rowsbloom𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

NAVIGATION ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

⛧ atotsk masterlist

⛧ hotd masterlist

  ⟢ AERION "BRIGHTFLAME" TARGARYEN:

(1) Past the Ice of the Brightflame

⟢ Past the Ice of the Brightflame

ৎׅ ׄ summary ⋮ You were promised to Aerion Targaryen, a prince known throughout the realm for his cruelty and cold heart. Yet as your arranged marriage unfolds, you begin to question whether the monster behind the rumors cares for you more than he admits.

ৎׅ ׄ warnings ⋮ arranged marriage, threats of violence

ৎׅ ׄ wc ⋮ 5.8k

The Ceremony

No one pitied a woman promised to a Targaryen.

Marriage to a Prince with the blood of Old Valyria was hardly a thing to mourn. House Targaryen had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for generations, their name alone commanding reverence across the realm. Fueled by wealth and seemingly genetic hubris, their dynasty had been forged through conquest and dragonfire. Power ran through the Targaryen’s veins, crowns belonging on their heads from the moment they were born. And now, you were to join their line.

Adorned from head to toe in white, you stood before the court that had gathered as the septons spoke their prayers beneath the vaulted ceiling of the sept. Your gown had been stitched with silk thread and bright pearls that shimmered with every movement. A delicate lace veil framed your face, softening features that had been carefully painted by your ladies that morning. 

The Great Sept gleamed beneath hundreds of candles. Their flames danced across polished marble and stained glass. Lords and ladies draped in velvet and jewels filled every pew, their murmured conversations falling quiet as the High Septon began his prayers. The golden warmth of the candles surrounding you did nothing to ease the chill beneath your skin.

Everything felt distant.

The voices around you blended together, their words becoming a unanimous low hum filling the room. Every face blurred with the next, a sea of eyes locked on you with the same quiet certainty. 

They believed you were fortunate. Blessed by the Old Gods and the New.  

And perhaps you were. 

You simply had never imagined your fortune wearing the face of Aerion Targaryen. 

The stories of him had reached your home long before the royal proposal ever had. A prince of dragon’s blood with a temper fatal as the flame. Cruel. Cunning. Unforgiving. His name carried across the realm with tales of his heart, sharp and cold as the blade he drew blood with. And now he was to be your husband. 

The great doors of the Sept opened.

The sound echoed through the silence, every conversation dying at once as the gathered court turned toward the entrance. A man with hair of pure snow walked in . 

Your betrothed.  

The dragonlords of old had been said to carry fire in their blood.  Looking at him now, you understood why.

There was something almost unnatural in the way he commanded the room after only a moment spent in it.  The sharpness of his features mixed with his pale, cold eyes brought a sinking feeling to your chest. He moved confidently across the grand room, holding himself with quiet arrogance belonging to a man who had been raised knowing the world would bend before him.

His walk was slow, almost uninterested. As if this day, this moment, was nothing more than another task placed before him to be completed before he could return to the matters he actually cared for. There was nothing to be read from his expression, a frightening indifference blanketing his face. His light eyes swept over the crowd, bored in the admiration that followed him. Lords bowed. Ladies whispered behind jeweled hands. The court watched him as they watched all Targaryens; with fascination, with fear, and with the knowledge that dragons were not creatures to be approached.

You inhaled a shaky breath. The minute it took for him to reach you felt like a blink when a moment later, he was standing before you. You hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath until he was there and time seemed to resume. 

Aerion Targaryen towered over you, his presence swallowing the space between you. His gaze lowered to your face, his pale and unreadable, studying the woman he was to marry with the same distant scrutiny one might give an unfamiliar piece on a cyvasse board. Though you supposed that would be fitting. You were both, to each other, unfamiliar pieces upon a board far more complex and filled with history than either of your lives alone, moved into place by the hands of duty, legacy, and the expectations of your families and realm. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the quiet murmur of the sept and the flickering candles surrounding you. Then his voice came.

“Not much to say?”

His voice was low, each word more bored than the other.

“I’m…sorry?”

Your response came out more quiet than you intended, and you grimaced at your own voice. His expression did not change aside from the slight roll of his eyes. You heard him mutter under his breath, “Gods, they’ve given me a timid one.”

You furrowed your brows, a small flicker of offense cutting through your nerves. Of course, you had figured it would take time to truly know the prince, if you ever even would. You had expected that learning the depths of his character would come with time, but you had not expected to learn his audacity before the ceremony had even begun.

Despite your better judgment, and your father's countless warnings never to show disrespect to your husband—least of all one who was a prince— words escaped your mouth before you could swallow them. “I suppose the rumors are true then,” you hissed. But the moment the breath left you, regret set in. He was the cruel prince. The last man in the Seven Kingdoms you should have been provoking. You had scarcely exchanged a handful of words, and already you were insulting him. What would this marriage be? 

But instead of rage, or a man’s show of power, he regarded you with mild curiosity. The most emotion you had seen on him yet. One pale brow arched. “And which rumors would those be?”

The confidence that had carried the remark from your lips faltered almost immediately. You hesitated. It was one thing to insult a prince once, but it was another to repeat it. Your gaze flickered briefly around the Sept. A few curious eyes had already begun to drift toward the two of you, though the High Septon continued his opening prayers, and the low murmur of the gathered lords and ladies had yet to fully subside. With the ceremony not having yet truly begun, your conversation remained your own.

“The realm..speaks of you,” you answered carefully.

A beat of silence passed. “You'll have to be more specific,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm.  You sucked in a breath before closing your mouth again.

“Well?” he insisted.  You looked at him, studying him properly. You didn’t know what you were looking for—maybe you were searching his face for something that might tell you whether speaking again would be foolish. Anger, perhaps. Pride wounded enough to lash out. 

To your surprise, you found none. 

Only a flame in his eyes that awaited your next move. Those light, almost unnervingly sharp eyes fixed on you without wavering. His face held the same composed indifference you had seen the moment he entered the Sept, every feature carefully restrained. Only his eyes betrayed him, alight with something watchful, almost expectant.

When you didn’t say anything, still too stuck in your thoughts, he scoffed, shaking his head.  “Of course,” he said. “For a moment, I thought you might actually be interesting.”  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Not yet wed and my wife already paints me a fool.”

You could only stare at him. The arrogance was almost impressive. He had known you for less than a minute and had already decided your entire character and had no restraint in mocking it. 

So this was the infamous Prince Aerion Targaryen.

Not a raging beast as the stories had painted him, nor a man who needed to raise his voice to command a room. No. More like a spoiled child than a monster. His petulance was already clear to you, and it seemed to come effortlessly. Whether the tales of his cruelty were also true or not remained to be seen. But his arrogance? That, at least, was something you could no longer question. It rested in the casual way he spoke, in the certainty that his judgment was one worth accepting. You squeezed your hands together in habit before speaking. “A remarkable talent, my prince.”

His brow lifted. You met his gaze, willing away any uncertainty from your voice. 

“To know me so completely after so little conversation.”

The words hung between you. You had spoken quietly enough that only the two of you could hear them. It was hardly an insult, yet neither was it a concession. Only an observation. You had not expected to be offering such cold words to the man who was to be your husband so early on in your marriage, but you would not hold your tongue. Despite being raised from an early age to understand that your position in society was one below men, you had never quite agreed with your parent's teachings.

You were never loud in how you challenged them. The fiery approach was not one you chose...most days you endured what was expected of you with quiet grace. But there were moments—enough moments to name you a nuisance— where you lifted your chin and truly spoke your mind. Your most rebellious trait, it seemed, was desiring respect.

Finally, something in his expression seemed to shift. His cold composure remained unbroken, the one he wore so naturally, but the change was enough for you to catch. It was a momentary pause, then his mouth curving into the faintest smirk. As though your defiance had not irritated him, but rather confirmed something he had been hoping to find.

The thought had barely settled before the High Septon’s voice rose above the murmurs of the Sept, calling the gathered court to silence. The ceremony was beginning at last, and with it came the reminder that whatever else Aerion Targaryen was, he was now the man you were bound to before gods and kingdom alike. The weight of that realization settled heavily onto you. 

Hundreds of eyes were watching. From lords and ladies who had known you since childhood, to strangers who knew only your name, it was a full court eager to witness the joining of two houses. You kept your posture straight and your expression composed, but your hands betrayed you, fingers tightening together.

Aerion’s eyes flickered down.

His focus dropped briefly to your hands before returning to your face. For a moment, you expected another remark or a cutting observation about your nerves. Instead, he only kept watching you. You could feel every gaze upon you, every whisper waiting to judge the bride who had been chosen for a dragon prince. 

Without warning, Aerion shifted.

It was the smallest of movements, little more than a half-step, but it brought him just enough in front of you that the nearest rows no longer had an unobstructed view of your face. His broad frame eclipsed the worst of the curious stares, forcing wandering eyes back toward the altar instead. The gesture was so natural it could have been mistaken for nothing at all—had you not felt the difference.

You glanced at him, uncertain whether he had done it deliberately. His expression gave nothing away. His attention remained on the High Septon, as though shielding you from the room had never crossed his mind. You almost questioned whether it had happened at all. Perhaps your mind, desperate for reassurance, had mistaken coincidence for compassion. A protective defense of the mind providing you with a mirage of a husband who offered such kindness, fueled by your fears that he indeed, would not. 

Whatever it was, you found yourself unwilling to dwell on it. To assign intention to such a small gesture felt foolish. And yet... it had eased the weight on your shoulders all the same. Regardless, by the end of the hour, this man would be your husband, and you, his wife. You would bear the name Targaryen and be bound to one of the oldest and most powerful bloodlines in the realm.

Whatever lay behind those pale eyes, whatever sort of man Aerion truly was, you would have to spend the rest of your life discovering it.

The Tourney

The tourney grounds had transformed into a city of banners.

Silks bearing the sigils of great houses rippled in the afternoon breeze, bright against the sea of tents that stretched beyond the lists. Lords and ladies filled the grandstands overlooking the field, their laughter mingling with the thunder of hooves and the roar of the gathered crowd as another pair of knights lowered their lances.

You watched from the royal pavilion, seated beside your husband beneath a crimson canopy embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Barely a month had passed since your wedding, yet the novelty of your new title had not faded. Your days had become a procession of councils, feasts, prayers, and endless courtesies, each one governed by customs you were still only learning. Life at court moved to a rhythm entirely unlike the one you had known. You had come from a great House, but not the Targaryen House. And the difference was abundantly clear. The servants were particular in a manner you had never seen. The lords painted smiles on their faces that never fell until heads turned around. Every time you were addressed it with a bow and a respectful Your Grace you still felt belonged to someone else.

Stranger still was the man at your side, whose presence had become as familiar as it remained difficult to decipher. There was much of your husband you had yet to understand. But what you did know was enough to unsettle you. You had seen the swiftness of his temper—the way servants shrank beneath his gaze, the ease with which a minor slight became cause for cruelty, the garish laugh that sometimes followed another's humiliation. There were nights he returned to your shared chambers with a fury on his face that made you shrink.

He carried his rage with him, filling the room with a silence so taut it scarcely seemed fit to breathe within. Yet some instinct told you this was not the extent of it. That what you had witnessed was but the edge of something far darker. You had been his wife for scarcely a month, and there was still ample time to learn the depths of his wrath. You were certain his true anger, the one you had been warned of, remained unseen, waiting only for the day you gave him reason to unleash it.

The blare of trumpets scattered your thoughts before they could settle any deeper. The lists below you stirred to life as knights emerged one by one beneath a forest of fluttering banners. It was Sun's Height, a time where heat was particularly unmerciful and cruel. Despite the slight refuge from the shade of the stands, you could feel yourself perspiring. It seemed that the crowd of reddened faces before you were experiencing the same sensation, yet their excitement only grew as the brilliance of the sun caught on the knights' armor in brilliant flashes of silver and gold. Across the field, squires made their final adjustments while destriers pawed impatiently at the earth, snorting clouds of dust into the warm summer air. Beside you, your husband remained unmoved. His attention was fixed upon the lists as the herald stepped forward to announce the first tilt.

The herald's voice rang clear as he recited names and noble lineages until the first pair of knights rode forth to meet one another. Their lances dipped in salute before the signal was given and at once, the horses moved forward. The movement of hooves shook the ground beneath the pavilion as the two riders closed the distance and lances splintered upon impact. The men came at each other with an aggressive force, one riding on as the other tumbled from his horse, drawing a delighted roar from the crowd. The onlookers rose from the stands, nobles and commonfolk alike leaping to their feet.

At your side, Aerion laughed as the fallen man groaned in the dirt, applauding at the spectacle with cruel amusement. The knight struggled to rise, taking the hands of a  pair of squires who rushed forward to aid him. His armor dulled with dust, his pride likely shaken— though he was lucky his pride was wounded more deeply than his body. You had learned quickly that in these tourneys, injuries were not uncommon. Within your first week at court, you had witnessed broken bones and bloodied armor. Men could easily require being carried off from the field and the crowd would be cheering regardless.

Yet it was worse when Aerion entered the lists. You had only seen it once, but that had been enough to know a truth; he did not fight only for glory or applause. He fought for pure enjoyment. He was merciless and attacked with a ruthless precision that left little doubt he intended to win at any cost. No matter what that meant for the other rider…or their steed. 

“Enjoying yourself?” 

Aerion’s voice drew your attention back to him. You turned, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden attention. It was a familiar pattern by now, his questions followed by that watchful silence as he waited for your answer. “The men are doing well,” you spoke carefully.  His lips curved. “A review of the performances is hardly what I asked,” he mused, eyes washing over your face. You held his gaze for a moment before looking back toward the tourney.

He liked to do this. To corner you with simple questions and watch as you carefully searched for the safest response. He had a habit of testing you, taking pleasure in watching your uncertainty as you searched for the right answer. But this time, you did not rush to find it.

Thankfully, the next set of knights had begun and the sight was enough to draw even Aerion’s attention away to the surging horses. The crowd’s cheers filled the space between you, giving you an excuse to say nothing at all.

As another match came to an end, the victor was washed with a wave of applause from the galleries. Between the noise, nobles rose from their seats to stretch their legs and servants wove through the pavilions with flagons of wine. Conversation swelled into a hundred overlapping voices. But one stood out in particular. 

A group of lesser lords stood only a few paces away, speaking in low tones they believed would not carry. Though you couldn’t make out the entirety of their conversation, the last few words carried plainly enough.

"...the Lady… a strange choice for a Targaryen."

Your grip tightened ever so slightly around the stem of your goblet. It was not rare that you heard yourself as a topic of discussion by the court and the lords. Royalty and nobility were almost always spoken of by those who believed themselves discreet. But your limited time at court had taught you that whispers were not worth chasing. There was no dignity in confronting every slight, nor any victory to be won from it. For every tongue you quieted, another would take its place. So you made no move to acknowledge it. 

But Aerion stilled. Without even turning to look at the man, he spoke. 

“Repeat yourself.”

The conversation faltered suddenly. The group of lords exchanged uncertain glances before one, the last to speak, stepped forward with obvious reluctance. “I... beg your pardon, Your Grace.” he spoke meekly. He looked over his shoulder at his peers, only to find each of them quickly preoccupied with anything but him. Only then did Aerion turn his head.

"You seemed quite eager to discuss my wife a moment ago,” he said evenly. “I would like to hear the rest.”

The color drained from the man's face. "I meant no disrespect, Your Grace."

Aerion's gaze sharpened. "That is not what I asked," he said, narrowing his eyes. “And when your prince asks you to do something, you do it.” His words demanded an answer, but only a strained silence followed. The lord seemed unable to decide whether to speak or take his chances remaining silent. The bold arrogance that he had spoken about you with before had vanished entirely, leaving only the realization that he had been heard. By his prince. By the husband of the woman he had no issue belittling. He swallowed, his eyes dropping briefly to the ground before finding Aerion's again. "It was... an ill-considered remark,” he said, “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

For a breath, you thought it might end there. The words of the lord were nothing you had not yet heard before. Simply judgements and whispers disguised as harmless opinions—slights not even against Aerion himself, only against you. He could have let it pass as so many others did…there was no reason for him to care, to involve himself. But when Aerion spoke again, you realized you should have known your husband better. He was not one to overlook an insult once it had been spoken.

“An ill-considered remark...” Aerion repeated. His voice was quiet, as if considering the words, tasting them on his tongue. The lord shifted on his feet. “Yes, Your Grace.” 

Aerion turned to him, hissing, “Did I give you permission to speak?”

The sharpness of his voice cut through the pavilion. The lord's lips closed at once. He lowered his head, shaking it quickly. Aerion held his gaze for a moment longer before speaking again. “My wife is not a subject for idle conversation among lesser men. She is a princess of House Targaryen,” Aerion continued. “And you will speak of her with the respect her position demands.”

The lord swiftly bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Aerion leaned back slightly, his voice lowering. “The next time you forget her place, I will be less interested in correcting your manners. Your hands, your ears, your eyes... any part I deem not of use to you... will be mine.” The group of men all paled, the lord in front again bowing his head. “Y-yes, Your Grace,” he repeated.

Aerion gave a flick of his wrist, dismissing them without another word. The men did not hesitate then, offering hurried bows before retreating quickly.  

Only when they were gone did the noise of the tourney slowly return to you. The people, the clashing of steel, the calls of the heralds—it all had commenced throughout the interaction, but you had heard none of it. Aerion settled back into his seat as though nothing had happened, his attention returning to the knights below. You watched him for a moment, unsure what unsettled you more: the cruelty and threat of his words, or the fact that, for once, they had been directed in your defense.

But why? That was the part you couldn’t understand.  

The whispers of lesser men should have meant nothing to him. They had not questioned his name, his honor, or even him at all. It had been about you. And yet, he had taken offense. You didn't know what to make of it. Part of you wanted to see it as kindness, as a gesture of a husband defending his wife. But you knew Aerion well enough by now to understand that nothing with him was ever so simple. His protection came wrapped in the same severity as his anger, and you were certain that gratitude was a fool’s feeling when it came to an act done by Aerion Targaryen. But— even if it was followed by caution— you couldn’t help but still feel it. The gratitude.

You had wondered if there was anything beyond his sharp edges, if there was anything softer hidden beneath the dragon everyone feared. Moments like this only made the answer more complicated to find. You were still watching him when Aerion shifted his attention to you. His gaze moved over your face, quiet and searching.

In your time as his wife, he had made no true move to know you. He knew your habits, the routines you followed, the responsibilities you were tied to. And you knew his role, his temper, the expectations placed on him. But you only knew the surfaces of each other, and were painfully aware of how sealed the depths were—though neither of you made a move to change that. Perhaps it didn't bother him to not know the wife he had no choice in. You didn't let it bother you. Who was he to you besides another man to be tied to, to fulfill a duty with?

But there were times—far too many times—like this, where you found yourself wondering if, perhaps, he was trying to know you after all. He was not a man of idle conversation or patience enough for questions. He was, however, remarkably observant.

You would catch his gaze lingering longer than a normal glance or notice his eyes following your smallest movements. It was as if he were gathering together small parts of you, trying to piece them together to gain a full picture. His eyes narrowed slightly now, glowing under the sun, studying the careful stillness of your expression. They were searching for something, but for what, you weren’t sure. 

Offense? Hurt? Surely not.

He gave nothing away. Whatever he had been looking for, he seemed to find it, or perhaps, he seemed satisfied that it was not there. He turned his focus back to the tourney, his expression once again unreadable as squires worked to clear the field for the next match. 

"Do not misunderstand," his voice came in a low tone, still not turned to you. "When they insult my wife, they insult House Targaryen." His fingers rested against the arm of his chair, his expression stony again as another pair of knights rode into the lists. “And I will not be disrespected.”

The Court

The meeting had stretched well into the afternoon, maps unfurled across the long oak table that held a history of plans of men’s wars. The corners of the maps were held down by wax seals and heavy goblets as rivers, roads, and the painted borders of the Seven Kingdoms stretched beneath your eyes, with dark ink marking spots where scouts had returned only days before. Beyond the narrow windows, the bells of King's Landing rang faintly over the distant sounds of the city. Inside, however, there was only the constant rustle of parchment and the repeated voices of men accustomed to being heard.  Lords spoke over one another, debating the Crown's levies and the growing unrest along the borders as each one was convinced his own counsel outweighed the rest. One argued for more men to be stationed in the Crownlands, another insisted the treasury could not bear the expense, while a third dismissed them both in favor of strengthening the royal fleet. Every man preached their counsel surely would preserve the realm, each interruption louder than the last.

At the head of the table, beneath the three-headed dragon carved into the high-backed chair, Aerion listened with a blanked expression.

Though when he raised his voice, the entire room silenced. The lords knew better than to speak over him. 

"If I wished to hear men bark over one another," he said coolly, bringing quiet to the room, "I would have convened this council in Flea Bottom." He scanned the men as they lowered their eyes. "You are not fishwives haggling over yesterday's catch," he continued. "You are lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Begin behaving as such."

A chorus of subdued affirmations answered him, each quick to nod before Aerion continued. As he spoke, you stayed quiet beside him. 

Though your marriage had granted you a place within the chamber, it had not granted you a voice in it. Your presence in the room was allowed only by position, no one questioning your presence—yet neither looking to you when speaking. Their attention passed over you as naturally as it did the servants refilling their cups, as the discussion wandered from alliances to finances.

"If we continue raising taxes," one of the men, who you knew as Lord Buckwell argued, "the crown will recover its losses before winter."

"And empty every granary in the Reach," another lord countered. "You cannot demand more coin from men who have barely enough grain to survive the season."

"The realm is not governed on sympathy."

"Nor is it governed on starving its people.".

The chamber erupted into yet another disagreement. You glanced over to the map. Your eyes lingered on the marked trade roads before settling on the ports sketched along the eastern coast. Small carved markers denoted castles, ports, and market towns, while messy writings in the margins listed tariffs, harvest yields, and expected revenues from each region. Your attention settled on the eastern coast.

King's Landing. Driftmark. Gulltown.

The ports carried the lifeblood of the realm as surely as its roads did. Merchant vessels arrived daily from the Free Cities, their holds filled with silks, spices, timber, and coin. Through your tutoring as a child and time spent at your House’s court, you knew well and plain that trade had always been the Crown's greatest source of wealth when allowed to flourish. You studied the figures inked beside the customs houses for another moment.

"...Would it not be wiser," you began carefully, waiting until the room had quieted just enough to hear you, "to lower the tariffs on merchant vessels instead? If trade increases, the Crown could recover the coin without forcing another levy upon the smallfolk."

The room fell silent. A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward you. Some held mild annoyance, as though your interruption had inconvenienced them. Others looked on with open boredom, already moving to face away from you before you had finished speaking. From your periphery you could see Aerion his face towards you. Lord Buckwell only chuckled. 

"Lower the tariffs? Essentially surrender?" He gave a short, incredulous laugh. "A lady's solution." He turned towards Aerion then, a smug look on his face. “I’d rein in the Lady, Your Grace,” he said, “Before she has the realm surrendering its coffers to every merchant who comes knocking at our shores.”

The remark was met with barks of laughter around the table. It spread easily, the lords laughing with amused smiles, shaking their heads with the same dismissal given to a small child’s silly remark. They returned their attention to the maps before them, the discussion moving on as if your words had been nothing more than a momentary distraction. But Aerion did not move with them. He remained exactly as he had been, his face unreadable, his gaze fixed upon Lord Buckwell.

"If you find the idea foolish, Lord Buckwell, then explain why."

His smile fell first. “Your Grace?” A silence settled over the table as Aerion set down the cup in his hand. “Hers is the only solution offered tonight that costs us neither gold nor men. Explain to me what is foolish.” Lord Buckwell shifted in his seat, no longer confident. “I only meant that such a measure would be... unconventional.”

Aerion studied him for a moment, deciding whether the explanation deserved a response. “You forget yourself, Lord Buckwell.” He leaned forward, one elbow settling against the edge of the table.  “She is my wife,” Aerion said calmly. His eyes remained fixed upon the lord. “When I decide something requires correction, I will handle her myself. When I want her silent, I will silence her. I do not require assistance governing what is mine.” 

Lord Buckwell’s face had lost all trace of amusement and his gaze lowered toward the parchment before him. “Yes, Your Grace. My apologies.”

 Aerion held the silence for another moment before turning his attention back to the papers before him. “Now,” he said, as though nothing unusual had occurred, “the tariffs.” His finger moved across the map, stopping at the marked ports along the coast, “Lord Lancel and Lord Tufe, review the current tariffs imposed on foreign merchants and present me with alternatives by the end of the week. I want figures and specifics. If anything does not meet my standard, I will ensure that not only will your prince be unhappy with you, but so will your king.”

The two men straightened and promised to prepare the requested figures. The conversation around the table  resumed carefully this time. The lords returned to their discussions of trade routes, harvests, and military expenses, but the ease from before had disappeared.  

Aerion did not look at you. Not once.

He did not regard you in the slightest. He kept his attention and eyes on the council as if he had not just defended you in front of every lord seated at the table. As if his words had been nothing more than a correction of courtly behavior, rather than something that had left you unexpectedly unsettled. 

You found yourself wondering, for the thousandth time since becoming his wife, why he had defended you. Again, his name had not been uttered—only yours. And yet he came to your aid without question. It wasn’t tender, nor comforting…but something about it left you feeling warm. He didn’t like when you were disrespected. At the tournament, he had easily corrected the men who spoke of you with his unflinching anger. And now again, he did not tolerate the lord’s words against you. In smaller moments too, he had shown up in his restrained, yet evident ways. But was it simply his princely pride—him seeing you as something belonging to him— or was it something more than that? 

It had to be. Though through his words he had claimed you, that was not all they did. He also championed your suggestion. 

Hers is the only solution offered tonight that costs us neither gold nor men. Explain to me what is foolish.

No man, not even your father, had ever done that for you. Given a weight to your voice. Fought against those who deemed it unworthy.

Though the meeting dragged on, your attention remained elsewhere. You heard nothing but the pounding of your own heart as you thought of the prince seated beside you and his curious tendencies. You stared mutely at the maps as his actions lingered in your mind. 

Aerion still hadn't said another word. He was reviewing a document in complete silence, allowing the lords to speak amongst themselves. But sometime during your wandering thoughts, his hand had shifted. It now rested only inches from yours. 

He wasn’t touching you, not even reaching. But it was closer than before. Close enough that if either of you moved even slightly, your fingers would brush. You took in a deep breath.

Perhaps it was nothing. Again. A mirage of kindness you wished for him to extend. Again. These were things you said in your mind each time you found yourself in this position. But how many times had you found yourself in it? Being defended, protected...cared for by Aerion Targaryen.

By now, it had happened too many times for those explanations to feel as convincing as they had before.

The silence remained, your hands unmoving, as you sat beside the man who had married you out of duty.