Lindsey

At last, Daeron finished his flagon and pushed himself up, staggering clumsily. You watched his retreating, swaying figure until the darkness of the palace swallowed him whole.

The banquet hall had likely fallen silent by now, the music dead and the candles gutted. You knew you couldn't stay in the dark forever. You had to go back, to face the music of your defiance, even if it meant a cell or a lashing. You steeled yourself, smoothing the heavy red velvet of your skirts, and turned toward the stone pathway.

Your heart stopped.

Aerion was standing there. He looked like a Valyrian statue in the moonlight, with his hands clasped behind his back. His jaw was so tight you could see the muscle jumping in his cheek, and his violet eyes were boring into you, staring daggers. He looked more than furious; he looked volatile, like a jar of wildfire ready to burst.

You began to tremble, your knees threatening to give way. You were doomed. You had walked out on the Princes, humiliated the Brightflame in front of the lords, and now he had found you.

"My Prince," you whispered, the greeting a fragile thing in the heavy silence. You lowered your head, the words of an apology already forming on your tongue. "I... I ask your forgiveness for my departure. The heat of the hall, I felt—"

"What were you doing out here with him?"

The question cut through your apology like a butcher's cleaver. You blinked, looking at him in genuine surprise. Of all the things you expected him to throw at you—insults about your breeding, threats of a dungeon, a lecture on your duty—you hadn't expected his brother to be the first weapon he drew.

"With... Prince Daeron?" you stammered, your confusion momentarily eclipsing your fear.

Aerion took a step forward, entering the light of a nearby brazier. The cut on his lip, the one you had so carefully tended, looked dark and angry in the flickering flame.

"Yes," he hissed. "The fool. What business does my wife have lurking in the dark with him?"

Fear dawned on you as you realized then the trap you had fallen into. In this nest of dragons, there was no such thing as a peaceful conversation. To Aerion, your presence in the dark with another man was a betrayal of his ownership.

"He is your brother, My Prince," you said, your voice cracking with a mixture of fear and hurt. "By law, he is mine as well. Is that what this is? Are you truly accusing me of something so foul?"

The word brother didn't soothe him; it seemed to act like oil on a flame. Aerion’s eye twitched, a spasmodic warning of the uncontrollable rage simmering just beneath his skin. He didn't answer you with words. Instead, his hand shot out, his fingers locking around your wrist like an iron manacle.

You gasped as he jerked you forward, the force of it nearly pulling your arm from its socket. He didn't lead you back toward the safety of the castle lights; he began to drag you toward the darker, more desolate edges of the grounds.

The roar of rushing water grew louder, a rhythmic churning that signaled the river. A terrifying thought bloomed in the back of your mind: he is going to kill me. He would snap your neck or hold your head beneath that dark water until the current claimed you. Just another unfortunate accident for House Targaryen to sweep under a silken rug.

"Aerion, stop! You're hurting me!" you cried out, stumbling over the hem of your heavy skirts as you struggled to keep pace with his fury.

"Hurting you?" he barked, not deigning to look back. "You should be more concerned with the rot in your own soul. To crawl away from your husband's side for a drunkard in the dark... you act like a common whore, and you haven't even worn the Targaryen name for a week."

The slur stung, a jagged blade of a word, but the staggering hypocrisy of it ignited a spark of defiance that scorched through your fear. You dug your heels into the gravel, lashing out with a voice that vibrated with pure venom.

"You went to a brothel!" you shrieked, your fury finally rising to meet his. "You abandoned me to seek a wench on our wedding night! How dare you judge me for speaking to your own blood?"

Aerion stopped so abruptly that you lurched forward, your boots skidding on the mud and slick river stones. You almost went down, your heart leaping into your throat, but his grip on your wrist was like a shackle of forged steel. He wrenched you upward, pinning you against the solid heat of his chest.

The roar of the river became a dull thrum compared to the blood pounding in your ears. In the moonlight, Aerion’s face was a terrifying mask, his features twisted into a snarl that made him look less like a man and more like the monster he was rumored to be.

"You had me followed?" He leaned in, his voice a low growl. "You dared to set spies upon a Prince of the Blood?"

He began to grind his palm against your wrist, his hand tightening with white-knuckled tension. The bone felt as if it were screaming, the tendons stretching to the point of snapping.

A broken sob escaped you as the agony finally overran your anger. You looked up at him through a blur of hot, stinging tears, the world narrowing down to the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Let go," you whimpered, your defiance wilting under the crushing weight of the pain. "Aerion… you’re hurting me."

At the sound of your sobbing, the manic fire in his eyes flickered. He froze, his gaze dropping to the tears carving tracks through the dust and sweat on your face. For a fleeting second, that same expression from your wedding night returned: a flash of profound unease.

He recoiled as if your skin had suddenly turned to wildfire. He released your wrist so abruptly that the sudden lack of tension sent you reeling backward.

"I have no patience for this," he hissed, turning his back on you with an arrogant tilt of his head. "If you wish to act the part of a martyr, do it alone. I will not be—"

But the riverbank was a treacherous place of slick moss and loose shale. As you stumbled back from his sudden release, your heel caught on a jagged stone. You gasped, your arms flailing for a grip on the empty air, your heart leaping into your throat as the world tilted.

The ground vanished beneath your heels with a sickening lack of resistance. You tried to scream his name, but Aerion’s back was a wall of rigid, uncaring silk, and the sound died in your throat as the river rushed up to meet you. The heavy Targaryen velvet of your skirts, once a symbol of status, now acted as a leaden weight, dragging you down into the churning blackness.

You thrashed, your fingers clawing uselessly at the dark liquid, your panic rising as you realized you were a stone in this current. You couldn't swim.

You managed to break the surface for one agonizing second, gasping for air that was more spray than oxygen. Blinking through the stinging wetness, you looked toward the bank.

There he was.

Aerion stood on the lip of the riverbank, a dark specter of indifference against the pale moon. He didn’t move. He didn’t dive. He didn’t scream. He simply watched with that familiar scowl etched into his handsome face, the look of a man watching a nuisance finally drown itself.

He’s waiting, you thought. He’s waiting for the water to finish me.

With the last of your strength, you thrust a hand toward him desperately. Your fingers shook as you reached for the man who had done nothing but humiliate you, managing only a single broken plea.

"Help..."

Through the haze of splashing water, you saw his eyes flash a sudden, wild violet. You saw him jerk his head, his lips curling into a sneer of irritation as if your drowning were a personal inconvenience he hadn't scheduled for his evening. You saw him take a step, but it felt like the movement of a man coming to retrieve a piece of trash he’d dropped, not a savior.

But you didn't see the way his hands had already begun to fly to his sword belt with a frantic, trembling speed. You didn't see the way his mask of arrogance was crumbling into raw panic as he realized you weren't fighting the current. You were sinking into it.

The water surged over your head, filling your mouth and nose with the taste of iron and silt. The last thing you felt was the crushing weight of the river dragging you into the silence.

What you couldn’t see—what you would never have believed of the monster you married—was the Prince of the Blood throwing himself into the freezing blackness with a desperate roar. You didn't feel the bruising force of his arms catching you beneath the surface, his heart hammering against your spine in a rhythm of unbridled terror. You didn't hear how his voice shattered as he dragged your limp body onto the mud, his hands shaking so violently he could barely check for your breath.

The world turned black, the image of his cold, staring face on the bank the final, bitter proof that you were alone.

The darkness brought memories that tasted of cold iron and old tears. In the void of your unconsciousness, you were back in your father’s solar, the day the world ended.

The parchment had felt heavier than lead, a treaty that sealed the peace of the realm with the blood of your future. The day your family received that offer from House Targaryen was the day a part of you died; a quiet, internal extinguishing of the girl who thought she might one day marry for something as soft as affection.

You were a piece of political collateral to be traded like a stallion or a plot of land. You knew you weren't alone in this; every high-born lady in the Seven Kingdoms faced this little death, the moment they were told their life was no longer their own. But the name on the scroll made the blow feel lethal.

Aerion Targaryen.

The agreement was precise: the Prince was to wed the only daughter of your house. You.

You had cried the entire night after your father delivered the news. He hadn't looked at you as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the flickering hearth as if the flames could explain why his only child had to be sent into the dragon’s den.

Your old handmaiden had spent the following morning trying to piece you back together. She brushed your hair with trembling hands, whispering of the Great Stories. She spoke of the glory of Old Valyria, of the silver-gold hair and violet eyes that made the Targaryens look like gods walking among men. She spoke of their power, their ancient blood, and the singular honor of being chosen to join such a lineage.

"They are the blood of the dragon," she had whispered in awe. "To be wedded to a Prince is to step into the sun itself."

But you weren't interested in the lineage of dead kings. You looked at her reflection in the glass, your eyes red and swollen from the night's weeping.

"And what of the Prince?" you asked hollowly. "What have you heard specifically of Prince Aerion?"

The reaction was immediate. The light seemed to drain from her face, replaced by a tight, practiced smile that didn't quite hide the sudden stillness in her breath.

She began to stammer through a rehearsed description of his legendary beauty and his prowess in the lists, but you saw the way her fingers clutched the silver brush. You knew then that the stories she wasn't telling were the ones that truly mattered.

The dream began to warp, the sound of the hairbrush through your hair transforming into the sound of a heavy, wet fabric hitting a stone floor. The heat of the solar intensified until it was no longer a memory, but a suffocating reality.

You woke with a violent, racking cough, your lungs burning as if you’d swallowed liquid fire.

The darkness of the river was gone, replaced by an oppressive light. You were back in your bedchamber at Summerhall.

The room erupted into a flurry of motion the moment you stirred. Several servants rushed to your side, their faces pale and etched with a terror. You heard a sharp command, someone shouting for the Maester, and then felt the flurry of hands propping you up against the pillows and wrapping you in fresh, heavy furs.

The Maester arrived shortly after, smelling of bitter herbs and old parchment. He pressed his cool fingers to your pulse and held a candle to your eyes, his face a map of deep-set wrinkles and concern. The room felt dizzying; the fire in the hearth made the shadows on the wall dance and stretch in ways that made your stomach churn.

"Can you hear me, My Lady?" the Maester asked, his voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.

You could only manage a slow, shallow nod. When he asked if you felt the chill in your bones or a pain in your chest, you whispered short, clipped answers, your voice a ghostly rasp. Your mind was still trapped in the dark current, seeing that silhouette on the bank that had simply watched you sink.

After a final inspection, the Maester let out a long breath and turned to the head attendant. "The lungs are clear of the worst of it. She needs rest and the warming draughts. She is out of danger."

The tension in the room snapped instantly. The lead attendant, a girl who couldn't have been much older than you, let out a relieved sigh. She turned to you with a bright, beaming smile that felt jarringly out of place in your grim reality.

"Oh, thank the Mother," she gushed, smoothing the furs over your trembling shoulders. "I shall go at once to inform the Prince that you have awakened, My Lady! He will be so relieved to hear the news."

Her words were meant to be a comfort, but they hit you like a fresh coat of ice. Unlike the servant, you didn't feel as bright. At the mention of your husband, your heart sank into a familiar, hollow pit of dread.

You lay back against the pillows as the girl hurried toward the door, your mind already bracing for the moment the Brightflame would return to finish the lecture the river had interrupted.

The evening light had turned into a bruised, sickly purple by the time the heavy oak doors to the chamber creaked open. There was no knock, no courtesy for your condition. Only the sudden presence of the man who had occupied your nightmares for the last three days.

The servants, who had been gently dabbing your feverish skin with cool cloths, froze at the sight of him. They didn't need to be told to leave; they scurried out like mice fleeing a hawk, their heads bowed as the door clicked shut behind them.

Aerion stood at the foot of your bed, looking down at you with a clinical gaze. He was dressed in fresh obsidian silks, his silver-gold hair perfectly in place, looking as though the frantic struggle at the river had been nothing more than a fever dream. To your eyes, he looked entirely untouched by the night’s terrors.

"You’re a sorry sight," he said flatly.

"I am as the Seven have willed it, my Prince," you replied. Your voice was a thin rasp, but the politeness was a mask for the anger simmering beneath your ribs. You remembered him dragging you into the dark; you felt the phantom bruise on your wrist where his fingers had clamped like iron while he snarled accusations of whoredom.

Aerion began to pace, the heels of his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone like the ticking of a clock. "When I was first told of this arrangement, Baelor promised me this union would be useful," he mused, looking at the tapestries rather than at you. "He spoke of alliances, of a wife who would be a credit to the Brightflame. He promised me a partner who understood the weight of my name."

A heavy silence followed. You looked at him incredulously, the sheer gall of his words cutting through your exhaustion.

"And am I to understand," you whispered, "that you find me… useless?"

Aerion stopped his pacing and turned to you, his eyes narrowing until they were slivers of violet glass. A mocking smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Useless? Perhaps not," he drawled. "But certainly incompetent. Shall we count the days, wife? In less than a week, you have dropped my title as if we were common playmates. You have walked out on a royal feast, shaming my father and the King. You were found lurking in the shadows with a man known for nothing but his love of the bottle. And finally, you managed to fall into a river because you cannot master the simple task of standing on dry land."

He stepped closer, moving to the side of the bed until he was looming directly over you. "You have been a series of errors wrapped in silk."

You looked at his beautiful, cruel face, feeling the staggering weight of his judgment; the way he twisted every moment of your suffering into a failure of your character. As the direction of his logic became clear, your lungs seemed to contract, the air in the room turning thin.

"What is it you seek?" you asked, your throat tight with dread. "An annulment from the High Septon? Is my stumbling into a river enough for you to declare this marriage a mistake and rid yourself of me?"

At the mention of annulment, Aerion let out a low chuckle that vibrated in the silence of the chamber. He shook his head slowly, a dark smirk playing on his lips as if you had just suggested something utterly darling and delusional.

"You think the High Septon would undo a blood alliance simply because my wife is as clumsy as a newborn fawn?" He leaned in closer, his weight pressing against the edge of the mattress. "Here is the truth of it, little bird: you simply need to be more useful to me. Be worthy of a dragon."

The audacity of him left you breathless. He was saying it right to your face, with the cruelty only a prince could muster: you were currently not worthy enough. Your pain, your near-death, your fear, it was all just a deficit in his ledger.

"Think of your family," he whispered. "They need this union to succeed far more than mine does. If I decide you are a failed investment, it is not just you who falls. Your entire house will tumble into the dirt behind you. You would be the lady who broke her family’s back because she was too... delicate."

The threat was naked and cold, hanging in the air between you like a guillotine. He was holding your entire legacy over the fire, and he knew exactly how much it terrified you. You felt a hollow numbness settle into your marrow, extinguishing the last of your warmth.

"My Prince," you managed to rasp, forcing the words past the dry ache in your throat. "I shall not let you down then."

Aerion’s eyes searched yours for a long moment, tracing the forced obedience in your expression. He looked satisfied, his ego fed by the sight of your submission. He ran his tongue over his teeth, letting out a soft, vibrating hum of approval.

"Good," he said. "See that you don't. I find I am quickly bored by things that break too easily."

He retreated from you then, the oppressive heat of his presence lifting just enough for you to draw a shaky breath. He began to strip away his outer layers with a careless grace, preparing for sleep as if he hadn't just threatened the ruin of your entire house.

When he finally finished, he plopped down beside you, the heavy mattress dipping under his weight. The bed was massive, an expanse of silk and down that should have felt like a luxury, but instead felt like a battlefield. Between you lay an imaginary line, a boundary that neither of you had dared to cross since the agonizing heat of your wedding night.

You lay there, staring into the dimly lit room. The embers in the hearth cast long, skeletal shadows against the ceiling, and the only sound was the heavy breathing of the man beside you. You knew he wasn't asleep; the air around him was too charged with his lingering irritation.

"My Prince?" you whispered.

The silence stretched. He didn't answer, but you could feel his awareness of you. The way he became perfectly still, listening. You swallowed hard, the memory of the cold river water still stinging the back of your throat.

"Why did you drag me to the river?" you asked bluntly. "Was that your intent? To drown me?"

The silence that followed was long and suffocating. You held your breath, wondering if you had finally pushed the Brightflame too far, if he would reach across that imaginary line and choke the life out of you for your insolence.

Finally, his voice came through the dark. It was low, rasping, and utterly devoid of remorse.

"If I intended for you to die," he replied, "you would already be a corpse."

He didn't turn to look at you, and he didn't offer the comfort of an explanation. He left the implication hanging in the air: that your life was a gift he chose to let you keep, and that your survival was entirely dependent on his whim.

Over the next few days, you became a master of artifice. You donned the mask of the perfect Targaryen bride, playing the part with such excessive devotion that it bordered on the grotesque.

You excessively leaned into the titles. "My Prince" was a constant refrain, followed by "Husband" and a sickeningly sweet "My Dear" that you dropped like honey into the ears of the court. At every banquet and social gathering, you were at his side, straightening his collar, ensuring his cup was never empty, and looking at him with a gaze of feigned adoration.

The reaction from the rest of the family was jarring. At the long tables of Summerhall, you felt the weight of their confusion. Prince Maekar watched you with a furrowed brow, his eyes suspicious of your sudden transformation. Daeron was the most transparent; he looked at you over the rim of his wine cup as if you had grown two heads. He knew the girl who had trembled in the garden, and this porcelain doll did not fit the memory.

Aerion, however, was a different story. He seemed to enjoy the theater of it all, playing along with a smirk that told you he knew exactly what you were doing.

One afternoon, you found yourself walking the stone pathway toward the training grounds. You had been told your husband was engaged in sword exercises, and you had prepared a silk kerchief and a flagon of cool water. It was a classic image of a loving wife, one you intended to project for any prying eyes in the gallery.

As the sharp clack-ring of steel against steel grew louder, your stomach did a slow, nervous turn. You were only here because the memory of his threat still scorched in your mind—the image of your family’s ruin held in the palm of his hand.

The training yard was thick with the scent of dust, hot iron, and the coppery tang of blood. Aerion was in the center, stripped of his fine silks and clad only in light training leathers that clung to the sweat-slicked planes of his back. He was sparring with a seasoned knight, but "sparring" was a generous term for the spectacle; it was a calculated bullying. Every strike from Aerion was fueled by a violent, aggressive energy that went far beyond the needs of a simple exercise.

You shuddered, the cold reality of his lethality sinking into your bones. This was the dragon's blood they spoke of. Lethal, graceful, and utterly devoid of mercy.

With a brutal flick of his wrist, Aerion parried the knight’s clumsy strike and sent the man’s sword spinning into the dirt. Before the knight could even draw breath, Aerion’s blade was pressed firmly against his throat. The knight went rigid, yielding instantly, but Aerion didn’t lower his weapon. He stood there, his eyes wide, staring at the man's neck as if he truly intended to slice it open right there in the afternoon sun.

Panic flared in your chest. You took a shaky step forward, forcing your voice to rise above the frantic thrum of your pulse.

"Dear!" you called out, the endearment feeling like a shard of glass in your throat.

Aerion’s head snapped toward you. For a heartbeat, the murderous light in his eyes didn't fade; he looked at you as if you were merely another target to be dismantled. Then, the tension in his shoulders shifted, slowly unwinding. He retracted his sword and stepped away from the trembling knight at his feet, leaving the man to gasp for air in his wake.

He began to walk toward you, his boots crunching rhythmically on the dry earth. As he drew closer, you saw that familiar, mocking glint dancing in his violet eyes. He knew. He knew this was a performance—the perfect wife tending to her warrior husband—and he relished the agonizing effort it took for you to maintain the lie.

But as he reached the edge of the ring, his gaze flicked past you.

One of the younger knights by the weapon rack had been watching your approach. He was staring at you with a lingering curiosity, or perhaps even pity, but he held your gaze a second too long for a man of his station.

The change in Aerion was instantaneous. One second he was standing before you, and the next, he was a blur of motion. Before you could even blink, he had closed the distance. There was a sickening crack of bone as Aerion’s fist collided squarely with the knight’s face.

You shrieked, the silver tray slipping from your numb fingers and clattering onto the stone pathway. The flagon shattered at your feet, splashing water across your hem like a mirror of the blood now spraying onto the dust. The knight collapsed, clutching his face and groaning in agony, while Aerion stood over him, his knuckles already blossoming with red.

"Mind where your eyes wander, knight." Aerion’s voice was a low whisper that carried further than any scream ever could." Lest I decide you have no further use for them."

Aerion didn't wait for the knight’s response. He turned on his heel, and walked straight past you without a word. The air he displaced felt charged, like the seconds before a lightning strike. You watched him disappear into a small, stone-walled chamber near the edge of the grounds.

In a state of adrenaline-fueled shock, you scrambled to follow. Your skirts bunched in your hands as you hurried over the threshold, the door swinging shut behind you with a heavy thud that seemed to echo the thumping of your heart.

"Did he truly deserve that?" you demanded, the words bursting out of you before fear could choke them back. "That knight... he did nothing! To assault a man so brutally for a mere glance—"

Aerion didn't flinch. He moved with a maddening nonchalance, unbuckling his sword belt and tossing it onto the heavy oak table. He didn't even deign to look at you, his focus entirely on the gear he was discarding.

"He received exactly what was required," Aerion replied. "You should be thanking me for defending your honor, wife."

The sheer hypocrisy of it snapped the last thread of your composure. All the days of playing the perfect bride, the lingering terror of the river, and the weight of his constant threats surged up in a wave of hot, blinding frustration.

"Just because he looked at me?!" you cried out, your voice rising several octaves higher than you had ever intended.

The sound of your defiance echoed off the stone walls. You stood there with your chest heaving, your eyes wide as the realization hit: you had just screamed at the man who held your family’s life in his bloodied hands.

You braced yourself for the explosion. You expected him to roar, to shatter the table, or to draw his blade and lunge at you for your insolence. You squeezed your eyes shut for a heartbeat, waiting for the strike.

But the roar never came.

When you forced your eyes open, you saw Aerion turning toward you slowly. His expression shifted into a look of dark, perverse satisfaction. He tilted his head, his silver-gold hair catching the dim light, as if he were finally seeing something worth his attention.

"Ah," he murmured, his violet eyes raking over your form. "There she is. I’ve been wondering exactly how long it would take for you to drop that pathetic doting wife act. It was starting to become... tedious."

You blinked, the wood of the bolted door pressing hard against your spine. "You told me to be useful," you whispered, your voice small and fragile now as the fear surged back to reclaim the space your anger had occupied. "I only did what you demanded. I tried to be what you wanted."

Aerion let out a chuckle. He began to walk toward you, his boots heavy on the stone, closing the distance until the heat of his body began to radiate against yours, trapping you against the wood of the door.

"There are a great many ways a wife can be useful to her husband," he drawled. His gaze dropped to your mouth before sliding lower, tracing the visible thrum of the pulse in your throat. "And the most obvious of those reasons..."

An amused glint danced in his eyes as he leaned closer, his lips ghosting against the shell of your ear.

"Well," he whispered. "We both know you aren't very good at that, don't we?"

The air in the room seemed to vanish. You knew exactly what he was referencing; the memory of your wedding night rushed back. The suffocating heat, the sharp intrusion of pain, and the hot, helpless tears that had made him recoil in disgust. A traitorous heat crawled up your neck, blooming across your cheeks in an agonizing blush.

This was the first time he had ever spoken of it. All this while, you had convinced yourself the night had been a mere footnote in his life of excess—easily erased by the wine and the common wenches he had sought the moment he left your bed. To find that he had carried the memory of your failure as a weapon was a new kind of torture.

At the sight of your shame, the smirk on Aerion’s face shifted into something more inscrutable. He stepped back, granting you an inch of air, though the room still felt far too small. He sat heavily on the edge of the oak table and held out his right hand. The knuckles were split and weeping red from where he had shattered the knight’s face.

"Treat it," he commanded, his tone returning to that regal expectation. "My hand is marred from ensuring your honor remained intact. It is only right that my wife tends to the damage."

You stared at the blood on his skin, but all you could see was the infidelity that had trailed in the wake of your wedding night. You pictured him in some dimly lit brothel, those same hands pressed against the skin of a stranger. The thought made your stomach roll with a violent nausea. You couldn't remain in this cramped room for another heartbeat.

"You should ask your companions," you said with a resentment you could no longer hide. "Surely there is someone who tends your wounds every time you decide to vent your rage at tourneys. I am sure they are far more... useful at it than I, My Prince."

You flung his own insult back at him, a mirror held up to his hypocrisy. It was a silent declaration, a baring of teeth: you knew exactly where he slunk when he found your company lacking, and you would no longer pretend otherwise.

Aerion remained still as he studied your face with a newfound curiosity, that familiar, mocking glint dancing in the violet depths of his eyes.

"The venom suits you," he mused suddenly. "It’s far more interesting than the tears. Perhaps I shall take you to the tourney at Ashford after all. Just to see how much more of it you can produce when you’re surrounded by the scream of dying horses and broken men."

At that, a cold dread pooled in your stomach, dragging the heat of your defiance with it. You looked at him, the sting of your own words forgotten in the wake of his sudden whim. You had heard no whispers of a tourney at Ashford, yet the very word felt like a sentence.

You loathed the lists; the hollow pageantry that masked a butcher's yard. You knew his presence there meant witnessing his madness firsthand, the sickening crunch of bone, and the spray of gore that made your stomach turn. You had no desire to be the audience for another display of his senseless cruelty.

"I am but a lady, My Prince," you replied bitterly. "I have no place as an audience for blood and dirt."

Aerion’s smirk only deepened at you words. He reached out, his uninjured hand catching a stray lock of your hair and tugging it just enough to force you to look up at him.

"You have the place I give you," he murmured. "You go where I go, and you will sit exactly where I command you to sit. And if I decide you belong in the dirt with me, little bird, then that is exactly where you will be."

He lingered for a heartbeat, his breath ghosting over your skin one last time before he pulled away. The sudden absence of his heat felt colder than the draft through the stone walls, leaving you alone in the silence with nothing but the pooling dread of Ashford.

< part II ends >

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You remembered the first day in the Capital as if it were yesterday; clutched in your hands was a small cloth doll, a parting gift from your mother, as you peered out the carriage window toward the looming castle of Kings Landing.

The sun had dipped below the harbour, setting the walls of the Red Keep ablaze with crimson, and its large turrets and ramparts cast long black shadows across the city like oppressive arms.

You had heard the stories about the palace; how it was rumoured that there were secret passages that you could get lost in and never find the light of day again, and in the darkness of the castle’s bowls, lay a room filled with jaws and skulls of terrible monsters.

The doll fell from your hands in a rumpled pile as you ducked into your father's side, small arms wrapped around his waist as you tried to hide from the approaching fortress. Your eyes squeezed shut, wishing yourself back home, trying to imagine the rolling mountains that surrounded the Eyrie, the waterfalls that cascaded like silver floods down the great carved-falcon rock faces and the great purple sky that gleamed with the light of a million stars.

But all you could see was the Red Keep’s shadows, reaching out to get you.

Unlike you, your sister was pressed against the window, her hair glimmering in the evening light as she beamed at the castle. Alys was three years older than you; her twelfth name-day had passed just a few days prior. Her smile faltered when she saw you cowering into your father's side, and her nose wrinkled. 

“Stop crying.” She whispered, slender fingers plucking the fallen stitched doll off the ground before shoving it onto your lap. “You’re going to crease your dress if you hunch like that!” 

“I don’t care about my stupid dress!” You sniffled, clutching the doll once again. “I want to go home!”

“You just have to spoil everything, don’t you?” Alys tugged at your blue silks, straightening the fabric. “This is our home now. We get to live with the Princes, like in those fairy-tale stories the old Septa would tell us - now stop whining and make yourself pretty!”

9 Years Later

“Y/n? We have arrived.” The gentle voice of your handmaid, Elia, a Dornish girl who had been assigned to you when you first arrived at Kings Landing, by King Daeron, pulled you from your restless slumber. Despite being your handmaid, Elia had grown over the years into one of your closest friends. 

She was only two years older than you, with glossy black hair, olive skin and kind eyes. In private, neither of you used formalities and favoured gossip about the most recent news from the Red Keep. As a serving girl, she heard rumours and news that would otherwise not reach your ears, and you both had spent many nights whispering and giggling into unholy hours. 

“Thank the Gods.” You groan, sitting up with a stretch. Your shoulders ached from slumping against the window of the carriage, and your head pounded from the sweltering sun that blazed through the thin window lace. With bleary eyes, you peer out the window, blinking.

Your carriage rolled through the bustling grounds of Ashwood Meadow, third in the line of royal carriages. In the front, the most intricately carved carriage was Prince Baelor, Prince Maekor, your lord father, and Alys. The second one sat your best friend, Valarr, and his cousin, Prince Aerion, though Daeron, who was supposed to be accompanying them, had gone missing four nights prior, along with Aegon, who was supposed to be riding in your carriage with Elia.

Little Prince Aegon had insisted that the other carriage was too hot and requested to ride with you instead, which you gladly (and always) accepted, as you knew the truth. You knew the real reason why the little prince wanted to accompany you. And that reason had silver hair and was riding in the carriage in front. 

You often feared that reason, too.

“I hope Daeron and Aegon will be alright…” You sigh, voice trailing off as you stare at the colourful silk pavilions popping up from the ground, market stalls being erected and the swarms of bodies setting up the tourney grounds.

You knew Aegon would have been plastered to the window, with wide lavender eyes right now, and you would have mirrored that reaction, but the thought of him missing made your heart heavy. You had grown protective of the little prince over the years. 

“I’m sure they are alright. How many times has Prince Daeron gone missing again? He’s probably passed out with Aegon trying to look after him.” Elia says, nudging your shoulder, trying to lift your spirits.

“I know, I just fear for them.”

Before you could dwell too long in your anxieties, Elia continued, wiggling her dark eyebrows, “In other news, I heard that your pavilion will be right next to Prince Valarr’s.”

“Elia, keep your voice down!” You groan, planting your face in your hands and shot her a glare from between your fingers. 

“Anyways,” Her laugh fills the carriage as you slump against the seat with hot cheeks. “I know you two will be sneaking into each other’s tents like you always do at these events. But by the Seven, this time spare us all the pain and instead of reading your boring books together, just get it over with and ki-”

“Seven Hells!” You clamp a hand over her grinning lips, muffling her voice. “We are just friends. Nothing more.” 

You wait a few moments before removing your hand, shooting her your infamous ‘another word and you're dead,’ look.

“Does Valarr know that?” 

“Elia!”

After an hour of unpacking, you flop onto your soft bed with a sigh. Your royal tent was spacious, the material a spun silk of light blue with white trimmings - House Arryn’s colours. Despite living most of your life among the Targareyns in Kings-Landing, you always made sure to bear the colours and sigils of your family.

Inside, you had a comfortable bed of fur, a sturdy elm-wood chest for your clothes, and a table already littered with books and maps. Beside your bed was a smaller table, on which lay a plate of half-eaten lemon tarts, perfume oils and a small blade - Valyrian steel - though the handle had been re-forged into the head and wings of a Falcon, the sigil of your house. A lady had to be prepared after all.

“Going to sleep before our dear Valarr’s tournament? How… rude.” A familiar voice says - aloof and mocking,  jolting you upright. 

Silhouetted against the night sky as he held the tent flap open, stood Aerion. Though it was too dark to see his eyes, you could feel the freezing weight of his gaze. Your skin prickled.

“No, I was just resting.” You mutter, not meeting his gaze as you push yourself off the bed. Your once cozy space felt a little colder now as you made your way across the tent. “And I believe the rudeness lies with you, by not announcing yourself before entering a ladies' tent!”

“Come now, I thought we were friends.” Aerion’s lips twitch into a smirk. He didn’t miss the way your gaze darted everywhere but him, or the way you hovered a touch too close to the small table holding your blade. “Besides, my uncle Baelor told me to come fetch you. We are heading to the royal box.”

“I can make my way there, myself.” You say, fastening the cloak around your shoulders. Your mind races, By the Seven, don’t let him come closer. Don’t let him in. Don’t let him near me.

“Suit yourself, just leave your Dornish-whore handmaid here.” Aerion says, though his smirk seemed a little tighter than usual.

Your jaw twitched. If it were anyone else, you would have slapped them for insulting your friend. But you knew better than to strike him - you still bore the scar from when you were fourteen. As he turned to leave, you let out a breath.

Suddenly, he paused in his tracks.

“... Did you need something else?” You say tentatively, eyes trained on the back of his silver head. Please say no. He stands in silence for a few moments longer, his shoulders tense. 

“No, that was all…” Another long, long pause. “Be quick about getting ready.”

And he was gone.

The tourney ground was mobbed.

From your seat in the royal box, you could see the swarms, like a raging sea of bodies below you, roaring and wild. You sat beside your sister, Alys, watching as the great torches were lit and the horns called the riders to the field. You loved tourneys. Even as a child, you had liked to imagine yourself as a contestant, riding one of the horses as your spear splintered against the armour of your opponent. 

As your eyes scanned the crowds, you couldn’t help but smile at the boisterous singing and antics of the common folk as they cheered and laughed below. In a way, you envied their freedom. Just when you turned to say something to your sister, two figures in the crowd on the opposite side of the field caught your eye.

Pressed against the bannister at the front stood the tallest man you had ever seen in your life, and on his shoulders was perched a young boy. 

“Is that..” You whisper in disbelief as you squint your eyes at the small figure on the large man's shoulders. But before you could make out any more detail, a horn echoes through the night air, sending the crowd into frenzied roars, and the boy jumped off the man's shoulders, disappearing into the sea of people. No, it couldn’t have been…

“They are asking for favours!” Alys whispers, shaking you out of your daze. “I hope that Tyrell Knight asks for mine!”

But your gaze had already fixed on him - cantering around the tourney field, kicking up plumes of dust, was your best friend. Valarr was sitting on a great black horse, his dark-scaled armour glinting under the torchlight as he rounded another corner, waving at the roaring crowds.

Your breath catches as he turned, shooting a crooked grin up to the royal seat in which you sat, before pulling his helm over his silver-streaked brown hair. Idiot. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his display - you were so going to tease him about it afterwards. You always did. Yet, as you watched him trot past the cheering crowd, you couldn’t help but fidget with the friendship bracelet he had given you when you were thirteen. 

Your fingers squeezed around the charm bracelet each time he slowed near a box of ladies or highborn princesses. It was silly, you knew, yet you couldn’t help but feel your chest tighten as you watched him circle the crowds…

Get a grip, he is just your friend, nothing more, you scolded yourself silently. You sigh and force yourself to tear your gaze away and focus on the other riders asking ladies for favours, and bite back a laugh as Alys all but curses Tyrell’s name when he asks another maiden for her favour. 

“And for my favour… Lady Y/n?” A voice calls up to you from below.

Want tagged? Comment below! Apologies for mistakes, I edited this while battling food poisoning.

Thank you for reading 🤍

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You offered him the smallest smile you could muster and whispered, “Please, come into the light. I wish to see the face of the one who saved me.”

It became a code. Your gentle call that told him you are safe with me.

You told him then that you owed him your life. When you asked how you might repay him, he had hesitated the way only Adam hesitates; almost frightened of his own voice.

He asked for a friend.

So you granted it.

Night after night, beneath the moon’s silver eye, you met him in the forest beyond your father’s gardens, arms full of novels, philosophy, and whatever academic curiosities you thought might delight him. And he always listened, knees drawn up, shoulders hunched, great hands folded as if unsure where else they ought to rest.

Tonight, you arrive early. A soldier had stopped you on the path back to the manor, handsome in a polished sort of way. He flirted boldly, bowing far too close, fingers brushing yours as he tucked a stray curl behind your ear.

You had smiled simply to be polite.

But in the trees behind him, unseen even by you, Adam watched.

He stood stiff as a plank. Unblinking. Arms tight at his sides. A strange, smouldering something burning low behind his dark eyes. He did not understand the word for it.

He only felt… wrong.

Later that night, the soldier forgotten, you step into your forest clearing and speak softly into the shadows, “Adam… come into the light.”

A breath.

A rustle.

And then he emerges, immense and hesitant, because he knows the code is only spoken when it is you approaching him.

You sit together beneath your usual tree. You finish reading to him and close the book upon your lap. The night hums. The air is velvet.

He is too quiet.

His voice breaks the silence.

“Why did your face alter,” he asks slowly, “when that man laid his hand upon yours?”

You blink. “…My face?”

He nods, gaze following the ground like he fears he has overstepped. “It moved. I know not the term for it. Yet… it changed.”

You let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “How so? What manner of expression did I wear?”

Adam considers the memory with earnest seriousness, brow furrowing.

“You appeared… startled. And warm,” he says carefully. “As though your breath escaped you.” He looks up, eyes gentle, confused. “Does touch compel such a feeling? When the one touching is… desired?”

The laugh dies in your throat.

Your heart seizes. Because you want him. You want him in ways you barely allow yourself to think, let alone admit in the open air.

His voice lowers. Almost frightened. “Tell me… what is it like, to be wanted?”

You freeze.

He is looking at your mouth. Or perhaps you are looking at his. You cannot tell, because the world goes silent except for your pulse.

Your breath hitches and you lean—

No.

No.

You scoot away from him so abruptly the leaves whisper under you, because you nearly did something catastrophically foolish.

His head lifts.

“I see you look at me, at times,” he says, tone soft as moss, deeply innocent. “It confounds me. Am I… displeasing to behold?”

You choke on nothing.

You are caught between You’re beautiful and I must throw myself into a swamp immediately.

He misreads your silence. Of course he does.

“I meant no insult,” he murmurs quickly, shoulders curling inward, as if trying to make himself smaller. “I am aware my form is… strange. I am—”

“Oh heavens,” you cry, hands flying up. “I think you’re beautiful! Inside and out. Must we suffer through this?”

He startles like you’ve hurled a stone at him.

“Beautiful?” he repeats, voice a low, incredulous echo.

You bury your face in your hands. “Yes. Beautiful—Handsome. Maddeningly so. Would you stop looking so wounded? You unsettle me, Adam. You unsettle me dreadfully.”

He moves then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like approaching a wild creature that might flee.

His fingers brush yours.

Barely.

Traced with hesitance, reverence, fear, longing, everything he does not yet have language for.

“Then… why did you draw away from me?”

Because his touch sets your world on fire. 

Because you want him with a weight that makes the earth seem too small. 

Because if you stay close, you might do the very thing you are terrified he will not want.

You swallow, voice a thin whisper.

“Because had I remained… I fear I would have forgotten myself.”

His brows pull together. “Forgotten… in what fashion?”

You meet his eyes.

They widen.

Very gently, he lifts your hand between both of his, treating it as though it is the most precious thing in creation.

“I wish,” he says quietly, “to understand such a fashion.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush.

You do not kiss him. But you lean just close enough that he feels the tremble of the need you carry for him alone.

And his thumb strokes once, reverently, across your knuckles.

“Would you show me?” he asks, voice unsteady. “What it is… to be wanted?”

The forest holds its breath.

You lift his hand to your lips and whisper, “Put your lips on mine, and I will show you.”

Then he leans in.

Very carefully. Very slowly. Like a man approaching fire with the knowledge it may burn him… yet choosing it anyway.

His lips touch yours.

A tremor goes through him so sharply you feel it in your bones.

This is his first kiss—You can sense it in the hesitant brush of his mouth, the fragile uncertainty of his breath, the reverence in the way he barely dares to touch.

You kiss him gently at first, soft and coaxing, because you do not wish to startle him, do not wish to overwhelm him. Your fingers find the side of his jaw, guiding him, telling him he is welcome in this closeness.

He answers you with a broken exhale.

Then his hand rises—slow, trembling—and he cradles your face.

His palm is broad, slightly cold, shaking as though the moment itself is too precious, too impossible to hold steady. He cups your cheek as though you are something divine, something he fears the world might take from him at any second.

You deepen the kiss by a bare breath, only enough for your lips to mold softly against his—and a sound escapes you.

A quiet, helpless little hum.

He startles.

His entire body jerks back as if struck.

Adam tears away from your mouth, eyes wide, chest heaving, gaze fixed shamefully on the ground.

“I… I did not mean—” He swallows, throat working. “Did I hurt you? Forgive me, I did not know… I thought… I feared I—”

His breath stutters, the words entangled in panic. “Your sound—I feared it was pain.”

Your heart breaks and swells all at once.

You reach for him carefully, your fingers brushing the back of his knuckles.

“Adam,” you whisper, soft but sure. “Look at me.”

He hesitates, shoulders drawn tight, but he obeys.

His eyes lift, and the fear in them is a living thing.

You cradle his face with both hands, mirroring how he had held you moments before, and your voice steadies.

“You could never hurt me.”

His breath shudders. “But you—”

“That sound,” you murmur, leaning close enough that your words warm his lips, “was not pain. It was… pleasure. It was want.”

His eyes flicker.

Understanding comes slowly, uncertainly—yet with a hunger that feels older than his bones.

You draw him nearer again, your lips brushing his as delicately as flower petals.

“This is wanted,” you breathe. “This is me… wanting you.”

He makes a low, astonished sound—and when he kisses you again, it is still gentle, still careful…but fuller. Warmer.

A trembling, reverent claiming from a man who has never dared to claim anything.

One of his hands stays on your cheek, shaking; the other settles at your waist, large enough to span nearly its whole curve, holding you.

Your lips move together slowly, sweetly, with a rising thrum of passion beneath the tenderness.

Not urgent. Not rushed. But something blooming—deep, molten, inevitable.

Every breath, shared. Every tremble felt. Every inch of him learning you.

And every inch of you, melting.

When you part, the air is warm between you, his forehead resting almost shyly against yours.

He whispers, voice barely more than a breath, “Is… is this what it is to be wanted?”

Your smile answers before your words do.

“Yes,” you whisper. “This is precisely what it is.”

And he breathes you in like a man starved.

You barely have time to savor the trembling stillness between you before he leans in again—less hesitant this time, more drawn, as though something inside him has unlatched and will not be shut again.

His mouth finds yours with new hunger. Still gentle…but no longer timid. A firmer press. A seeking. A wanting he has no name for, yet feels with every part of him.

His hand cups your jaw fully now, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth in a motion that feels almost—possessive.

Your breath catches.

You kiss him back with equal fervor, lips parting for him just enough to draw a quiet, startled sound from his throat. He answers with a soft growl of need, the faintest hint of bite in the way he pulls you closer—your bodies brushing, your pulse thundering.

It is slow and deep and dizzying.

A kiss that tastes like discovery and hunger and that first spark of something far too dangerous to name.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket.

His other hand hesitates at your waist—then grips, warm and trembling, pulling you the slightest fraction nearer. The kiss deepens again, heat rising, your lips molding, parting, meeting with a rhythm that feels older than breath.

You make another sound—soft, wanting, shameless.

He echoes it, a low, rumbling answer in his chest that sends shivers down your spine.

You are just about to lose yourself entirely in the press of him—When a voice in the distance calls your name.

“My lady? My lady—are you in the gardens?”

You freeze.

Adam stills instantly, every muscle locking beneath your hands.

Another call. Closer this time. “My lady!”

You breathe out against his mouth, reluctant, trembling.

He draws back only a few inches, eyes wide and dark, the left iris glinting, lips parted, confused and almost wounded by the interruption.

You rest your forehead to his, breath warm between you.

“Adam…” you whisper, already aching for the kiss you have no choice but to leave behind.

His hand stays on your waist, gentle, uncertain. Yours lingers on his cheek.

The voices draw nearer.

You swallow, whispering, “I will see you again soon. Wait for me.”

He nods once.

The boy had arrived a couple of weeks ago to turn the world of everyone present in the laundry upside down and, honestly, you were already beginning to enjoy his presence. You looked in the background at the blackboard that Noodle used at night to give him lessons in the hope that he would learn to read because, according to the girl's words, because of that he was almost eaten by a tiger. But in the man's words, what was important was the almost part. 

However, tonight he had asked you especially to go to his room, because he had a problem that he thought only you could solve.

“I think so, I just have to pass the needle a couple of times” you smiled.

Since your arrival Mrs. Scrubbit had used your sewing skills for her own benefit, because after all you had ended up in that mess trying to save a little to be able to buy the necessary materials to make a pretty dress that would be worth enough to advance in the business. Although, obviously, that had not been possible.

"Thank you! I'm afraid that's my only jacket."

“It will be ready in no time. I’ll just go to my room and come back, okay?” you said kindly, placing the garment in the boy's lap and earning a sweet smile from the aforementioned.

Just as Willy had his little briefcase for his chocolates, you had your own, full of threads, needles, and buttons, which you just had to grab from the floor to get everything you needed. When you arrived back you settled at the little table and he remained attentive to your every movement, pulling out a chair so he could observe what you were about to do.

“There was a boy on the ship who helped me with these things,” he began to tell you, keeping his curious nose on your shoulder “But I never thought about learning. You know, for when I had to be alone”

“Well, it's lucky you ended up here. We are a curious collection of workers,” you murmured ironically, referring to all the people gathered there against their will by the work of fate "What did you do on the ship?"

"Cook. Mostly sweet things, but I also know a couple of useful non-chocolate-related recipes. I was the chef,” he said, and you laughed at the exaggerated way he pronounced the last bit.

Willy began to tell you about some of the adventures he had had on the high seas and you listened attentively as the tip of the needle went in and out to join the fabric. It only took a few minutes to get his clothes looking like new, taking the liberty of repairing other places that also needed it.

“Put it on,” you asked, trying not to look at him too much when he did so or pay attention to the way the jacket fit him perfectly.

"It is perfect! You can't even tell it was torn, huh?” he said with emotion, feeling with his hands as much as he could. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, it's nothing.”

“I insist,” the man murmured. His curly hair bounced across his cheeks as he sat next to you and he lifted his small briefcase off the floor, opening it to reveal all the little bottles of ingredients. “Your talent for mine. It's a fair exchange."

You had to admit that the chocolates you had eaten were a complete delicacy, but a part of you didn't want to get used to that luxury or you knew that when Willy was gone you would miss his sweetness. In the literal and figurative sense.

Locked in that laundry it was impossible to meet many people your age and Noodle was your greatest company, as if he were a little sister to you. But now that he was there, there was a certain happiness in chatting with him, much more now that his ingenious mind had devised a way to get you out of there even if it was just for a few hours to see the light of day and get coins from the sale of the chocolates to free you of the enormous debt to Mrs. Scrubbit.

“What flavor do you want to try today? Do you want me to add some unicorn skin glitter? Rays of sunlight from a twilight on the seashore? Tears of an African crocodile?”

“Just give me something you think I need,” you replied softly.

Willy thought about it for a moment, because it wasn't the kind of answer he would have expected. What was he supposed to give you that night? A little hope? Happiness? Nostalgia? It was difficult to decide.

Through his bright eyes you watched him reflect and just a second later his hands began to work. You noticed there was a hint of mischief in his smile as he poured milk, chocolate, and the contents of a couple of jars into the processor, glancing at you from the corner of his eye from time to time.

“What are you going to do when we get out of here?” he asked suddenly, not neglecting the tasks.

“Working in a sewing workshop, I guess.”

“Why don't you open your own fashion house?” Willy suggested carefreely, as if it were a very easy thing to do, “You are a great dressmaker.”

“And you are a great dreamer”

“It's my best quality,” he exclaimed, almost offended. You waited a moment before answering.

“I just don't think it's that simple. It requires effort, time, and a lot of money…”

“We will have everything,” he interrupted you, with that optimism that characterized him. Suddenly he stopped what he was doing and one of his hands traveled to take yours. “When I open my factory, we will all be able to fulfill our dreams. And you are going to have a fashion house, I promise you.”

“You make a lot of promises,” you responded, blushing.

“And he planned to fulfill them all. I always do it"

Maybe there was something about the softness of his grip on your hand or perhaps the sparkle in his eyes that made you look away out of sheer nervousness. He seemed to be good and innocent, to the point that he probably didn't even realize how close he was to you or how inappropriate the position would be if Noodle ever walked in.

A tap interrupted your moment and then he abruptly pulled away, excited to show you the product he had just made. It was a pretty circular candy that was bright pink and seemed to be emanating smoke from the inside.

"What's that?"

“You'll have to try it to find out,” he murmured, as he extended the treat in your direction.

You had to admit that you were somewhat curious to discover what the man was offering you, so you took it between your fingers carefully, and even under his watchful gaze you took a bite.

At first it tasted like ordinary chocolate, but then it took on a strange tone, which made you feel a certain warmth in your chest that spread to your cheeks. It was a most pleasant feeling, like bubbly joy combined with the embarrassment of a hug.

You thought for a moment about what flavor that could be, without any success, until after a few seconds you realized that it wasn’t a flavor in itself, but a feeling, an experience... Was it love that Willy had given you?

“How does it taste?”

“Yummy,” you responded, covering your mouth so he wouldn’t see the wet chocolate on your tongue, but also to hide your smile “Delicious, actually. What does it contain?”

“A special and secret ingredient”

"Oh, come on! Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“I just want to know if I got it right,” he murmured and you frowned slightly, not understanding him “About what you asked for. Did I give you something you needed?”

You had to bite your lip to keep from smiling again, your cheeks feeling hot from the simple fact that he was looking at you. You thought that this could even be a love potion that you had consumed without thinking about it, just because he was the one who was offering it to you.

“We could say yes”

“We're even, then,” he exclaimed as he waved the sleeve of his jacket and you nodded in amusement, eating the rest of the chocolate he had made for you.

A yawn leaving your lips made you aware of how exhausted you were and although you didn't love the idea, you knew it was time to leave.

“It's late, I should go to sleep before we wake anyone up.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Willy said quickly, getting up from his seat to accompany you to the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Rest,” you said kindly, and, gathering courage, you leaned forward a little to say goodbye with a hug that he gladly returned.

"Sam, you're exaggerating, I ..." It was the last thing you heard before the line dropped.

You sighed, waiting for them to come back.

After a few hours, the bunker door opened and Sam and Dean entered talking to each other.

When you saw Dean, your body acted before you could think and you strode towards him.

"God, you're okay." You said wrapping your arms around his neck and pushing him close to you for a hug.

When you did it, Dean didn't react as you expected. You thought at least you would feel an arm on your back, at least a pat on your shoulder. Instead, you felt his muscles stiffen and his arms remained still at his sides. You waited a few seconds, but nothing has changed.

Okay, that was almost embarrassing. Maybe you shouldn't have done that.

You walked away from him muttering an "sorry" and trying to read his expression but failing miserably.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Dean's pov:

That night, Dean found himself lying in his bed, thinking.

Thinking that he was stupid and the one who ruined everything, as always.

It was a strange feeling what he felt towards you. He wanted to be touched by you again, but not in a sexual way.

No, he didn't wanted it. He needed it.

He needed to feel your body close to his, your arms around him but he didn't want to ask you.

He felt like something was missing in his life now, and it was your body against his.

It was something he had never felt before and he was almost scared.

His thoughts led him to the last time he had had human contact that wasn't during a fight and that wasn't a quick hug with his brother. Had it been with his mom? Had it been so many years since someone had really hugged him? Was that why after you did it was the only thing he thought about?

And then, was it normal for a grown man to want to be hugged? He was no longer a child, why would he need something like that? Did other people feel the same need? And thinking about it, he wanted you to be the person to hug him, he was sure it wouldn't be the same with others but he didn't quite know why.

Dean wanted to hit his head against the wall because of all the questions running around his brain.

He wanted to have hugged you when he had the chance, when you did it. You probably now thought you did something wrong and wouldn't even try to do it again. He had almost flinched when you hugged him and he didn't even know why. Maybe because he wasn't used to it and never expected it from you.

But he loved it, and the only thing he was sure about was that he wanted you to hug him again and hold him for a while if you wanted but he couldn't ask you to do that.

Would you have laughed in his face? Would you have said it was stupid and that he was acting like a child? God, if Dean could punch himself he would.

Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and tried to sleep, but all he could think was himself resting his head on your chest, you holding him tightly against you and letting your fingers go through his hair, he wrapping you with his arms and feeling the beating of your heart.

After a few attempts to get that thought out of his head, he accepted the fact that if he couldn't have it, at least he could have fallen asleep imagining it. And so he did.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Your pov:

Dean was avoiding you, you were sure about it. And he was acting weird around you. So, the night after, when you walked past the open door of his room, in the bunker, you took the chance and walked in.

"Hey." You said sitting next to him on his bed but keeping some space between you.

Dean looked at you without saying anything as you settled on his bed.

"We need to talk." You said calmly. You didn't want to fight, you just wanted to know if he was mad at you and if he was, for what reason. You thought he might be angry because you hugged him. Maybe he thought you were trying to get something else out of him, maybe he didn't like being touched, maybe he didn't like being touched by you.

"What you want to talk about?" He asked you. You could hear a thread of concern in his voice.

"You've been acting weird around me lately." You explained.

"Me? I'm not weird. What made you think that? Don't think I ..." He mumbled before you interrupted him.

"See? You're panicking. It's okay Dean, it's me, you can tell me." You said.

"Just don't laugh at me." He whispered staring at his hands.

"Dean, please explain what's going on." You said.

"Yesterday you... hugged me." He started saying.

"If you didn't want me to do it or if you misinterpreted it, I'm sorry. I was just glad you were okay and..." You said before Dean interrupted you this time.

"No. That's not it. Please don't think you've done something wrong because that's not the case at all." He continued.

"Then I don't understand..." You said.

"It just... felt good." He whispered.

"And that's a good thing. Isn't it?" You asked. You were genuinely confused.

"Yeah." He said simply, always looking down.

"I still don't understand ..." You started saying.

"I just want a hug." He said suddenly.

"Do you want a what?" You asked, surprised. Actually, you understood. But you wanted to make sure you got it right. Was Dean Winchester asking for a hug?

"See, that's why I didn't want to tell you. It's stupid, forget it okay?" He said starting to get out of bed.

To make him stay, you grabbed his hand with yours.

"Is that all? Was that the problem? You just wanted... a hug?" You asked.

Dean stared at your hand holding his for a moment, like it was a weird thing. Like he usually stared at the image of a strange creature in a newspaper or an article on the internet.

You were just holding his hand and he was staring at it like it was something he had never seen before and you thought maybe the "problem" wasn't a hug, it was any kind of human contact. Maybe he just needed it.

Dean nodded, answering your question.

You pulled his hand towards you, pushing him back onto the bed and making him sit down again. You slowly wrapped your arms around him, pushing his body against yours. You could feel his muscles tighten as you ran a hand up and down his back, his body completely rigid.

"Hey, alright. It's alright." You whispered.

After a few seconds you felt his arms wrap around you and you smiled, even though he couldn't see you.

His body slowly relaxed against yours as you kept drawing imaginary circles on his back.

Dean never said a word all the time.

"Are you okay?" You asked, still holding him.

You felt him nod on your shoulder as he held you tighter but without hurting you.

God, that man didn't need a hug but all the affection the world could give him, you thought as you raised a hand to stroke his hair.

You could almost feel Dean's heart pounding as you ran your fingers through his brown locks and he buried his face in your neck.

"Is that okay?" You asked softly.

He nodded again, without speaking and you kept stroking his hair for a few minutes while his arms still held you as if he was afraid you might disappear at any moment. If your heart hadn't broken when you realized how touch starved he was, it would soon have.

"Is that okay too?" You asked again when after a few moments you left a light kiss on his temple. He raised his head slightly and you could have sworn you saw tears in his eyes.

You wish he'd asked you sooner. You wished you knew first what Dean really needed. He nodded again and closed his eyes as you left another kiss on his forehead.

"Can I keep doing that?" You asked.

He nodded. "Don't stop, please." He whispered. You couldn't help but think he looked like a puppy who, after years of lovelessness, just wanted to be cuddled.

You gently placed your lips on his cheek, on his jaw and then again on his forehead and temple.

"I love you. And I care about you. You know that right? I think I should tell you more often." You said, your voice almost a whisper. You felt Dean's warm hand running up and down your back, like you did before.

"Thank you." He said eventually. "I love you too."

You wanted to tell him you loved him more than a friend. That you cared about him more than a friend. But that was not the right time. Maybe one day you would, maybe even soon. For the moment you just had to hold him tight.

"Is it okay for you if I stay here tonight?" You asked.

"Yes. You can... please stay." He answered, his voice low.

You lay still holding Dean tight to your body, his arms around you. He rested his head on your chest.

"Goodnight De." You whispered after a few minutes, running your fingers through his hair one last time.

"'Night Y/N." He replied before falling asleep in your arms.

That night, you found a new side of Dean. Probably a side that had been there for a long time and was just hidden, probably a side that you were the first person to see, you thought before falling asleep, mentally promising Dean to hold his hand, leave kisses on his face and hug him more often.

He deserved it. He needed it.

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