking in the reflected glory of his father's new titles. He looked proud, arrogant, and entirely secure in his place as the council’s chosen future.

But you knew the truth. You were better than Aerion. He was a creature of petty malice and fragile ego, a boy who thought cruelty made him a dragon. You were incomparable to him. Where he brought chaos and terror, you possessed a mind that could actually construct order. You understood the delicate, bleeding pulse of the realm. You knew its history, its flaws, and the desperate, quiet needs of the people living under its shadow.

If the gods or the prophecies meant to hand you the reins of Westeros, you wouldn't just sit on the throne to collect taxes and demand bows. You would change lives. You would rewrite the rules of the court, steady the crumbling foundations of the realm, and build something lasting– something better than whatever broken, arrogant Targaryen kings had come before you.

The crowd continued to cheer, their voices echoing off the high stone ceiling like rumbling thunder, a deafening wave of noise that seemed to vibrate right through the floorboards.

As the hours bled on, the somber atmosphere of the coronation melted away, and the Great Hall was transformed into an ornate ball and a dining room at the same time. Tapestries of Targaryen history were illuminated by the harsh, flickering glare of a thousand fresh beeswax candles. Servants moved in a frantic dance of their own, rushing between tables to replace heavy platters of roasted meats and pour endless rivers of sweet Arbor gold. Music from the gallery above swelled; pipes, harps, and drums weaving a lively, almost aggressive rhythm that filled the cavernous room.

And unfortunately for you– you were seated directly beside Aerion.

Ever since his heavy leather boots had landed on Westerosi soil at the port, he had not once properly acknowledged your existence. He sat beside you like a beautiful, dangerous statue, his attention seemingly entirely occupied by the lords who leaned across the table to curry favor with the new King's son.

It was better, you supposed. In fact, it was much better than the alternative. You would gladly take his cold shoulder over having to deal with whatever sharp, twisted insults normally landed from his vile mouth. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, watching the colorful blur of spinning courtiers on the dance floor, hoping that if you sat quietly enough, you might simply blend into the heavy velvet drapery.

But Aerion Targaryen was never a man to let you find peace.

Somehow, he managed to ignore and acknowledge your presence at the exact same time. He did not look at you, nor did he address you by name, but he spent the evening launching snide, venomous remarks that were lowkey, yet undeniably, about you.

"The women of Lys know how to dress for a feast," Aerion remarked to a minor lord sitting across the cloth, his voice cutting clearly through the ambient music. He lifted his golden chalice, swirling the dark wine within. The man nodded uncertainly, unsure on what to respond. “They arrive determined to improve the evening.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward your black mourning gown. "Not everyone shares that same ambition." A few men laughed. You tightened your grip on your silver fork, your jaw locking into a rigid line.

There were two reasons you still wore black.

The first was respectable enough. King Daeron was gone, as were Aerys and the young princes. Not even a year had passed since death had swept through the royal family with such ruthless speed. Mourning remained appropriate.

The second reason was less suitable for polite conversation.

You were mourning your own life.Or rather, the life you had before Aerion Targaryen returned and proceeded to trample through it like a dragon through a vegetable garden. It had been quiet then. Peaceful. Predictable. You had your books, your routines, your freedom from his relentless presence.

And now he was back, ruining all of it with remarkable efficiency.

Aerion set his chalice down with a deliberate, echoing thud, the gold gleaming under the candlelight as he swiveled his attention slightly back to his sycophants. “That’s another thing I miss about Lys.”

The lord across from him leaned forward eagerly, practically tripping over himself to absorb whatever royal favor or scandalous gossip the prince was about to dispense.

The lord blinked. "My prince?"

A cruel, fond smirk tugged at the corner of Aerion’s mouth as he murmured, “The Lysene women are excellent company.”

“Then perhaps you should have stayed.”

The words escaped before you could stop them. Oops. Awkward.

A mistake.

The moment they left your mouth, you felt it— the sudden shift in the air around the table. The conversation nearby faltered. A few lords looked down into their cups with remarkable interest. Somewhere behind you, you could practically feel Meriel having a silent heart attack.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the high table.

At the far end, Daena brightened immediately. The traitor.

For the first time in days, you had voluntarily spoken to Aerion, and she looked as delighted as if she’d just witnessed a long-awaited reconciliation rather than what was very clearly the beginning of another argument.

But slowly and deliberately, Aerion looked at you for the first time all evening.

The movement of his neck was smooth, fluid, and utterly devoid of warmth. Predatory lilac eyes locked onto yours, wide with a terrifying kind of amusement.

“There she is,” he purred, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that made the hairs on your arms stand up.

Aerion leaned in closer, the scent of wine and ash washing over you as his smirk widened into something truly venomous. “What a touching reunion.”

He tilted his head, his eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to maintain your composure. “I was beginning to worry you’d forgotten how.”

Suddenly, the music shifted, slowing into a heavy, rhythmic cadence. One of the courtiers stepped forward, announcing that the high table was expected to lead the next dance.

Aerion set his chalice down with a sharp clink. That lazy smirk on his lips sharpened into something altogether dangerous. He extended a hand toward you, his fingers long and elegant, yet caked with the invisible memory of violence.

You looked at it—at the calluses earned from relentless training, at the heavy signet ring catching the torchlight. Then you looked up at him, meeting a gaze that was far too calm.

“No.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, his dark brows lifting a fraction of an inch before his features smoothed back into that familiar, infuriating composure.

“That wasn’t a difficult instruction,” he murmured, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of apology.

“You’ve ignored me all evening.”

“Yes.”

“And now you wish to dance.”

“Also yes.”

His hand remained suspended between you, an unyielding invitation. Around the high table, the low hum of courtly chatter had died down. Lords and ladies had begun watching, nudging one another, their eyes glittering with the hunger for a domestic scandal.

You decided that you hated every single one of them.

Knowing a public refusal would feed the vultures for weeks, you swallowed your pride. Slowly, deliberately, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours instantly, warm and possessive.

Aerion’s mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. “There she is.”

“I hope you fall down a staircase,” you shot back, keeping your voice low enough for only him to hear.

“See? We hardly spoke for a year and you’ve already missed me.”

The dance was a nightmare.

The court cleared a path as he led you to the center of the floor. Aerion guided you through the intricate, sweeping steps with infuriating ease, his hand firm against your back, effortlessly dictating the pace before you could try to lead.

“You’ve become even more miserable,” he noted, his eyes scanning your face as the music swelled around you.

You refused to look at him, choosing instead to stare somewhere over his shoulder at a dusty tapestry on the far wall. “Welcome home.”

“I left for a year and this is the reception I receive.”

“You’ll survive.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, a genuine glint of amusement in his eyes. “There she is.”

“What does that mean?” you snapped, briefly breaking your vow of silence to glare at him.

“You’ve spent the entire evening pretending I don’t exist.”

“I was hoping you’d do the same.”

He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through his hand on your waist. The sound irritated you more than it should have, warming your cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the hall.

“You’ve been hiding,” he said, executing a seamless turn that forced you closer to his chest.

“I’ve been reading.”

“Same thing.”

You considered stomping on his heavy leather boot with the heel of your slipper. It would be so easy. A slight misstep, a quiet crunch of his toes. Unfortunately, half the realm was watching, their eyes tracking your every movement.

Aerion seemed to notice the calculation in your eyes, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you. “Go on.”

“What?”

“I know that look.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You want to kick me.”

Your silence answered for you, your jaw tightening as you offered him a sweetly venomous smile for the benefit of the crowd.

“Very healthy marriage,” he said, drawing you just a fraction closer as the music began to fade.

—

When the dance finally ended, you didn't give him the chance to escort you back. You practically fled the Great Hall, lifting your heavy skirts and hurrying through the labyrinthine, torch-lit stone corridors of the Red Keep until you finally reached the safety of your own quarters.

You pushed open the bedchamber door.

Relief flooded through you. Finally. Silence. No music. No courtiers. And most importantly, no Aerion–

You stopped.

Aerion was sitting on the edge of your bed. A silver goblet rested loosely in one hand, the dark red wine sloshing slightly against the rim. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth fire playing across his sharp valyrian features.

Then:

“You took the scenic route.”

You shut your eyes. Slowly and carefully. As though patience alone might make him disappear. When you opened them again, he was still there, stretched across the edge of your bed with all the comfort of a man in his own chambers.

“Get out.”

Aerion lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip. “No,” the answer came so quickly it was almost insulting.

“I am serious.”

“So am I.”

You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache had begun somewhere around the third insult at dinner and had only worsened with every passing hour.

“Why are you here?”

Aerion opened his mouth. You immediately held up a hand.

“Actually, wait.” You pointed a warning finger at him. “I already dislike this answer.” And to your irritation, he looked pleased.

“You fled.”

“Yes.”

“And I followed you.”

“That explains nothing.”

Aerion frowned slightly, as if you were being deliberately difficult.

“It explains the entire sequence of events.”

“No, it explains how you got here. It does not explain why you're here.”

You stared at him, your gaze filled with unadulterated venom. Aerion stared back, entirely unbothered, his posture relaxed against your silk sheets. The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Then he smirked. “Did you genuinely think you could lose me?”

“Hope is free.”

“Not for much longer, when I become king.”

“If.”

Aerion rolled his eyes, annoyance already flooding to the both of you, shattering the last remnants of any polite pretense. He set his goblet down on the nightstand with a definitive thud and stood up, bridging the distance between you.

"We need an heir," he said, his voice dropping into something heavy and entirely stripped of its playful malice. "My father and the small council spent the better part of the morning discussing it. To ensure the Targaryen line lives on. It is a matter of state."

Sensing exactly where this was going, your stomach churned with defense.

"I am your husband—" Aerion started, his tone commanding.

"Estranged," you cut him off sharply.

Now you knew. You knew exactly why he was standing in your room, why he had bothered to seek you out at all. He didn't care about you. He was doing this because without an heir before King Maekar dies, he won't be crowned king. The small council would waver.

You raised your chin, trying to sound entirely unimpressed. "Your father is strong, Aerion. It is clear he will live a long life. There is no need for urgency."

But as you stared at him, the weight of the looming situation forced your mind to spin backward, retreating into the memory of a conversation from only a few weeks ago…

—

The sunlight in your solar had been suffocatingly bright that afternoon. You had been pacing the floor, the heavy fabric of your skirts whipping around your ankles as you raged to Meriel.

"He is returning from Lys," you had spat, the words tasting like ash. "And they are naming him Prince of Dragonstone. It is absurd! An heir will be entirely impossible between Aerion and me. We cannot stand to be in the same room, let alone share a bed."

Meriel had remained perfectly calm, sitting gracefully by the window, her embroidery resting in her lap. She had looked up, a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes. "It doesn’t have to be a long-term arrangement. You will be queen. And when Aerion..." She had paused, trailing off with a delicate shrug that heavily hinted at an early, violent demise for your husband. "Well, if he dies early, you will be regent. If you are with child."

You had scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Regent? There are other male heirs! The crown wouldn't fall to a child of his if there are others to take it."

"The small council prefers Aerion," Meriel had countered smoothly. "Because of his personality. Oh, they are terrified of him, make no mistake. But they know he would make a fine king because of his violence. He is utterly ruthless to those who oppose his family. Think of my own family for an example of what happens to those who cross the crown."

She had leaned forward, ticking the other options off on her fingers. "Look at the alternatives. Daeron is far too busy drinking himself into a stupor to ever hold a scepter. Aemon doesn't want to be king, nor does he want to be anywhere near the Iron Throne. He reminds people too much of King Aerys– he prefers his dusty books over governing his people, over the living world entirely. And Aegon?" Meriel had let out a soft, amused laugh. "Aegon is frequently nowhere to be found most days, off on his grand adventures with that remarkably tall knight."

You had scoffed again, though the weight of her words sank in.

"There is a Blackfyre rebellion looming again," Meriel had reminded you, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed whisper. "Obviously, it breathes life because of the rumors of the Targaryen heirs dying one by one like flies. Who knows... you might get lucky if Aerion magically wounds up and dies on a battlefield somewhere. But until then?" She had fixed you with a hard, unyielding stare. "You need an heir."

—

The memory faded, snapping you right back into the dim hearth-light of your bedchamber.

Aerion was still standing there, watching you closely, his sharp lilac eyes tracking the subtle shift in your expression as you processed the trap the small council and history had laid out for you.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and thick with the reality of Meriel’s words.

You breathed out slowly, the tension never leaving your shoulders. You looked past him, staring at the rumpled silk sheets of the bed he just sat upon. If this was a battle for survival, then you would treat it like one.

The irritation that had flared during the dance, the nervous flutter in your throat when you found him waiting in the dark—it all suddenly crystallized into a cold and hard ambition. You had spent months dreading his return, hating his arrogance, but you weren't a martyr, and you weren't a victim either. You wanted that crown. You wanted the power that came with it, the absolute security of the Iron Throne, and the ability to look down on the very courtiers who sneered at you now. If Aerion was the key to unlocking that future, then you would simply have to turn the key.

Slowly, deliberately, you walked past him. The heavy fabric of your skirts brushed against his boots as you closed the distance to the bed, reclaiming your space.

When you looked up at him, all the venom was gone from your eyes. The shift between you could be felt so obviously. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a sudden finality.

You didn't say a word. Instead, your fingers went to the lacings of your gown.

One by one, the heavy silver pins and rings of your jewelry slipped from your skin, hitting the floor with a series of dull, metallic thuds. Then, with practiced, unhurried movements, you unfastened the heavy velvet bodice, letting the heavy gown pool at your feet like a shed skin.

You were left in nothing but your undergarments, a shift of fine, ivory silk so thin it was practically a second skin. In the warm glow of the hearth, your silhouette was starkly revealed– the soft swell and curve of your breasts, the dark peak of your nipples pressing against the fabric, and the smooth, sloping line of your hips.

For all his worldly experience, the sight took Aerion completely by surprise. His breath hitched audibly, his lilac eyes darkening as they tracked the sudden exposure of your body.

You had no experience in a marriage bed; you were a maiden, untouched and untried, but it didn't mean you were a fool. The books you had spent the months reading hadn't just been histories and statecraft; they had been accounts of the flesh, of the power women wielded in the dark when they knew exactly what they were trading.

You leaned back slightly on the mattress, propping yourself up on one hand, meeting his stunned gaze with a look of detachment.

“Well– I certainly did not expect you to give in so suddenly” Aerion said. He blinked, the initial shock quickly giving way to a broad, unbothered grin. He chuckled, shucking off his heavy doublet and tossing it onto the floor without looking. “Look at you. Fascinating. I thought I’d have to deal with hours of sighing, but you’ve gone straight to the point. I respect the efficiency.”

You glared. “Oh don’t mistake my patient for tolerance” You made sure to keep your voice level. You wouldn’t want him to know your heart is hammering in your chest right now. You then scoffed– “I am doing it entirely on my own terms.“

Aerion paused, unbuttoning his shirt with casual and unhurried movements. “You think a thin piece of silk gives you leverage?”

“Yes, I do,” you countered smoothly, holding his gaze. “But you still want what's underneath it.”

He let out a sharp, amused breath, stepping closer to the bed. “True. You have an exceptional body, I'll give you that. I was actually a bit worried you’d be shaped like a turnip under all that velvet. Not quite as lush as the women in Lys, of course– they have a certain, how do you say, vibrancy to their curves– but still, much better than I anticipated.”

Ouch. The casual insult stung, a blunt reminder of his complete lack of tact, but you refused to let him see it find its mark. You kept your face perfectly impassive.

“I was hoping your exile would have helped you improve,” you remarked dryly.

His hand moved to your neck. The blunt warmth of his palm was a stark contrast to the heavy, cold metal of the countless rings on his fingers. You leaned back further against the mattress as he tilted his head, his lips hovering just beside the lobe of your ear.

"You talk too much," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Let's see if you can do anything else."

His hand trailed down your throat, his fingers splaying across your chest. You watched him through your lashes, refusing to look away as his palms slid lower, mapping the contours of your body. He took the weight of your breasts in his hands– groping and molding them through the thin ivory silk, his thumbs dragging roughly over the peaks. And before you could even catch your breath, his hands moved back to your shoulders, applying just enough sudden pressure to push you flat against the bed, his heavy frame following you down until he was hovering directly over you.

No more words were spoken. The chill of the room seemed to evaporate instantly, replaced by the sheer, radiating heat of his body pressed against yours. Aerion shifted, driving his knee upward until it settled firmly between your thighs, pressing right against your center.

The sudden, blunt pressure caught the air in your throat. He dipped lower, his hands sliding down to forcefully part your legs, but even as you were pinned beneath him, you kept your gaze locked onto his with an unmistakable look of hatred.

Now flat on the mattress, the rest of the castle felt entirely distant. The faint, muffled roar of the courtiers feasting below was a hundred rooms away– completely irrelevant. And all that existed was the infuriatingly rich scent of his musk and the way his breathing grew shallower, more ragged, with every passing second.

His fingers dipped down, finding the slick heat between your thighs,pulling aside the thin silk of your shift. . You closed your eyes instantly. You didn't want to look at his smug face, trying to convince yourself that the sudden shudder through your spine was just a natural physical reaction to the stimulation.

You focused entirely on steadying your breath– trying to keep your chest from heaving.

“Already?” he purred, noticing the sudden wetness.

“Shut up,” you gritted out through your teeth, snapping your eyes open to glare up at him.

“Wait until you get a taste of a cock, dear wife,” he sneered mockingly.

But for all his arrogance, he wasn't in a hurry. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips dragging against your skin as he left a trail of bruising, purple marks down to the bridge of your chest. He still hadn't stripped the silk shift from your body– instead, he opened his mouth over the thin fabric of your breast, sucking the peak into his mouth through the wet silk.

Your breath caught painfully in your throat. the intensity of it was overwhelming, a chaotic rush of sensory stimulation that made your mind spin. You needed an anchor, something to hold onto before you thrashed apart under the weight of it.

Fuck it, you thought.

You stopped fighting the reaction. Your fingers flew up, locking forcefully into Aerion’s hair, pulling tight enough to anchor him to you as you deliberately tilted your pelvis up, grinding your heat firmly against his knee.

Aerion let out a low, surprised grunt at the sudden fistful of hair, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. A flash of pure, wicked delight split his features as he felt you grind against him. He didn’t need any more invitation.

Shucking his breeches down with a rough, impatient jerk of his hips, he freed himself. He didn't completely strip your ivory shift; instead, his hands grabbed the hem, bunching the fine silk up to your waist until your hips were entirely bare against the sheets. He settled heavily between your parted thighs, the slick, thick heat of his length pressing directly against your entrance.

He didn't ease in with those gentle words or soft promises. He loomed over you, his chest flush against yours, and with a single, unhurried push, he drove his hips forward.

The blunt thickness of him tore through the maidenhood you had guarded for years. Your breath hitched sharply, a ragged gasp catching in the back of your throat as your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. The initial sting was hot and sharp, a tight stretching sensation that filled you completely. Aerion paused for a fraction of a second, his jaw clenching as he looked down at your face, watching the way your eyes flared with pain.

You hissed through your teeth, the pain already beginning to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache that pulsed right where your bodies met.

Aerion let out a sharp laugh, and then he began to move. He pulled back nearly all the way, letting the cool air of the room hit your slick skin for a fraction of a second before plunging deep inside you again. The heavy sound of his hips striking yours echoed in the quiet room.

He settled into a rhythm that was maddeningly and infuriatingly steady. His hands remained firm at your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you whenever you shifted beneath him. There was no teasing in it, no attempt at any gentleness– but only the same stubborn determination he seemed to bring to every argument, every fight, every impossible thing he set his mind to.

The friction was intense. The initial ache dissolved entirely, replaced by a blossoming heat that began to coil tightly in your lower stomach. Every time he drove inside you, his length rubbed against the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves at your entrance, sending sharp jolts of electricity up your spine. You hated him– you hated the smug twist of his lips, the arrogant tilt of his head– but your body was entirely traitorous– stretching to accommodate his thick length and relentless rhythm.

Aerion’s breathing turned into ragged, heavy pants, his forehead slick with sweat as he stared down at you, watching your breasts bounce with every thrust. He was enjoying the total control of the position, looking entirely pleased with himself.

And you– you weren't going to let him have it.

As he pulled back slightly to deliver another heavy thrust, you dug your heels into the mattress. You slammed your palms against his sticky chest and twisted your hips. Taken completely by surprise by the sudden resistance, Aerion lost his footing on the silk sheets. With a breathless yell, he tumbled onto his back.

Before he could even process the shift, you scrambled up, straddling his waist and pinning his thighs down with your knees. Your ivory shift hung loosely around your shoulders, your bare hips now perfectly aligned over his rigid length.

Aerion lay flat on his back, and for the second time that night, he looked completely stunned, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he looked up at you from below. Then, that familiar, chaotic grin slowly spread across his face. “Well. Look who wants to play king.”

“Shut up,” you breathed, your face flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You didn't give him a chance to retort. Holding his gaze with that same look of unmistakable defiance, you lifted your hips and slowly, deliberately, lowered yourself back down onto him.

The sensation of taking him in from this angle was completely different. He went incredibly deep, filling you entirely until you felt the blunt cap of his length bottoming out against the very core of you. You let out a breathless, trembling gasp, your fingers digging into the muscles of his chest for balance as you threw your head back.

You began to ride him. You lifted your hips up until he almost slipped out, before slamming back down against his pelvis with a wet heavy slap. The control was entirely yours now. You determined the depth, the speed, and the angle. You leaned forward, pressing your hands flat against his chest, your small waist rolling in a tight, agonizingly slow circle that made Aerion’s eyes roll back into his head.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands flying up to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. He tried to push upward to force his own rhythm, but you leaned your weight into him, keeping him pinned down.

“No,” you panting against his lips, leaning down until your sweat-dampened hair brushed his cheeks. “You stay still.”

You accelerated the pace, your hips rising and falling in a frantic, rolling rhythm. The wet sounds of your bodies joining together filled the space between you, drowning out the distant, irrelevant world below. The coil in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter with every downward strike, the overwhelming stimulation pushing you closer to the edge. You ground your cunt firmly against his pelvic bone with every drop, demanding everything he had, while still glaring down at him with beautiful, triumphant malice.

It grew unbearable– like a tight rush of heat that shattered the last of your restraint. You slammed down against him one last time, your inner muscles convulsing around him in a tight spasm as a quiet gasp broke from your throat. The sudden and intense grip of your climax triggered him instantly. Aerion’s jaw locked, his head tossing back against the pillow as a low, guttural roar tore from his chest. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, jerking your pelvis down hard against his as he rolled into you, spilling his hot seed deep inside you.

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the harsh and ragged rasp of his breathing. The arrogance was entirely gone from his face now, replaced by a flushed, dazed exhaustion.

You didn't waste a single moment. As soon as his grip loosened, you shifted your weight and climbed off him, sliding to the far edge of the mattress. Your skin was slick with sweat and your chest still heaving.

"Leave," you said, your voice cold– and entirely devoid of emotion.

He blinked, his dazed expression instantly souring. He sat up, looking at you with a mixture of disbelief and sharp offense, his massive ego clearly taking a direct hit. "Leave? I just gave you a spectacular evening, and you're tossing me out like an unwelcome stray? I am the prince."

"Yes well– the transaction is complete," you replied, keeping your back to him. "Get out."

He let out an irritated hiss through his nose, muttering under his breath about your complete lack of gratitude. He grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor, shucking them on with aggressive, jerky movements before slamming the heavy oak door behind him.

Only when the lock clicked shut did the silence of the room truly settle in.

That was when you felt it– the thick, hot ache between your thighs, and the slow, heavy trickle of his seed spilling out onto your skin. The cold reality of what had just happened settled over you like a physical weight.

It was done.

There was no going back. You slowly rolled onto your back, staring up at the dark canopy of the bed, the phantom weight of his body still pressing into your mattress. You closed your eyes, swallowed the lump in your throat, and hoped for the best.

Aerion came and went– literally and figuratively.

The fierce, charged encounter you had shared weeks before was a rare exception, a fleeting moment of intensity you had only allowed because it served a practical purpose. The council was already breathing down your necks, and it was simply safer to perform the act so they wouldn't throw you both out for failing to produce an heir or shirking your marital duties.

This time, however, there was absolutely no fire, and you were bored out of your mind.

You lay at the very edge of the bed, your legs spread lazily as Aerion hovered over you, mechanically thrusting his hips forward. He wasn't even looking at you. His eyes were entirely distracted, darting upward to track a fat fuzzy bumblebee that had somehow wandered into the bedchamber and was currently hovering perilously close to his head.

"The winter stores are going to be a disaster if the northern grain shipments don't arrive by the fortnight," you remarked, your voice entirely conversational, echoing in the quiet room over the wet sounds of his thrusts. "And the tax assessments for the eastern districts are completely bloated. We need to revise the charts."

Aerion’s rhythm faltered, his brow furrowing in sheer exasperation as he narrowly ducked away from the bee. "Will you shut up? Just– for one second, shut your mouth. I cannot focus with you lecturing me about agriculture right now."

You didn't flinch. You merely tilted your head back against the pillow, looking him dead in the eye with a look of detachment.

You deliberately fell completely silent, letting your arms drop to the sheets as you waited for him to finish.

Aerion let out a relieved sigh, his fingers tightening on one side of your hip to anchor himself.

"Thank you. God, I am profoundly grateful for that," he muttered, completely shameless as his free hand suddenly flew up into the air, aggressively swatting at the air to drive the bee away while his lower half kept driving into you with mindless and distracted efficiency.

He let out one final, frustrated swat at the air, his hips delivering a final perfunctory shove before he rolled off you, completely unbothered by the sheer absurdity of the encounter.

And he definitely didn't linger. Within minutes, he had pulled his breeches back on, and vanished through the door without a glance.

A few quiet moments passed before the side door creaked open. Meriel slipped into the bedchamber, her eyes scanning your disheveled state, the twisted sheets, and the faint scent of sex still hanging in the air.

"Good job," Meriel commented, folding her arms with a dry, knowing smirk.

You stared at her devoid of any emotion. "Thank you. I pride myself on my ability to discuss agricultural tax reform while being mindlessly rutted. It is a rare gift."

"Well, the council will be pleased," Meriel shrugged, walking over to pour you a cup of water. "They were beginning to think you two would rather poison each other's wine than actually secure the succession."

Before you could reply, the heavy main doors swung open. Daena strode into the room, her expression a mix of amusement. She didn't even knock.

"You can skip the modesty," Daena interrupted, looking between the two of you. "Almost the whole keep knows you've been fucking your husband."

You froze, the cup halfway to your lips. A spike of genuine concern hit your chest. "What? How could they possibly know that? The walls aren't that thin."

"Please," Daena scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Aerion left the door unlatched on his way out, shouting at a servant about a bee. And you aren't exactly quiet when you're ordering him around in here. The guards have a betting pool going."

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Fabulous. Truly magnificent."

"Stay right there in your bedchamber," Daena ordered, pointing a finger at you as she began to back toward the door. "Don't move. I'm going to go get something."

Meriel let out a long, heavy sigh the exact moment Daena turned her back on the room, her shoulders slumping in anticipation of whatever chaos Daena was about to fetch.

A few minutes later, Daena returned, holding a small pot containing a single, sprouted stalk of green wheat. She marched over and set it firmly on the nightstand beside your bed.

"A wedding gift," Daena announced proudly. "It detects pregnancy. You urinate on the soil. If the wheat grows rapidly over the next few days, you're with child. If it withers, you aren't."

You stared at the tiny plant, your eyebrows pulling together in deep skepticism. "Daena, it has been mere weeks. It is far too early to tell anything. And besides, why would I trust a stalk of grain when I can simply base it on my moon cycle?"

"Because the moon cycle takes a month, and this is much faster," Daena countered, entirely convinced of her own logic. "The women in the lower keep swear by it. Just try it."

After a few more minutes of back-and-forth banter about the absurdities of hedge-witch medicine, Daena finally grew bored and excused herself, leaving the room as quickly as she had entered it.

The moment the door shut behind, the room fell quiet.

Meriel’s amusement disappeared almost instantly. The smile slipped from her face as she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “There may be another Blackfyre rebellion.”

You stared at her. “Another what?”

“A rebellion.”

You frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”

It sounded ridiculous. There had been no whispers in court. No rumors drifting through the corridors. No nervous lords gathering in corners. Nothing.

“There hasn’t been a word about it,” you said. “Not from the court, not from the city. Nothing.”

“Because the king ordered not to talk about it.” Meriel folded her hands before her. “The small council knows. A handful of the great lords know. The rest are being kept in the dark.”

Your stomach tightened slightly. “And why would Maekar do that?”

“To prevent panic.” A brief silence settled between you. Meriel held your gaze. Something in her tone made you sit a little straighter. “How serious is it?”

“Serious enough that men have begun speaking of armies again.”

You looked away, your thoughts immediately turning to the king, the council, and the princes. And, unfortunately, to your husband.

Meriel leaned back against the heavy mahogany wardrobe, folding her arms across her chest as she watched you. Her eyes tracked the tense line of your shoulders.

“Yes,” she said dryly, letting out a soft sigh that rustled the quiet of the room. “Him too.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, the skin there hot and tight, before sliding your hands down to smooth over the rumpled linen of your sheets.

“Wonderful.”

Months bled by in a tense, suffocating blur of war preparations, blacksmiths hammering through the night, and a sudden, sharp distance between you and the prince.

When the day of departure finally arrived, the atmosphere beneath the shadow of the Red Keep gates was thick with dust, the smell of leather, and the heavy trampling of warhorses.

You stood before Aerion in front of the massive iron-studded gates, surrounded by hundreds of armored men. Protocol demanded a farewell. You didn't want to give it. You didn't want to look at him, let alone offer any sweet, empty words of a worried wife, but the eyes of the court were heavy upon your back.

"Return safely, husband," you said, forcing a perfectly poised, diplomatic coolness into your voice although your eyes remained hard as flint.

Aerion, fully armored, his silver hair tucked loosely beneath a helmet, looked down at you from his mount. He didn't offer a grand declaration of war, nor did he display a single ounce of royal solemnity. Instead, that familiar smirk split his lips. He leaned down slightly from his saddle, ensuring his voice carried just enough for you–and only you– to hear.

"Don't look so miserable, my love," he murmured with an infuriating wink. "You'll miss me. After all, you’re the greatest fuck I’ve ever had."

Before you could even process the crude, breathtaking arrogance of his words, he snapped his reins, turning his horse away with a loud, barking laugh. Your blood boiled instantly, a hot wave of pure, unadulterated fury washing over you as you watched his armored back retreat into the marching columns.

As the dust began to settle, one of the older council members stepped up beside you, his eyes fixed on the departing army. He didn't look at you when he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, clinical murmur. "Princess. Before the prince departed... is there any possibility that you are currently with child?"

You stood entirely rigid, keeping your jaw tight. You stayed quiet, refusing to give him a single word, staring straight ahead until the lord gave a stiff, disappointed bow and melted back into the crowd.

A few more months dragged on, the keep gripped by an agonizing silence as everyone awaited news from the front lines.

Then, the horns blew.

A blood-spattered, breathless messenger burst into the Great Hall, his boots clicking frantically against the stone floors. Lords and ladies scrambled to their feet as the man dropped to his knees before the vacant iron throne.

"Word from Starpike!" the messenger panted, his voice echoing off the high rafters. "The Targaryen forces have smashed the rebel lines! The Blackfyres are routed, their leaders dead! The war is won!"

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the hall, a few lords cheering–but the messenger didn't stand. He stopped– swallowing hard, his face turning entirely pale as he looked up at the gathered nobility.

"But... King Maekar is dead," he whispered, the words dropping like lead. "During the siege of Starpike. A direct hit from a stone thrown from the battlements. It crushed his helmet. The king perished instantly."

Your heart skipped a beat. An inner, cold dialogue raced through your mind. Dead? So soon? King Maekar– brought down by a stray piece of masonry. The kingdom was suddenly leaderless, thrown into a terrifyingly sudden transition of power.

"The vanguard," the messenger added breathlessly, "the company of Prince Aerion... they will be home in a few hours."

When the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall finally swung open later that night, Aerion strode inside. He was covered in dried mud and the faint, copper smell of old blood, his armor clanking loudly with every step. He walked with the broad, chest-puffed swagger of a conqueror– expecting cheers, wine, and a celebratory riot.

Instead, he was met with a wall of absolute, suffocating silence.

Aerion slowed his pace, his brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion. He didn't say a word, but the question was written all over his face: why does everyone look so utterly sullen when we just won a war? He looked around the room, his eyes darting from lord to lord, waiting for the applause that wasn't coming.

Then, the High Septon stepped forward. He didn't offer a congratulatory smile. Instead, he dropped heavily to both knees, pressing his palms flat against the stone floor.

"The King is dead," the old man announced, his voice booming through the quiet hall. "Long live the King."

As if a string had been pulled, the entire room followed suit. One by one, the knights, the lords, and the ladies of the court dropped to their knees in a massive, sweeping wave of silk and steel. A low, thunderous chant rose from the floor, echoing off the cold stone walls: "Long live the King. Long live King Aerion!"

Aerion stood entirely frozen in the center of the hall, surrounded by a sea of bowing heads. For the first time in his life, the smugness completely vanished from his face, replaced by a rare, stunned gravity as the sudden weight of the crown loomed over him.

You stood a few meters directly in front of him, remaining perfectly upright, the only person in the entire room who refused to bow. Your eyes locked onto his across the expanse of stone.

Behind you, you felt a slight shift in the air. Meriel stepped up right behind your shoulder, her gaze fixed entirely on your back as she looked between you and the newly proclaimed king.

Leaning in close, her voice a sharp, barely audible sliver of ice against your ear, she whispered,

"And long live the Queen."

A few months after his engagement post, he posted a photo dump of you on your graduation with an uncharacteristically long caption talking about how proud of you he was and how much you were loved.

Like all his posts, this one blew up. The top comments were from his teammates, congratulating you and in Shidou's case, flirting with you, but a majority of the comments were loving this side of the midfielder.

Like always there was a large part that hated you.

A few days later Sae had a post match interview where someone asked about you.

"And your girlfriend, she's just passed the NCLEX exam right?"

This was a question that put a soft smile on Sae's face, "yeah, my fiancée? She's amazing."

A clip that silenced a shit ton of haters and was used in so many edits people thought it was from an anime.

☆ Rin Itoshi

You were a pilates instructor at an upscale studio in Tokyo and you had quite a following before people knew you and Rin were together.

Many people saw you as an it girl of sorts. You had five hundred thousand followers on TikTok and Instagram and you even had your own drink at a local coffee shop.

A lot of people figured you were dating a soccer player with your influx of "GRWM" posts for games, though some just thought you were doing it to gain some more followers you knew the truth.

Rin being as private as he was, was 100% okay with your wish of getting eloped.

Your family wasn't around, Rin wasn't as close with Sae as he once was and there was no way in hell he'd have his "lukewarm teammates" be at one of the most important events of his life.

You wore your ring in every picture and video you posted, but you never answered questions about it and overtime people just assumed it was a part of your life you wanted to keep private.

This all changed when you posted a photo dump with a simple caption that read, "life lately."

The dump started with a picture of you instructing a class, pretty scenery, shopping, a picture of you and Rin on the day you got married and the last picture was his hand holding your growing belly.

Quickly, the news of Rin being married and having a baby on the way went viral.

People couldn't understand how Rin managed to get married and how he hid it for so long.

"I told you, you don't wear your ring enough," you teased one night as you guys were sitting on the couch together and reading comments.

Rin clicked his teeth and rubbed your belly, "I hate when you read those things." But when he saw you pout he pressed a soft kiss to your head, "You know I don't wear it to games or practices..."

"...but I can start for you."

From that day on, at all of his matches and practices he wore a silicon black band on his ring finger.

Even though he could come off as cold and uncaring he'd do anything he could for his wife and your future kid.

☆ Yoichi Isagi

You were one of the most loved WAGS in the sports. You were at every game, you never spoke negatively about other teams or players and you had a life outside your husband.

Something that wasn't super common.

One time you and Bachira's wife were getting swarmed by paparazzi before a big game.

"Y/N! Keiko! Over here!" One person yelled, their cameras so close in your face.

"Can you guys lean in together for a pic?"

You kept smiling. It wasn't forced. You'd learned a long time ago that the cameras never disappeared, so fighting them only made things worse.

Keiko leaned toward you with an exhausted laugh. "Why do I feel like we're the ones playing today?"

"Because apparently we are," you whispered back.

A microphone suddenly appeared inches from your face.

"Ooo, Yoichi is not going to like that."

"There's been a lot of online discourse about wives distracting players. What's your opinion?"

You didn't even hesitate.

"I think if someone's relationship is distracting them from doing their job, that's between them. But supporting the person you love shouldn't ever be viewed as a distraction."

"Now excuse us."

Once the two of you finally made it inside, the rest of the game went as expected with their team winning. When you met up with Isagi he had already seen the clip of the reporter sticking a microphone in your face that almost made you fall down.

"I can't believe that fucker pushed you," he said through gritted teeth.

"Babe, it's okay... I'm not hurt." He looked over you, scanning your body to ensure you were okay.

He pulled you with him as he went up to the reporters outside the players tunnels.

"Hey!" He shouted, all cameras and reporters faced the two of you.

"I'm only going to say this once, any of you do something to harm her again and I can assure you that you'll never step foot in another stadium again." Isagi didn't wait for anyone to respond, and carried you out of the room and to the car waiting for you guys.

"Yoi... you're so dramatic."

He put his head on your shoulder and wrapped his arms around you as best as he could with his seatbelt on, "that pissed me off so much I didn't even get to check in with you."

"I'm fine, I just wish the paps would lay off me a bit."

☆

The next day tons of athletes and their partners were reposting what Isagi had said and showing their support.

and then you and kaiser will argue. you will argue endlessly about how you’re trying to be supportive despite the means he’s putting himself through and he’ll tell you that it’s not something you can stomach. you both will go to bed—him on your couch and you in your bed until he sneaks himself under your covers in the dead of night—frustration fizzled by morning.

it’s not by any means a good routine. but it’s a routine nonetheless.

until you ignore his warning one friday and head down to the rugged and blaring warehouse to see for yourself, hood covered to hide your face. but kaiser is too keen for his own good and knows your face all too well.

the routine was that he’ll defeat the newbie per usual and earn his winnings—via his signature knockout. he’ll take his earnings and make a new enemy and he’ll go about his day as if nothing happened.

but then he sees you in the audience and stills. for a split moment, he catches your eye and sees the gloss that runs over both of them and the embarrassment that hits him is harsher than the uppercut his opponent gives him square in the jaw. everything blurs in an instant—the warehouse lights, the boos of the audience, and his limp arm that the referee holds up as he counts down before tweeting his whistle.

Wally West:

Wally’s buzzing, the energy that lives under his skin surging through his veins like lightning. He bounces around on the balls of his feet as the two of you circle the mat.

You get a couple jabs in, all playful with no real intent behind them. Wally jabs back, kicks out at you, spins so he’s standing behind you. The energy crackles and burns under his skin. You spin, punching out at him. Wally catches your wrist and blocks. 

He goes to throw a punch, that familiar lightning bubbling up inside of him. It’s a split second too fast, a tad too strong and yet, he doesn’t react fast enough to stop it.

His fist collides with the side of your jaw. You hit the mat. Hard.

Wally drops to the floor with you, panic surging in his chest when you don’t open your eyes. He taps your face, “baby? Baby, look at me.”

You don’t move, limp in his arms, head lulled to the side. He cups your cheek, thumb smoothing over the spot where he hit you. 

“C’mon, c’mon.” Tears burn at his eyes as he pulls you into his lap, arms under your legs and shoulders, ready to pick you up. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart.”

And just before he can lift you up, your eyes are fluttering open and Wally’s breathing a sigh of relief. The tears he was holding back slip from his eyes, hot and heavy on his freckled cheeks.

“Thank god,” he tugs you into his chest, burying his face in your shoulder.

“Wally?” You groan, rubbing the side of your face, “did you—you knocked me out.”

“I’m so fucking sorry, doll, I didn’t mean—“

You lean in, pressing your lips to his, swiping at his tears with your thumb. “I know, Walls.”

“I love you, I—I’d never ever hurt you.”

“Wally,” you clasp his face between your palms, “I’m okay. It’s okay.”

He breathes a sigh of relief, relaxing under your touch. “I think I’m done with sparring for like, forever now.”

You giggle slightly. “Such a drama queen.”

Dick Grayson:

A million thoughts race through Dick’s head when his fist collides with the side of your face. He’s at your side in an instant, catching you when you stagger back and helping lower you to the mats.

You rub at the side of your face, laughing humorlessly. “Nice one.”

Dick, unfortunately, doesn’t see what’s so funny about the situation. His lips are drawn into a frown, brows creased together as he examines you for any signs of injury. 

His hands are all over you, cupping your face, tilting your head every which way to make sure he hasn’t accidentally maimed you. He’s never intentionally gone for your head during sparring, never once did the thought ever cross his mind. Your wires just got crossed.

He threw a jab and you ducked and before he knew it, his fist had connected with your face.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” he says finally. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really didn’t mean to.”

You shrug, “we’re sparring, Dick. It was bound to happen eventually. Let’s keep going.”

“You’re taking at least a five minute break first.”

“What? I’m—” You pause, words dying on your tongue when you feel a hot trickle of blood drip from your nose. Swiping it on the back of your hand, you quiet your voice, “...fine.”

“Yeah, fine.” He shakes his head, jumping to his feet to grab a towel.

He presses it carefully to your face, pinching the soft part of your nose. You lean into his touch, the stinging in your face that radiated to your nostrils suddenly making sense now.

“Dick,” you say quietly, voice muffled by the blood-stained towel.

He looks at you, eyes stormy.

“It’s okay, I’m not upset with you.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you look like you’re five seconds away from crawling into a hole and dying?”

He sighs, “because—fuck, I hurt you, sweetheart, and I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

You rest a hand over his, “I guess I need to punch you in the face so that we’re even, then.”

Something sparks behind his eyes. You shake your head a little too quickly, stars blossoming in your peripheral vision.

“No,” you say. “Absolutely not.”

Barry Allen:

Barry has always hated sparring. He hates the brutality of it, hates how cocky his usual sparring partner—none other than Hal Jordan—gets. Most of all, he hates hurting people that don’t deserve it, even if it is just for practice.

He’s never hated it more than he does right now, watching his fist connect with your face. 

He watches it all in slow motion. The jab he intended to throw towards your shoulder, your attempt to dodge it, the unfortunate mix up that leads to his knuckles colliding with your cheek. 

Barry’s catching you before you even have a chance to stumble back, hands soft on your hips, keeping you upright. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

Time speeds up again, you rub at the aching spot on your face. 

“I really didn’t mean to, I swear, I was aiming for your shoulder and—”

You spin in his arms to face him. “Barry.”

His head is hung low, eyes teary and ashamed. You reach up to cup his face, “Barry, look at me.”

He glances up, looking like a kicked puppy. “I hurt you…”

“I’m fine, Barr.”

He shakes his head, the image of his fist colliding with your face replaying in his mind. His hands tighten on your hips, head falling into the crook of your neck.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” Barry kisses gently at your shoulder, “I’d never hurt you on purpose.”

You sigh, knowing you’re not going to get anywhere anytime soon. “I know, Barry. I know.”

You hold him for a while, letting him cry into your shoulder. 

Booster Gold:

The sound of his fist hitting the underside of your jaw echoes in Michael’s ears. The sound of you hitting the mat follows, loud and hard and something that’ll probably never leave the back of his mind.

His brain short circuits. He freezes. For all the times you’ve sparred, he’s never managed to even land a hit on you before, let alone one this hard. He watches you hit the mat, watches you bounce then draw yourself back into a sitting position.

You look up at him from the ground, wiping a trickle of blood dripping from where you bit your lip. You rub at your aching jaw, the spot that’s sure to hurt for the next week minimum.

Booster’s neurons start firing again. He steps towards you, reaching a hand to help you up and you flinch. Something cold floods his chest, even after you clasp your hand around his and let him haul you to your feet.

You’re afraid of him now. 

“I-I’m so sorry, are you—” All of that usual bravado is drained from his voice like the colour from his cheeks. “Are you okay?”

You nod, “just a little dizzy, might need to sit out a minute.”

His voice cracks. “I think we should call it there for today.”

You look up, tilting your head at your boyfriend. “Are you…crying?”

He shakes his head but you see the way his eyes are glistening, see the stray tear that drips down his cheek. You reach up, swiping a thumb at it. He shrinks beneath your touch, tries to withdraw from you only for you to catch his hand.

“I hurt you,” he says plainly.

“I’m fine.”

“I-I hit you.”

“You didn’t mean to.”

He shrinks even more, broad shoulders folded in on themselves. You wrap your arms around him, pulling yourself closer to him. 

“How about we stop with the sparring for today?” You mumble against him.

“Yes, please.”

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