Dix

"You're not wearing my jersey."

That's the first thing he says upon seeing you.

No 'hi', no 'hello', no 'how are you'. Just a quiet observation said with no visible emotion. The lack of which had you squirm in place under his pointed gaze.

"Uh, yeah…" Your voice wavers as you avoid the way his dull eyes rake over your figure, staring you down like he's trying to undress you of the opposing team's jersey you're sporting.

"I'm supporting my country today…" You jut your lip out, hoping to quell his feelings of betrayal with your honest reasoning. "Does that… does that bother you?"

"…Well, I can't deny that I'm a little hurt." Bunny admits after another silent stare off, sighing softly when your pout came into view.

"Oh." Guilt consumes you in an instant at his confession. The sight of the six foot four athlete sulking at your lack of support responsible for the way your heart clenched with regret. "Bunny, I—"

"But you're free to support who you wish." Noticing your remorse, Bunny is quick to console your worries, bringing a large hand over your head to pet it. "I won't force my wishes on you."

"Really?!" You perk up immediately, the tension in your shoulder easing with relief from his gentle comfort.

"Yeah." He smiles so sweetly, eyes curving with something unreadable as he tucked the loose strands of your hair behind your ear. "Though if I score, can I ask that you at least cheer for me?"

"Of course, I promise!"

They're words you say absentmindedly.

Careless words that you come to quickly regret when you realise what exactly Bunny's harmless request from earlier entailed.

"SUPER GOLAZOOOO!"

"AND BUNNY IGLESIAS HAS DONE IT AGAIN! IT'S 3-0 TO SPAIN, A HAT-TRICK FROM THE YOUNG AND RISING STAR!!!"

Cheers erupt amongst the Spanish fans following Bunny's impressive goal. Cheering that you're supposed to be involved in— that you promised to take part in. Cheering that you just can't bring yourself to do no matter how hard you try.

Because how the hell are you meant to celebrate the utter humiliation your team faces at the hands of a single player?

You can't do that!

Even if you were held at gunpoint, you can't just abandon your team like that!

And thus, you're left with no choice but to break your promise to Bunny. A cold-blooded betrayal that you pray — with intertwined hands and growing anxiety — he doesn't notice.

But, alas, your effort is futile, and your invocations are unanswered. For the athlete has only one thought running across his mind right now, celebrating his goal with you.

Bunny's gaze sweeps over the stands with ease, intense eyes landing on you amidst the crowd as a look of anticipation overcame him. He stands there on the field, breathing hard and sweating from exertion as he waits for your approval. Something that doesn't come— the lack of which dulls the hopeful glint in his eyes.

You see it almost immediately, and while the sight of his hunched shoulders has your heart contort with unease, you still can't bring yourself to applaud him.

Bunny stares at you for a while longer, perhaps hoping you'd change your mind last minute, before he lets out a self-deprecating smile when you remain unmoved. Bringing a scarred hand to the lower half of his face, his deep eyes lingered on you for one final moment as he blew you another kiss.

Sweet affection that you've yet to return. Not when there's nothing sweet behind that mocking gesture of his.

The game continues in Spain's favour. Bunny's momentum is unstoppable as he humiliates your team even further. Something you aren't aware is possible until you see the way he absolutely dominates them. Breaking through their tight defence to score another two goals that send the crowd into a fit of bewildered cheers— noise that you pay no mind to, not when you’re too focused on the conversation behind you.

"Every time he scores, he blows an air kiss in this direction, right?"

"Yeah! I noticed that too!"

"But to who? Nobody's returning any of them?"

Don't tell me—!

Your complexion pales as you find Bunny down below on the field, eyes already fixed onto you, expectant as they wait for you to return the celebratory kiss he blew to you not too long ago.

That he-

After five consecutive goals, it finally hits you.

Bunny has not forgotten your promise of cheering.

And because he is cruel and petty, finding twisted enjoyment in your torment, he has no plans to stop scoring until you return his kisses.

Shit!

You have no words to express your shock, you can't even form a single thought at his wickedness— evil that makes the devil saintly in comparison.

The commentator speaks again, excitement woven in his voice as he broadcasts his unhinged theories. Of this game potentially being the first double hattrick of the year, a notion that strikes you with terror.

Your worst fears manifest in the way Bunny concentres, and you quickly realise that if you don't do anything about it now, this match will go down in history for being a total annihilation!

"Excuse me!"

You weave through the crowd with ease, apologising to the few that you bump into as you make your way down the stands and closer to the barrier separating you from the players.

It doesn't take long for you to locate Bunny, he's across the field, fixed intensely on the ball that his teammate dribbles past the defending line. Any seconds now and Spain can score another goal— another goal that you were not going to allow. Not if you could help it.

Cupping the sides of your mouth, you swallow whatever pride you have left and gather air in your lungs.

"Bunny!"

It's humiliating.

"That's my Bun-Bun!"

So fucking humiliating.

But what else can you do when Bunny is the cruel and unforgiving man that he is?

Your cheering, if you can even call it that given how pathetic it sounds, catches Bunny's attention in an instant. It's something he's been waiting for afterall, and it stops him dead in his tracks. The encouragement resembles a whistle, one has him perk up like an excited puppy as he rushed to find you in the crowd. An endeavour that is terribly effortless when he spots you immediately.

He stares up at you for a good moment, eyes tracing the reluctance in your expression before they fall on your figure, clad in the wrong team's jersey. A distasteful sight that has his jaw clench in tandem. His irritation grows, and Bunny finds himself helpless against his possessiveness — a trait you were always at odds with.

So, like any normal man, he grabs the end of his jersey, pulling the sweat soaked garment over his head and positioning it right in your direction with intent. You blink with utter disbelief, missing the way he throws it at you with perfect aim.

"I won't force you to put it on. It's your choice."

Choice, my ass.

You had no choice in the matter at hand!

The jersey smacks you right across the face, snapping you into immediate motion. You fumble with it at first, arms going in the wrong holes in your haste as you struggle pathetically to pull it over your head. But somehow, at mercy of a miracle, you've managed to put it on.

The collar's crooked and it clings to you uncomfortably. Drenched with sweat that you have no choice but to dismiss, and as if that isn't bad enough, the shirt's on backwards. His name is displayed over your chest like a label of possession, an honest mistake that does you more good than you realise.

The referee's whistle blows in the back, and a yellow card is administered for nudity. But Bunny decides, after taking one long look at your figure engulfed in his large jersey, that it's worth it.

He tests his luck once more, repeatedly pressing his finger against his bare chest, as if conveying a message only you would understand. And to his utter delight, you, weak to his cruelty, are quick on the uptake.

Your ears grow flushed with unbearable heat, but there's no time to revel in your embarrassment, not when the pride of your national team is on line here.

So with trembling fingers, you grab the wrong front of his jersey, pulling it close to your lips as you press a chaste kiss on the fabric bearing his name in bold.

Your eyes are shut close as you send him your indirect affections, utterly humiliated with the sudden turn of events that has you squirm at the mercy of your opponent. The moment you open them, it's no better either. If anything, you come to regret your existence entirely.

Bunny's amused expression enters your vision first, followed by a sickening gesture that has your stomach twist with shame. He holds both hands to his temple, extending his middle and index fingers up while the rest remained down, mimicking the appearance of bunny.

And while the sight of it is barely anything to blink at, with the way his simper grows as he curls his fingers encouragingly, you know better than turn a blind eye to it.

This is just— cruel..!

Fluster glows across your cheeks as you bring your hands over your temple to mirror the awful gesture. It travels across every sensitive nerve, weakening the strength in your knees as your heart stuttered to a flatline.

And just when you think the humiliation ritual has come to an end, laughter greets your ears at once — mirthful and completely entertained at the sight of your torment, one that could only belong to the cruel man that loved to play in your face — shattering whatever blissful delusion you've conjured up in your despair.

Bunny motions with his hands again, bringing one over his face like he'd done the previous other times, a telling movement that had your heart claw at your throat. His fingers lingered above his lips longer than usual, and after a thoughtful pause spent staring you down, Bunny blows you another kiss.

Your brain short circuits, and while your pride wants to resist his love, your arm extends towards him against your will. Hand sprawling out, you made a melodramatic show of catching the air kiss.

Bunny's eyes are wide when they find yours, bright and glittering with elation as he stands there, very clearly awaiting for more. And you give him exactly that. Even if the mortification kills you, you have no choice but to humour him. Who knows what he'll do if you remain stubborn in your refusal.

You heave a shaky sigh, lifting a trembling palm to your face as you press his non-tangible kiss against your lips, finally returning the affection he craved desperately for.

His coach yells something from afar, perhaps telling him to stop messing about and play the last few minutes of the game seriously, but Bunny only waves him off with a crooked grin, too focused on the precious sight of his jersey engulfing you with his name.

"If I exert myself more than I have already…" He can hardly face the man as he comes up with another pathetic excuse, unreasonably enamoured with the way your eyes scrunched shut in fluster after blowing him a kiss of your own.

"I won't have any stamina left to celebrate with my cute cheerleader."

got this idea from dembele-kun scoring on his wife's team and blowing her a kiss, and then i couldn't even mourn france's loss against spain bc i discovered i might have a humiliation kink (only works with bunny tho if ygm) 😂😂😂✌️✌️😔

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

to forge a flame by @aerrions

synopsis: a disgraced lady of house peake is given to prince aerion targaryen as punishment for her family’s treason. forced into dragon colors and courtly captivity, she resists him quietly until cruelty, pride, and dangerous tenderness begin to blur. f!reader.

here with me by @captainfern

synopsis: despite your warnings, aerion drinks a powerful stimulant, and then seeks your help when nothing else seems to fix him. f!reader. (18+)

uneasy lies the head that wears the crown by @vanillamacchiatos

synopsis: a rather small but challenging argument between you and prince aerion, your betrothed, leaves you in disarray. perhaps there is more than one way the prince can make it up to you? f!reader.

mine by @myladysapphire

synopsis: no one was more grateful than you when Aerion was sent to Lys, greatful for the break form his delusions and torment. But when he returns and you both remain unwed, Aerion insists you will be his bride, he doesn’t see any problem with it, for your as helplessly in love with him as he is with you, right? f!reader. (18+)

dreamer by @sedonasummer

synopsis: aerion cares for his cousin-wife as she suffers from dragon dreams. f!reader. (18+)

she's my wife by @cosmictheo

synopsis: while lunching in the red keep’s gardens with the targaryens, ser duncan spots prince aerion behaving like a civilized man beside a kind, sun-bright lady. bewildered by the rare sight, poor dunk assumes she must be prince baelor’s daughter, patient and too compassionate—because surely no woman of sound mind would choose to spend time in aerion’s company on purpose. f!reader.

growing strong by @catbayunthestoryteller

synopsis: once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a targaryen prince as mad as aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. f!reader. (18+)

lead guitarist by @drqcaryz

synopsis: it was meant to be just a fling, just a little fun and something to take the stress away but you two got carried away, and well that was a shitty mistake. modern au. f!reader. (18+)

You had only been trying to help clean him up, giggling that he couldn’t go to training with his face covered in icing. Valarr had been indulging in lemon cakes all morning even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to, and since your husband was quite the messy eater, he had gotten it all over his face

You didn’t think twice to use your fingers to wipe it away and considered it a sweet, innocent gesture. But something in Valarr’s eyes darkened as he watched you bring your fingers to your mouth, sucking them clean before removing them with a pop!

He stared at your glistening digits and his cock immediately began to stir in his breeches. In an instant, Valarr found himself unbelievably hard at the sight, his training forgotten as he pulled you into his arms

Sweet lips met yours, tasting of lemons and sugar and a dark desire to consume you. Valarr kissed you with a passion you had not tasted yet, a bruising thing that you eagerly accepted. You had no idea what brought this upon your husband or why but you liked it, kissing him back with equal desperation

In no time, you found yourself naked, moaning as Valarr slid into you with one stroke. His thick cock stretched you out deliciously, and you wrapped your legs around his back to encourage him to move inside of you

As he did, rocking into you at a steady pace, you moaned and suddenly found his fingers in your mouth

“Suck them,” your husband commanded, pupils blown as he stared down at you. It seemed that you had finally found the reason for his sudden desire and your eyes widened but you were quick to obey

You wrapped your lips around his digits and sucked, enjoying the filthy moan that left him as you did so. The sight of you, innocently sucking his fingers while taking his cock did unexplainable things to him. Valarr felt himself nearly black out with pleasure as he moved faster, angling his hips to pound deeper inside of you

He whimpered and groaned as you clenched around him, coming around his cock with a force that had your back arching off of the bed. You squeezed him so goddamn tight that no sooner did that happen did his own peak come, nearly blinding Valarr with the pleasure it brung

Afterwards, when Valarr had cleaned you up and blushed at how unruly he had become, you thought about how something so…small had completely unmade your husband. A small smile crossed your face as you thought about it, and you made note that if he ever needing cleaning again, you’d be sure to use your fingers to do it

Maekar Targaryen

Marrying an older man was quite often the fear of many ladies in the realm. Growing up, it had always been your friends and even your fear in your youth to be forced off to an old, balding drunk that smelled like sweat and cheese. But when you married Maekar Targaryen and became his second wife, you began to see that being married to an older man wasn’t so bad after all

The ultimate perk was being with a man that knew exactly what he was he was doing. Knowing exactly how to please you in ways only a man of his age and experience would

Maekar knew the right spots to lick, to suck, and to pleasure your body to bring you to your peak. You never knew such a greatness even existed until you married Maekar, and despite what people thought of him, your husband was extremely generous

You whined as he situated himself in between your legs, his skilled tongue and fingers making good use of his experience. You had already come—twice now—but it seemed that wasn’t enough for your husband. He wanted more, demanded more despite your cries and pleas of being overstimulated

“Quiet woman. I’ll have none of that,” he waved you off, and the sensation of his pleasure was so strong that you couldn’t help yourself

You reached down and in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, you accidentally grabbed Maekar’s hair and pulled—hard

The silver strands were firmly in your grasp, your fingers curled in them as it was the only thing that you could do to anchor yourself through another orgasm

Honestly, you didn’t even notice that you were tugging on them until Maekar suddenly growled, his movements stopping as he propped himself up

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He panted, breathless as his violet eyes grew dark. He looked like a true dragon above you. Full of fire and ready to devour you

“I…” you swallowed thickly, your throat suddenly dry. You didn’t know what to say to your husband about your impulsive actions, and you didn’t mean to upset him. “I-I’m sorry, my prince. I did not mean to. I merely got carried away.”

Your breath hitched, sure that that he’d be mad and curse you for doing such a thing. Your fingers pulled back, ready to grip the sheets if need be but Maekar caught your hands and stopped you in an instant

“Nonsense. Do that again,” he demanded, his voice full of lust

You were shocked and rightfully taken off guard by his request. You never thought that Maekar of all people would like his hair to be pulled but the way he growled again as you complied with his wishes told you that he more than liked it. He loved it

“Gods woman. You’ll be the death of me one day,” Maeker groaned, and that’s how you learned that the feeling of your fingers tugging on his silver hair spurred him on like no other

Aerion Targaryen

You discovered your husband’s weakness for being worshiped at quite literally at the worst possible time

It was in the sept, while you were praying during mass and asking the gods for good fortune, a healthy baby, and a long life

Aerion had never been keen for such a thing, nor he did actually believe in the Andal gods but he entertained it for the sake of appearance and let you be, if that’s what you wished

He had never given the sept or you much attention while you were doing your prayers, preferring to sit in the corner and brood but one day you kneeled in front of him and he was gone

He watched, half shocked and half aroused as you bent over to his feet, repeating:

“And may the father protect my husband, may the warrior make him strong, and may the mother guide his soul as she does with all her children.”

He had been caught so off guard that he could barely speak, and when you rose to your feet and looked at him he was harder than he’d ever been before

“Are you ready to leave now, my prince?” You had asked innocently, but little did you know that the thoughts running through your husbands mind were anything but

Aerion couldn’t get that image of you out of his head. Of you kneeling before him, submitting to him like you were worshiping him. Praying to him like he was your god and—fuck. He needed to see that again, now

You’d scarcely made it back to your chnambers before Aerion descended upon you, kissing you with a wild glint in his eyes and pushing you on the bed

His hands were frantic as he tried to strip you of all the clothing you had on, cursing your bloody maids for making everything so tight. It took him longer than he wanted to get you naked, to get you bare and spread out for him

He marveled in the sight, like he always did, but when you tried to lay back and open yourself for him, he did something unusual

“Kneel,” he said, no, demanded as he looked at you with glazed over violet eyes. They were so dark that they almost looked black. Wild and crazed at the idea of watching his thoughts come to life. Of watching his sweet pretty wife show him her devotion. “Make me your god,” he continued, “kneel before me and worship me as a dragon should be.”

He was in utter delight as he watched your body obey; confused, but obedient nevertheless. You got off the bed and did as your husband said, sinking to your knees and blinking up as he stood above you

Already, Aerion had freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out to brush against your lips. When you reached out and darted your tongue across the tip he moaned, gripping the back of your head and pulling you closer

“Well, go on then. Worship my cock like you do your gods and we’ll see which one shows you the heavens first.”

Spoiler alert: it was him. After you finished praising him and milking him with your mouth, Aerion placed you on the bed face down and brought you to your pleasure

He took you from behind and fucked you like you deserved, making you see stars as he pounded into you

He was consuming you, chest pressed firmly against your back and whispering in your ear. He spoke softly, encouraging you to say a prayer for your release and you did

You screamed his name, chanting it over and over again until it was the only the word you had left. You babbled and mumbled as your husband’s cock took your higher than the heavens, and afterwards you took his seed as a reward for your devotion

Aerion knew, no, he swore that by the time he was done with you, you would have no need for gods

After all, everyone knew that Targaryens were the closest thing among men. And luckily for you, you were married one—a dragon coated in flesh

Baelor Targaryen

You’re not sure when the habit started really

Mayhaps in some meeting or another, one that your duty required you to attend but didn’t permit you to enjoy. You’d probably sat beside Baelor as he endured the same torture with you, hiding behind polite smiles and chivalrous words while on the inside you were nearly bored to tears

There wasn’t much entertainment while you were listening to complaints and grievances from various different Lords, so you supposed picking up on the habit of holding Baelor’s hand and fiddling with the rings on the them was natural

It gave you something to do to occupy your mind while you sat and listened to men whine like women. A small thing that you could enjoy, and you were sure that Baelor didn’t mind either because he never complained. In fact, he often encouraged you, slipping his hand under the table for you to grab and sometimes giving you a light squeeze

It was such a small thing that you did, really, that no one could blame you for missing how it drove your husband absolutely insane

Baelor had always been good at keeping his composure; after all, it had been expected of him since he was a child. He didn’t break easily or falter when something got to him, but it seemed that one day something about you finally caused him to break

Alas, it was after one of your meetings that Baelor finally grabbed you with a sudden urgency

You had been in the middle of complaining about something, slumped in your chair and completely unaware of the hunger on his face, when all of a sudden your husband pulled you to his chest and kissed you

Your complaints were silenced at once, your jaw going slack at Baelor’s sudden advances

Now, your husband wasn’t exactly a square when it came to your marriage activities, but he was mindful and normally only took you in the confinement of your chambers. Never before had he been so open, so eager to devour you in public and it took you for a shock almost as much as it excited you

Quickly, you returned his affections and moaned as his tongue slipped into your mouth, your back hitting the stone that his desk was carved out of

One hand came to slip underneath your dress, hitching your leg up, and you moaned as Baelor’s fingers brushed against your sex

“Here?” You asked breathlessly, pulling away to look at him with wide eyes

Baelor nodded, “Here,” he said, and you gasped as his fingers slipped into your small clothes. Your core was already aching and slick with arousal. You took your husband’s fingers well, clenching around them as pleasure traveled through your lower half

This new side of him was absolutely maddening. Baelor had never been this desperate before, this willing to be risky and it drove you wild

Anyone could have walked through the doors of his solar and saw him pleasuring you. Saw their prince, their future king with his fingers stuffed in his wife’s cunt. The risk made it all the more exciting, and it had your heart pounding with anticipation

You could feel your peak rising as Baelor’s skilled fingers worked their magic, but you didn’t get there. Instead you whined as Baelor pulled them out, scrunching your face up in disappointment

“Keep going, I was almost there,” you begged him, but Baelor shook his head

“Not yet,” your husband panted, and in the next moment he loosened his breeches and turned you away from him. You took this to mean that he would take you from behind, right up against his desk. Your mouth drooled as his cock dragged along your slick folds, mouth falling open as he pushed inside of you

“Fuck,” the vulgar curses that fell from his lips made you even wetter, your cunt easily spreading apart for his cock

From behind you, Baelor set out at a steady rhythm, fucking into you while your chest hugged the stone. The sound of wet skin slapping filled the room, along with curses that would have made a Septon blush

This new position proved to be overwhelming for the both of you and you could tell that neither of you would last long. Your core clenched with every drag of his cock, your peak threatening to rise again

“My love,” you gasped out, fingers clawing at stone, trying to find something to ground you as that familiar wave of pleasure hit. “I’m…I’m going to…”

You never even got the words out. Instead they were replaced by a loud whine, your mouth dropping open and your rolling back

You came shamelessly around your husband’s back and he followed suit, cursing and groaning as he did. He held onto your hips to steady himself and that’s when you felt it—the cool metal of his rings pressing against your hot skin

When the two of you had settled down, cleaning yourselves up and rearranging your husband’s desk to make it look like you hadn’t just been fucked there, you asked him about it with a shy grin on your face

“Is this what has spurred you on, husband? All this time—playing with your rings has riled you up? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Baelor, with a grin on a face and a twinkle in his eye, only chuckled. “I feared you’d stop, wife, if you knew the terrible effect it had on me. I didn’t want that. After all, I had to have something to get me through such dreary meetings.”

Ser Duncan the Tall

Traveling together on the open road meant that you and Dunk spent a lot of time together, and in that time you had each picked up on the mannerisms and habits of the other

You knew Dunk practically like the back of your hand, and there wasn’t much that he could do or hide from you, which was why you started to notice immediately his lingering stare whenever you braided your hair

Weaving the threads together had become second nature while you were on the road, as it was way to keep your hair from getting filthy and out of your face. Nothing special about recreating a hairstyle you had been doing since your youth but Dunk, for some reason, loved it

He loved sitting beside you as you worked, tattling off about something or the other. You suspected that he didn’t actually pay attention, too focused on your hair and the way that your fingers moved to digest your stories

At first, you simply thought that it was just fascination, with Dunk being curious about the ways of a woman

It seemed innocent enough, but slowly you began to notice the way he changed

Once he was able to sit beside you while you twisted your hair, watching intently but never bothered. Now though, Dunk seemed visibly uncomfortable by something every time you touched your hair around him and you couldn’t quite figure out why

It made no sense why he seemed unable to focus, always shifting beside you like a jitterbug. More often that not, he would excuse himself afterwards and then come back a few minutes later, looking more relieved than before he’d left

He never explained or said why, and he always seemed to stutter out some half excuse that you didn’t believe. As you said, you knew Dunk which was why you knew that he was hiding something

You didn’t figure out what until one day you decided to spy on him

It had been a spur of the moment decision, deciding to pause your braiding to sneak away after him and see what his problem was. You were merely curious, that’s all, so imagine your shock when you stumbled upon Dunk, cock in hand and moaning as he pleasured himself

He had his eyes closed, so he didn’t see you as watched flabbergasted. Never in a million years did you guess that this was what he was up to, but you weren’t entirely upset about it

In fact, you felt something stirring inside of your core as you heard him calling out your name, shamelessly pleasing himself to the sound of it

It was obvious that he was thinking about you, but why? What had brought this on, you wondered?

If Dunk was as thick as a castle wall then your head was as hollow as the moat surrounding it. Filled with water instead of sense, your Nan used to say, as when you stepped forward, your curiosity and desire compelling you to do so, you still did not realize that it had been your hair that spurred him on

Instead you called out his name, “Dunk?” With a shy smile, hoping that you could get to the bottom of this and possibly help him

Dunk’s eyes flew open and the look on his face looked like a rabbit that had been caught in a snare. He instantly panicked, stammering and sputtering out. You thought that he might have been trying to say words but they failed him, and now he was as red as a tomato as you sauntered towards him

“What are you doing?” You asked him, though your head wasn’t that hollow. You knew the answer but rather you were asking why? You weren’t angry. That was apparent by the smirk adorning your face, but it was an embarrassment to Dunk all the same

He tried unsuccessfully to pull his pants up, but his hands were shaking too much and he ended up not being able to get them past his ankles. In a desperate attempt to conceal himself and save his honor, he tried to force them but the act left him unbalanced and he stumbled

Had you not steadied him, your body pressed firmly against his, he might have fallen and broken something

“M-M’Lady, I was just…I was not,” ever the chilverous knight, you both knew that you were no lady but he still referred to you as such. He was trembling underneath your touch, his eyes closed and his head shaking as if he was disappointed in himself. “I-I didn’t…I didn’t mean…”

He was cut off by the touch of your hand as you softly cupped his cock, the action causing a sharp gasp to leave his lips. His eyes flew open and his lips formed an ‘O’ shape, in disbelief that you were stroking him

“Y-Y/N, what…?”

“Shh,” you grinned deviously as you sank to your knees, an idea forming in your head that could not be resisted. You meant to help your traveling companion with his problem, excited by the idea of him being hard for you

Dunk was sure that you were trying to kill him when your tongue darted out to taste his cock. He closed his eyes and let out a moan, not knowing what he had done for the gods to allow this but thanking them anyways

Your hot mouth felt like heaven wrapped around him, so tight and wet and warm. Your head bobbed and you looked up at him with such innocent eyes that he almost collapsed

Quickly, the pleasure threatened to consume him. Dunk had only ever used his hand before and this new sensation was driving him insane. He was seeing stars already, his release fast approaching

From below him, you felt the way he shook and decided to tease him, swirling your tongue around his slit before taking him deep again, hollowing your cheeks while you sucked. You took his balls into your hands and gently massaged them, feeling satisfied when Dunk lost it

He let out a groan that he was sure all of the Seven Kingdoms would be able to hear, and without thinking he reached down and tangled his fingers in your braid to steady himself. His grip was tight, a little confusing to you until it clicked and suddenly you realized what had spurred this all on

Dunk had always seemed to disappear after you’d finished braiding. Oh gods, you hadn’t noticed before, but it was your hair! Playing with your hair had been what riled him up

You reckoned that all those times he’d been watching, eyes dark and unable to focus, what he really was thinking about was this moment. Gripping your hair whilst you sucked him off and you felt ashamed of yourself that you hadn’t realized sooner

“Head as hollow as a moat. Filled with more water than sense,” your Nan’s voice rang

His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.

“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.

Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.

Instead, he saw you.

You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.

While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.

You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.

“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”

“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.

You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”

“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.

But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”

Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.

You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.

The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.

Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.

“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”

Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.

Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.

But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”

Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.

“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”

“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.

Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.

Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.

Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.

From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.

To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.

He waited for you to finally lose your cool.

But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.

You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.

A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.

“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”

You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.

An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.

Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.

“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”

“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.

Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.

“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”

You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.

“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”

He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.

“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”

“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”

The room went silent before you spoke again.

“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”

The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.

A breathless laugh escaped him.

“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.

He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.’ Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”

“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.

He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”

“Of course,” you smiled.

As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.

Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.

The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.

You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.

“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”

“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”

“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”

“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.

The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.

Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.

Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.

“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.

“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.

“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.

Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.

You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”

“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.

That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.

During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.

He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.

“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.

Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.

“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”

His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.

The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.

Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.

Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.

A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.

You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.

Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.

“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”

Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.

Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.

Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.

You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.

Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.

However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.

The feast was deafeningly loud.

You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.

Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.

He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.

Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.

But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.

He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.

“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”

“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”

Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.

His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.

The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.

You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”

Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”

Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.

“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”

“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.

He rarely got time alone with his own wife. He would, begrudgingly, have to settle for brief moments. He would cradle your cheek and steal a kiss, or you would pass him and give him a quick peck to the jaw or his temple, leaving his skin alight and warm. He would bring you your favorite tea in the evenings, or hover like a dragon watching his treasure as you tended to his son's needs. All the while, little Maegor would watch his parents, wide-eyed and curious.

Aerion had faith that it would change with time. Maegor would grow and become more independent, and soon he would have you to himself again.

At least, that's what he had tried to convince himself, but the gods had odd humor. His boy was the spitting image of him, appearance-wise… and in other ways. The child grew, learned to walk and how to speak in mumbled sentences, but he still clung to his mother like his little life depended on it. His chubby hands would curl around your skirts, his shorter legs hurrying to keep up with you as you made your way through the winding layout of Summerhall. He'd huff and stomp his little feet until you would inevitably relent and pick him up, and then he would curl his fingers around the neckline of your dress, holding tight as though his strength alone could keep him in your arms forever.

“You spoil him,” Aerion said once, when you entered your marital chambers with Maegor on your hip. You sighed, meeting his gaze as he sat lounged on the velvet-lined settee by the hearth.

“Children are meant to be spoiled, husband.”

“Hm,” Aerion hummed, a faint smile wanting to tug at his lips had he not forced it away. He watched you move about the bedchamber, your skirts whispering across bare stone and the rug by the bed. In the warm light that the hearth offered, you looked so… ethereal. The flames flickered across your features, and he found a quiet peace there. Motherhood had suited you well, and you fit into that role as if it were always meant to be. He quite liked that look on you: you, softened from carrying his seed, holding his heir upon your hip.

A bit of heat stirred in his gut. He forced it away.

Aerion rose with the grace of a prince, his footsteps measured across the floor as he approached his wife and child. He reached for your waist, but found his hands stalling as Maegor reached up to touch your face. Fat fingers probed at your cheek, imitating the way he so often saw his father cradle your face. His chubby hand was more clumsy, and sticky with sweet nectar from an orange he ate earlier, but the look in his big lilac eyes was intense as he stared at you.

“Mama, so beautiful.”

Aerion's brow furrowed as he watched you grin at that. “Thank you, sweet boy,” you hummed your thanks, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, just as you would do for your husband when he doted on you. “I love you.”

“Love you too, mama!”

Aerion watched the pair before him, his lips tugging into what could almost be described as a pout. His son loved you, just as he did. He learned the quiet ways of affection, and knew how to steal your heart. When you met your husband's gaze, he forced his expression to harden, though his heart swelled with something he had never felt. Deep, deep affection. The sight of his small family, of his sweet wife and their little boy, warmed a part of him that felt… new. He would not admit it, though. Dragons were made of thicker hides.

“Spoiled little brat.”

“He learned from you.”

tags: n/a

Super Needy! Aerion Targaryen

You belong to him. He may not admit it but he craves your attention and affection. 

Aerion wants your eyes on him at all times and when he can’t have that, he’ll be pestering you with his hands climbing up your skirts or even pinching your sides. He likes to scare people, Lords and Ladies alike but there’s some people he can’t simply scowl at and send away, like his family. So his hands up your skirts at dinners will have to suffice. 

He’s never going to admit how fond he is of you, how he likes the way your nails graze his scalp or your fingers lightly trailing over the palm of his hand. But he’ll never shy away from it, clearly happy for anyone to see how much you dote on him. 

He’s a dragon, what would he need to be embarrassed about. 

When he’s out training in the court yard, or away at tourneys, he’d expect you to be there with him. He might not tell you in words but he’ll search for your face within the crowds and smirk when he notices you there. 

How do you know all of this? Well there are the times where you may have not paid him the attention he feels like you should have. 

Those days of not having you around end up in nights that leave you battered and bruised. 

Blood shot eyes, soaked cheeks and nasty red hand prints all over your ass cheek. Aerion would have you begging for mercy with his cock hitting the back of your throat. You can barely breathe yet you try your hardest to mumble out apologies. 

Aerion would want to take pity on you. He really does. But you should have really known better. 

He’s teaching you a lesson, watching you choke on him. He doesn’t let up either, not until his balls feel sufficiently drained. Even then he’ll have you bent over the nearest table, rutting into you like your some brood mare that needs to be punished. 

He’s satisfied when you’ve stopped talking all together. All that’s left of you is shaky breaths and tears that make a small puddle on the table. Then he’s all forgiving, yanking you into his arms and telling you that he knows “you didn’t mean it” and how he knows “you’ll do better” for him next time. 

He’ll let you sleep then, brushing your wet cheeks with his fingers and saying how much he knows you love him. 

Very Needy! Daeron Targaryen 

This man drowns himself in a bottle trying to push down his feelings for you. He’s embarrassed not of you but himself and the way he genuinely desperately needs you. 

It all comes out at once in a drunken needy kiss when he has you alone in the gardens and he completely forgets himself. From then on forward, he’s truly screwed. 

He’ll try and play the dutiful prince, not wanting to seem that pathetic in front of his father but his hands will search for yours under tables. He will literally let out a sigh of relief when you touch him, rubbing your finger along the back of his hand to give him reassurance. 

When he’s drunk, he’s more careless. He’ll nuzzle his face into your neck and practically beg you to stroke his cheek like the good pet he is. People may be looking but he’s too drunk to care what they think. 

And when he thinks you’re not paying enough attention to him, he’ll take your hand under the table, placing it on top of his hard cock and grind into it. All tinted cheeks and glazed over eyes as he groans into the feel of you through his breeches. 

The worse is when you completely forget him, off to do your own duties instead of being with him. Then he’d find you, it doesn’t truly matter where you are. He’ll snatch you way into the closest room and have you either tossed over the furniture or lying on the floor, his head burying itself beneath your skirts. 

You had only been without him a few hours but this man would eat at your cunt like a man starved. He’d take it slow, from kissing all over your thighs to then lapping at your folds with his tongue like he was the one that needed to apologise. 

He’d look up at you with those wet puppy eyes begging for your forgiveness, trying to get you to tell him what he did wrong. 

He would pull orgasms out of you like it was nothing, not finished until his face was dripping in your juices and you were crying from the overstimulation. 

When he does calm down, he’s deeply buried into your walls, pulling you on top of him as you tell him how sorry you are and how you’ll never do this again. He’d sleep with his mouth on your neck, your body caged underneath him like at any moment you’d slip away. But you knew better than to face the consequences of leaving him. 

Needy? Valarr Targaryen 

Valarr doesn’t scream needy to me. In fact, he likes it the other way round. 

You may have never initially wanted Valarr before but he’ll be sure to turn you into a desperate brat screaming for his attention. 

He’s a prince. In line to inherit the throne after his father, he simply can’t be seen as needy. But having a needy wife that is wrapped around his finger. This man’s dream.

How did he manage such a thing? Fear is his best tactic. The idea that being without him simply wasn’t a life worth living. Making him your lifeline and cutting out everyone else. 

You paid attention to that suitor at the banquet, the one that was found with flies swarming his body in the Godswood. Or the one who asked for your favour at the tourney, the same one that ends up screaming with Valarr’s lance buried in his shoulder. 

He’ll make sure you fear what lurks around the corner when he’s not around. He’d make himself your knight in shining armour. 

He won’t need to beg for your attention then. You’ll always be beside him, curling up beside him at banquets or watching beside his father at tourneys. You’d even beg him to let you sit in council meetings but it never works, so you'll listen to him and to sit pretty in your chambers for when he’s finished. 

It’s simple really. 

All of that just to coo at you when you crawl into his lap after a long day, peppering his face and neck with kisses. Only for him to tell you he’s tired and tell you if you're a good girl and stay still all night with his cock buried inside you, he might be kind enough to reward you when morning comes. 

But it’s too hard with him cockwarming you. You’ve been craving him all day and the feel of him inside you isn’t enough. Would he really notice if you wriggle slightly around or if you touched yourself a little bit? 

He would and he wouldn’t be so kind in the morning. He’d take his sweet time spreading you out on the bed, delivering torturously slow strokes that have you clawing at the sheets underneath you, toes curling and that feeling growing in your stomach. Only he’d stop when he could feel you close, taking it all away. Bad girls don’t get to be satisfied. 

Valarr would spend the morning ruining you. Making you almost reach climax again, and again, and again until you’re whimpering at him to give you some sort of mercy. He’d leave you empty then, watch how all day you’ll practically claw at him like some needy cat, whining at how much it hurts, at how badly you need him to touch you. 

Then when night finally comes around he’d have you all over again, fucking you thoroughly until you’re overstimulated and a mess. Until you’ve cum so much, you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to come again. Then, and only then, would he be satisfied.

divider by @ sweetshuga

Summerhall burned without her.

Not with dragonflame, not with the great conflagrations his ancestors had commanded, but with a dull, suffocating emptiness that crept into every corridor, every chamber, every breath Aerion Targaryen took. The hearths were lit, the servants moved in their endless silent procession, his brothers' voices echoed somewhere in the courtyard and yet the world had lost all color. The very stones of the castle seemed to sigh, as though they too mourned the absence of their lady.

She had been gone three days.

Three days since Y/N had ridden for King's Landing with her escort, off to visit her family, off to leave him behind in this grey mockery of a palace. Three days since the sun had last shone, or so it felt. Three days since Aerion had last tasted peace, last drawn a full breath, last felt his heart beat with anything other than the dull, persistent ache of longing.

He stood at the window of their chambers, his chambers now, though he refused to think of them that way, staring out at the rolling hills of the Reach with an expression of such profound tragedy that any who saw it might have thought the realm had fallen. His doublet was carelessly fastened, half untied at the collar, as though he could not summon the will to dress himself properly. A goblet of wine sat untouched on the table beside him, which was perhaps the most alarming sign of all, for Aerion Brightflame had never been known to refuse wine.

His boots were still unlaced. His rings, the gold and onyx band she had given him on their wedding night, the small ruby she had pressed into his palm with a smirk and a command to wear it always so everyone knows you belong to me, sat in a small dish by the bed. He could not bear to put them on. Could not bear to look at them without her there to see them on his fingers.

He had not slept. Not truly. He would lie in their bed, in the hollow where her body should have been, and press his face into her pillow, breathing in the fading scent of her, something floral, something sharp, something that was simply her. He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. When the maid had come that morning with fresh sheets, he had snarled at her so fiercely that she had dropped the bundle and fled, and Aerion had spent the next hour smoothing out the rumpled side of the bed where Y/N had last slept, arranging the pillows exactly as she liked them, preserving the shrine of her absence.

He was being dramatic. He knew this. He did not care.

"My prince," came a hesitant voice from the doorway. A serving girl, young and pale with fear, her hands clasped so tightly before her that her knuckles had gone white. "Your father requests your presence at the midday meal."

Aerion did not turn. His voice, when it came, was distant, thrumming with barely suppressed anguish. "Tell him I am indisposed."

"My prince, he was most insistent—"

"Tell him," Aerion's head snapped toward her, violet eyes blazing with such sudden ferocity that the girl took a stumbling step backward, "that my wife—my heart—has been torn from my breast and carted off to that stinking city, and I will not sit at a table pretending to enjoy the company of men who still have their wives beside them while mine languishes in absence. Tell him that I am in mourning. Tell him that the light has gone out of Summerhall. Tell him—" His voice cracked, and for a moment he looked less like a dragon prince and more like a man utterly undone. "Tell him that I cannot."

The girl fled. He heard her footsteps echoing down the corridor, a panicked staccato, and he almost felt a flicker of satisfaction. Let them all know. Let them all see what her absence had done to him.

He turned back to the window, pressing his palm flat against the glass. His breath fogged the pane, and for a moment he fancied he could trace her name in the condensation. Y/N. He traced it once, twice, a third time, watching the letters blur and fade, and something in his chest constricted so painfully that he had to brace himself against the window frame.

Gods, but he missed her.

He missed the sound of her voice, sharp and commanding, telling him his hair was a mess and to sit still while she fixed it. He missed the way she would sprawl across their bed as though she owned it, as though she owned him, with that imperious tilt to her chin and her feet bare and her hair spilling everywhere. He missed the fire in her eyes when she was displeased, which was often, and the way she would make him work for her smile, which was everything. He missed the weight of her hand on his arm when they walked together, the possessive curl of her fingers.

He missed her in the morning, when he woke and reached for her and found only cold sheets. He missed her at night, when the candles burned low and the quiet of their chambers became unbearable. He missed her at meals, when he looked to the seat beside him and saw it empty, and his stomach turned at the sight of food he could not share with her. He missed her in the training yard, where he had no one to impress with his prowess, no one to roll her eyes at his boasting and call him a preening fool in that tone that meant she loved him. He missed her in his blood, in his bones, in the very marrow of him.

She was perfection. She was the sun around which his entire wretched existence orbited.

When she walked, flowers bloomed. He had seen it himself, well, perhaps not seen, but he knew. The grass grew greener in her footsteps, the air itself became sweeter, the very sky seemed to brighten. Birds sang when she passed. The clouds parted. The Seven themselves must have looked down upon her and marveled at their creation. She was a vision of grace and gentleness, his lady wife, his dragonness, his beautiful, beautiful—

"Brother."

Aemon's voice cut through his reverie like a blade. Aerion did not bother to hide his scowl as the younger prince entered the chamber without knocking, as was his irritating habit. Aemon was ten, small and serious, and he looked at Aerion with the particular expression of a child who had long since grown accustomed to his elder brother's eccentricities.

"What," Aerion said flatly. He did not move from the window.

Aemon leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in a gesture that was far too old for his years. "The servants are saying you've refused to eat for two days."

"I am not hungry."

"You're always hungry. I've seen you eat an entire pheasant by yourself."

Aerion turned, finally, and the full force of his tragic countenance fell upon his little brother. His eyes were red rimmed, his pale skin even paler than usual, his jaw shadowed with the barest hint of stubble he had not bothered to shave away. "My appetite has departed with my wife. How can I be expected to eat when she is not here to grace the table with her presence? When I must look upon your face instead of hers? When every bite I take is ash in my mouth because she is not beside me to share it?"

Aemon's expression did not change. "She's been gone three days."

"Three centuries." Aerion pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in a gesture that would have been comical if he were not entirely sincere. "Three eternities. I have aged a thousand years in her absence. Look at me, Aemon. Look at what has become of me."

He did look. Aerion was, objectively, still the same sharp featured, silver haired prince he had always been, perhaps slightly more disheveled than usual but otherwise unchanged. Aemon seemed to reach this conclusion as well, because his eyebrow arched with the precision of a courtier twice his age.

"You look the same."

"I am wasted," Aerion insisted. "I am a hollow shell. A ghost haunting these halls. Without her, I am nothing. Less than nothing. I am—" He paused, searching for a word sufficiently dramatic. "—diminished."

Aemon sighed. It was a heavy sound for such a small boy. "Father is concerned."

"Father can concern himself with his own marriage." Aerion finally moved from the window, but only to throw himself into a chair with all the despair of a tragedy hero in his final act. He let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling, one arm draped across his eyes. "You do not understand. None of you understand. You have never loved."

"I'm ten."

"Age is no barrier to understanding true love. I knew I loved Y/N from the moment she threw a candlestick at my head during our first meeting. It was a magnificent throw. She has such strength in her wrist, such precision, such—" He let out a shuddering breath. "Such perfection."

Aemon, who had been present for that first meeting and had witnessed Y/N hurl a candlestick at Aerion's head because he had made some comment about her family that was, in retrospect, deeply offensive, said nothing.

"Do you know what she said to me, the night before she left?" Aerion asked, his voice going soft and distant. He did not wait for an answer. "She said, 'Don't be a fool while I'm gone.' And I said, 'I am always a fool for you, my love.' And she—" His voice cracked. "She laughed. She laughed, Aemon. The most beautiful sound in all the Seven Kingdoms. And then she kissed me, here—" He touched his lips "—and she said, 'I know.'"

He was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory. Then he surged up from the chair, suddenly animated, pacing the chamber with wild, restless energy.

"Her hair," he said, "do you remember her hair? The way it catches the light? and when the sun hits it just so, it glows, Aemon. It glows like embers. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—they are like nothing else in this world, and when she is angry they darken, and when she laughs they lighten, and when she looks at me—"

"She usually looks at you like you're about to do something stupid," Aemon observed.

"With love," Aerion corrected fiercely. "She looks at me with love. The love of a woman who has chosen me, who has bound herself to me, who has—" He stopped mid pace, a thought striking him with such force that he went pale. "What if she decides to stay longer? What if her family convinces her that King's Landing is more pleasant than Summerhall? What if she—what if she forgets me?"

"That seems unlikely."

"You don't know! You don't know the power of her family's influence. Her mother, that woman—she never approved of me. She said I was—" He lowered his voice to a pompous imitation. "—'volatile and overly dramatic.' As though those are insults."

"They might be."

"They are virtues," Aerion declared. "I am a Targaryen. Volatility is in my blood. And yet her mother looks at me as though I am a stain upon her daughter's gown. What if she spends this fortnight whispering in Y/N's ear? What if she convinces her to—to—"

He could not say it. Could not even form the word leave.

He sank back into the chair, all the manic energy draining out of him. His hands gripped the armrests so tightly his knuckles went white. "If she does not return to me, I shall burn something. I don't know what. Something important. Something that will make them all regret taking her from me."

"She's visiting her family, Aerion. No one took her."

"They took her from me." His voice cracked again, raw and honest in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. "They took her from me and I am here alone, in this cold place, without her warmth. Do you know what it is to share a bed with someone for a year and then have it empty? Do you know what it is to reach for someone in the night and find only a pillow? Do you know—"

He stopped. Swallowed. Looked away.

Aemon, to his credit, did not mock him. The little boy crossed the room and stood beside his brother's chair, and after a moment, he placed a small hand on Aerion's arm.

"She'll come back," Aemon said quietly. "She likes Summerhall better than King's Landing. She told me so. She said—" He paused, clearly debating whether to share what he had been told. Then: "She said the food is better here and her mother gives her headaches."

"She said that?"

"She said the roast lamb here is better than anything in the Red Keep. She said—" Aemon's voice dropped to a whisper. "—she said she married you for your family's kitchens."

"She did not."

"She did. I was there." Aemon's expression was solemn. "She said it to Mother when she thought you couldn't hear. She said, 'At least the food is good, even if my husband is a madman.'"

Aerion pressed a hand to his chest, overcome. "She adores me."

"She said you were a madman."

"A term of endearment." He was smiling now, a real smile, the first in three days. "She calls me a madman because she finds my passion invigorating. She finds my intensity—my focus—she finds it romantic. I know she does. She told me once that I loved her more fiercely than any man had ever loved anything, and that she—that she—" His voice caught. "She said she would not have it any other way."

He looked toward the window again, but this time his expression was softer, almost hopeful. "Do you think she misses me?"

Aemon considered the question with the gravity of a maester pondering a philosophical treatise. Finally, he said: "She said you were annoying before you left. But she also packed your favorite doublet. The blue one. She told the maid to make sure it was clean for you while she was gone."

Aerion closed his eyes, overwhelmed. "She does miss me."

"Maybe."

"She does. She packed my doublet. She thinks of me, even when she is away. She carries me in her heart, as I carry her in mine. We are bound, Aemon. Bound by something greater than marriage, greater than duty, greater than—" He opened his eyes, seized by a sudden thought. "I should write to her."

"You said you wouldn't. You said you wanted her to come to you first, to prove that she—" Aemon paused, clearly trying to remember the exact phrasing. "—'yearns for you as desperately as you yearn for her.'"

"I changed my mind." Aerion was already moving, crossing to the writing desk that sat by the window, the desk where Y/N usually sat when she wrote her letters, where her inkpot still sat and her quill still lay, where he could see the faint scratch marks she had left in the wood from pressing too hard when she was angry about something. He dropped into the chair—her chair—and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him.

His hand trembled as he dipped the quill. He had so much to say. So much. How could he possibly contain it all in a single letter? How could he capture the depth of his longing, the breadth of his devotion, the way the world had dimmed without her in it?

He began to write.

My love, my life, my dragonness—

He paused, reading the words. Too small. Too insufficient. He crumpled the parchment and threw it aside.

To the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, without whom I am nothing but a shadow, a ghost, a man already dead—

Too dramatic? No. No such thing. But perhaps she would roll her eyes, and he loved when she rolled her eyes. He loved the way she looked at him when he was being too much, because even then, even when she was exasperated, there was something in her gaze that said I see you, I have you, you are mine.

He wrote again.

Y/N—

I am dying. Not the slow death of age or illness, but the swift death of absence. My heart has stopped beating. My lungs have stopped drawing air. I exist only as a vessel of longing, a monument to my own foolishness for ever allowing you to leave my sight.

The sun has not shone since you departed. I have looked for it. I have searched the sky each morning, hoping to see it, and each morning I find only grey. The flowers in the garden have wilted. The birds have stopped singing. The very stones of Summerhall have grown cold, as though the castle itself knows that its lady is gone.

I have not eaten. I have not slept. I have not done anything but think of you, dream of you, ache for you. Your pillow still smells of your hair. I lie in your place in the bed and pretend you are beside me. I speak to you in the empty chambers, and sometimes, sometimes I can almost hear you answering.

Do not stay away too long. I fear I shall not survive it.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Your devoted husband,

Aerion

He read it over three times, making small adjustments, crossing out a word here, adding a flourish there. Then, seized by a final impulse, he turned the parchment sideways and drew a small dragon at the bottom, breathing a heart shaped flame. Y/N had once told him his drawings were terrible. He had been offended. He was a Targaryen. Dragons were in his blood. The fact that his dragons looked more like deformed lizards with wings was entirely irrelevant.

He folded the letter carefully, pressed his seal into wax—his personal seal, the three-headed dragon encircled by flames—and held it to his lips for a moment before setting it aside to be sent.

"There," he said, satisfied. "Now she will know. Now she will understand the depth of my suffering, and she will return to me, and everything will be right again."

Aemon, who had watched the entire process with the expression of a child who had long since learned not to question his brother's peculiarities, picked up one of the crumpled attempts from the floor. He smoothed it out, read it, and looked at Aerion with an arched eyebrow.

"You wrote 'my dragonness' with two n's."

"It is spelled with two n's."

"It is not."

"It is when I spell it. She is not a dragoness, like some common beast. She is my dragonness. The extra n signifies—" He waved a hand vaguely. "—grandeur. Magnificence. The ineffable quality of her being."

Aemon stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the particular weariness of a child who has long since given up trying to understand his brother, he said: "Father wants to know if you'll be joining us for the rest of the week, or if you intend to waste away in here until Y/N returns."

"I shall waste away," Aerion declared, settling deeper into her chair, pulling her shawl, which had been left draped over the back, around his shoulders. It smelled of her. He breathed in deeply. "Let them bury me in my wedding cloak. Let them say: here lies Aerion Targaryen, who loved too much and too well. Who could not survive the absence of his beloved. Whose heart, like his ancestor's before him, turned to ash without the fire of his—"

Aemon, ten years old and already possessed of more sense than his elder brother, crossed his arms. “Y/N threw a book at your head the morning before she left.”

“It was a love note.”

“It was a history of House Targaryen. She threw it because you said her new gown made her look ‘pleasantly round.’”

Aerion clutched his chest. “And I was wrong. She is not pleasantly round. She is exquisitely formed. Perfect in every proportion. A goddess descended from the heavens to grace unworthy me with her—”

“She also called you a ‘silver haired fool’ and said she hoped the journey to King’s Landing took twice as long as usual so she might have some peace.”

The words landed, but they did not land as Aemon intended. Aerion’s eyes went soft, dreamy, a smile curving his lips for the first time in three days.

“She was teasing,” he breathed. “She does that. She teases me because she loves me. Her wit is so sharp, so brilliant—do you know how fortunate I am to be married to a woman of such intellect? When she calls me a fool, it is affection. When she throws things, it is passion. When she—”

“She broke your nose last moon.”

“A light passion.” Aerion touched his nose fondly. “It was an accident. She was aiming for the vase.”

Aemon stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the particular weariness of a child who has long since given up trying to understand his brother, he said: "She's going to be back in a fortnight, Aerion. Try not to die of heartbreak before then."

The door closed.

Aerion sat in silence for a long moment, wrapped in his wife's shawl, surrounded by her scent, her things, her absence. He picked up the letter he had written, unfolded it, read it again. The words stared back at him, inadequate as they were, but they would have to do. They would have to carry the weight of everything he could not say.

He thought of Y/N. Of the way she would wrinkle her nose when she was displeased. Of the way she would snap her fingers at servants and nobles alike, expecting obedience and receiving it because she was his wife, because she was his, because she was terrifying and magnificent and the most beautiful creature to ever draw breath. He thought of the way she would push his hair back from his face when he was brooding, the way she would kiss his forehead and tell him to stop being so much, the way she would say it like it was not a criticism but a compliment, like his excess was something she treasured rather than tolerated.

He thought of the way she had looked at him on their wedding night, with something like wonder in her eyes, as though she could not quite believe that this ridiculous, passionate, infuriating man belonged to her. He thought of the way she had said his name—Aerion—as though it was a secret only she knew. He thought of the way she had fallen asleep in his arms, her breathing soft and even, her hand curled against his chest like she was holding onto him even in sleep.

He missed her. Gods, he missed her.

He lifted the letter to his lips, pressed a kiss to the folded parchment, and set it carefully on the desk to be sent with the morning's ravens.

"Come back soon, my dragonness," he murmured to the empty room, to the lingering scent of her on her shawl, to the hollow space beside him in the bed. "The flowers are wilting without you. The sun has forgotten how to shine. And I—I am nothing without you. Nothing at all."

He pulled the shawl tighter, closed his eyes, and pretended, for just a moment, that she was there.

Meanwhile, in King's Landing:

You sat in your family's solar, feet propped on an embroidered cushion, a plate of honeyed figs balanced on your stomach, and a look of supreme contentment on your face. You were sprawled across a chaise in a manner that would have horrified your septa, one hand trailing lazily through a bowl of grapes you had commandeered from the kitchens, the other holding a cup of wine that you had refilled three times already.

Your mother, seated across from you with the rigid posture of a woman who had spent her entire life cultivating proper manners, watched you with the particular resignation of a parent who had long since given up trying to impose decorum.

"Must you sprawl like that?" your mother asked, not for the first time.

"I am comfortable," you said, not moving. "You should try it. Loosen your stays. Unlace your boots. Live a little."

"I am a lady of the court. I do not 'live a little.'"

You snorted. "Your loss."

You bit into a fig with relish, letting the honeyed sweetness coat your tongue. The figs in King's Landing were good, better than Summerhall's if you were being honest, though you would never admit it. The wine was passable, and your mother's servants were efficient and unobtrusive, and for the first time in months you were not being followed around by a silver haired shadow who watched you with the intensity of a dragon guarding its hoard.

You loved Aerion. You did. Fiercely. But the man was exhausting.

He looked at you like you were the sun and the moon and the stars all rolled into one. He followed you from room to room like a devoted puppy, except puppies did not usually compose epic poetry about the curve of your neck. He touched you constantly, your hand, your hair, your waist, as though he needed the physical reassurance that you were still there, still real, still his. He was dramatic and possessive and utterly, completely mad, and you would not have him any other way.

But seven hells, a fortnight without him was a vacation.

"You have been here three days," your mother observed, breaking into your thoughts. "Should you not be writing to your husband?"

You popped another fig into your mouth. "I will."

"When?"

"When I feel like it." You stretched, languid and comfortable, your arms reaching above your head in a gesture that made your mother wince at the impropriety. "He is probably moping around Summerhall writing me letters. He gets dramatic when I am gone."

"And that does not concern you?"

You considered the question. You thought of Aerion, beautiful, mad, your Aerion, pacing your shared chambers, composing florid verses about your eyes, refusing to eat, driving his family to distraction with his theatrical suffering. You thought of the letter that would inevitably arrive in a day or two, covered in his cramped, urgent handwriting, filled with declarations of undying devotion and descriptions of his agony in your absence.

A slow, pleased smile spread across your face. "He will survive. He always does. Besides, it is good for him. It reminds him what it is like without me."

"Y/N." Your mother's voice was sharp. "You are a terror."

"I know." Your smile sharpened, affectionate and wicked all at once. "He loves it."

You thought of the way Aerion had looked at you before you left, his violet eyes wide and tragic, his hands gripping yours as though you were being led to the executioner's block rather than a carriage. Do not go, he had said, and he had meant it, had meant it with every fiber of his being, had meant it so fiercely that you had almost, almost considered staying. Do not leave me. I cannot breathe without you.

You had kissed him, soft and quick, and told him to be good, and then you had climbed into the carriage and watched him grow smaller and smaller in the window until he was just a silver haired speck in the distance, and you had felt not guilt, exactly. Not guilt. But something that might have been tenderness, if tenderness was the sort of thing you admitted to.

You missed him. You did. You missed the warmth of him beside you at night, the ridiculous things he said that made you laugh despite yourself, the way he looked at you like you had hung the moon. You missed the weight of his arm around your waist, the sound of his voice calling your name, the way he would press kisses to your shoulder in the morning when he thought you were still asleep.

But you also enjoyed the silence. The absence of constant, overwhelming Aerion. The ability to eat a meal without being stared at. The chance to sleep without someone wrapping around you like a starfish.

You would go back. Of course you would go back. You would go back in a fortnight, and you would find him in your chambers, pale and dramatic and probably unshaven, with a stack of desperate letters on the desk and your shawl wrapped around his shoulders like a security blanket, and you would kiss him, and he would weep, and you would call him a fool, and he would agree, and everything would be exactly as it should be.

But for now, you were going to enjoy your figs.

Your mother sighed, the sound of a woman who had long since accepted her daughter's nature. "Your father wants to host a dinner tomorrow night. Several of the courtiers have asked about you."

You wrinkled your nose. "I do not want to see courtiers. I came here to escape."

"You came here to visit your family."

"I came here to eat your figs and sleep in a bed that does not contain a five foot man who radiates heat like a furnace and twitches in his sleep." You reached for another fig. "The family is a bonus."

Your mother's lips pressed together in a thin line. "You have responsibilities. Appearances to maintain. You cannot simply"

"I can," you interrupted, "and I will. I am the wife of Aerion Targaryen. If I want to spend a fortnight eating figs and ignoring courtiers, I shall. Who is going to stop me? My husband?" You laughed, bright and sharp. "He would thank me for resting. He would probably compose an ode to my repose. Behold my dragonness, who reclines in splendor, her beauty outshining the very sun itself." You pitched your voice into a ridiculous imitation of Aerion's dramatic cadence. "See how her fingers curl around a fig, how her lips part to receive it, how the heavens themselves weep with envy at her grace."

Your mother stared at you.

You grinned. "I am going to write that down. He will love it. He will probably frame it."

"You are both utterly mad."

"Perhaps." You settled back against the chaise, closing your eyes, a smile still playing at your lips. "But we are mad together. That is the important part."

You did not write to him that day. Or the next. On the third day, a letter arrived from Summerhall, sealed with red wax and Aerion's personal sigil, and you read it in bed with a cup of tea, laughing aloud at the extravagant declarations of suffering and the tiny dragon breathing a heart shaped flame in the corner.

You folded it carefully and tucked it beneath your pillow, where you could feel it when you slept.

On the fourth day, you wrote back. Your letter was two lines long:

Do not starve. I will be back when I am back.

Y/N

--

From Prince Maekar Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Daughter Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

To Y/N, Princess of House Targaryen, Lady of Summerhall,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your visit with your family has been pleasant. I trust the capital agrees with you and that you are enjoying the comforts of your mother's home.

I write to you now with a request that I offer with as much dignity as I can muster, which is to say: please come home.

I am begging you.

Your husband has been moping through the halls of this castle for a week now and I cannot endure another day of it. When you are here, Aerion is a terror. He picks fights with his brothers. He argues with the household knights. He sets things on fire when he is bored. He is loud and obnoxious and he drives me to drink. These are his good qualities. These are the qualities I have, over the course of his life, learned to tolerate, even to expect. They are the qualities that have prepared me for the indignities of fatherhood.

But this?

He has not argued with anyone in six days. He has not set anything on fire. He has not even raised his voice. Instead, he drifts through the corridors like a ghost wrapped in your shawl. He sits by the window in your chambers and stares at the horizon for hours. He refused to attend meals for three days, and when I finally forced him to appear, he sat in your chair and pushed food around his plate with the expression of a man who had lost his will to live.

It is unbearable.

I have seen Aerion angry. I have seen Aerion cruel. I have seen Aerion so drunk that he tried to challenge a horse to single combat. I have seen him at his worst, Y/N, and I have weathered it all with the stoicism of a father who knows what his son is. But I have never seen him like this. I have never seen him sad. I did not know he was capable of it. I thought the emotion was foreign to him, that he was built for fury and passion and nothing in between.

I was wrong. He is capable of sadness. He is capable of a deep, theatrical, utterly pathetic sadness that is somehow ten times more irritating than his usual behavior because at least when he is terrorizing the castle I can yell at him. What am I supposed to do when he looks at me with those violet eyes and asks if I think you still love him? What am I supposed to say when he tells me that the birds have stopped singing because you took the music with you? What am I supposed to do when my son, who once tried to drink fire, begins to cry because he found a hair ribbon of yours under the bed and it still smells like you?

I am not equipped for this.

I had to watch Aerion sit in the rain for an hour because he said the sky was crying with him.

The sky was not crying with him. It was raining. It rains at Summerhall. It rains often. This is a normal occurrence that has never before prompted my son to stand in the courtyard with his arms outstretched like a man awaiting divine intervention.

The servants are talking. The household knights are uncomfortable. Your brother in law Daeron has taken to hiding in the library, and I cannot blame him.

I need you to come back. I need you to come back soon. I need you to restore my son to his natural state of being an insufferable, arrogant, occasionally violent menace because I have discovered that I prefer that Aerion to the alternative. I prefer being terrorized to being mourned. I prefer the chaos to the silence. I prefer the Aerion who makes me want to lock him in his chambers to the Aerion who makes me want to hold him and tell him everything will be alright, because I am a warrior, Y/N, I am a prince of House Targaryen, I have fought in battles and seen men die and I do not know how to comfort my own son.

I am not asking. I am begging. Come back. End this. Save us all.

Your good-father,

Maekar Targaryen

P.S. He has taken to sleeping with your shawl. He wears it around his shoulders like a cloak. I saw him walking through the garden at dawn with it wrapped around him, speaking to your favorite rose bush as though it might answer. I am not making this up. I wish I were making this up.

P.P.S. If you tell anyone about this letter, I will deny everything. I will claim it was forged. I will have you removed from the succession. I will do something dramatic and irreversible. Do not test me on this.

Letter the Second: From Prince Maekar Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Daughter Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

Y/N,

It has been three days since my last letter. I am writing again because the situation has deteriorated.

Aerion has begun composing poetry aloud. I do not mean that he is writing it down. I mean that he stands in the great hall, in the courtyard, in the corridors, and recites verses about your eyes and your hair and the way you walk. His voice carries. There is nowhere in this castle that is safe from declarations of his undying love for you and his profound suffering in your absence.

The servants are requesting transfers. Two of the kitchen maids asked to be reassigned to the Dornish border. The stable master has offered to take a pay cut if it means being sent to literally any other holding. I am running out of places to put people who do not want to hear my son describe the precise shade of your eyes for the fifth time in a single afternoon.

This morning, he cornered me in the armory to ask whether I thought you would be pleased with the poem he composed about your laugh. He read it to me. It was forty lines long. It described your laugh as a "silver bell that shatters the darkness" and "a melody that would make the Seven themselves weep with envy." I have heard you laugh. It is not a silver bell. It is a sharp, wicked sound that usually precedes someone being verbally eviscerated. I say this with affection. You are a good match for my son. But your laugh does not shatter darkness. It shatters egos.

I told him it was beautiful. What else was I supposed to say? He had tears in his eyes, Y/N. Actual tears. My son, who once laughed when I broke my arm falling from a horse, was on the verge of weeping because I might not appreciate his poetry about your laugh. I told him it was the finest poem I had ever heard. I told him you would cherish it. I told him I would personally ensure it was delivered to you with the next raven. He thanked me. He thanked me with such sincerity that I felt something twist in my chest, and I realized that I would rather have him set something on fire than look at me like that again.

Please come home.

Your good father,

Maekar Targaryen

P.S. He is now composing a poem about your hands. I overheard him telling Aemon that your fingers are "delicate as rose petals" and that he dreams of them every night. I do not know how Aemon tolerates this. I do not know how any of us tolerate this.

Letter the Third: From Prince Daeron Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Sister Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

Y/N,

Father does not know I am writing this. He has forbidden any of us from contacting you because he says it is "beneath the dignity of House Targaryen" to beg, which is ironic because he has sent you three letters already.

Do not tell him I wrote to you. He will be angry. But I cannot stay silent any longer.

I am hiding in the library. I have been hiding in the library for four days. I bring food with me in the mornings and I do not emerge until nightfall. The measters have stopped questioning it. They simply leave a candle for me and pretend I am not there. I am becoming friends with the dust. I am starting to understand the appeal of being a maester. Anything is better than being in the same room as Aerion right now.

He is unbearable. You know how he is when you are here. He is loud and arrogant and he follows you around like a dragon with a favorite treasure. It is annoying, yes. It is irritating. He picks fights with me for no reason. He calls me a drunkard. He says I have the personality of a wet scroll. He once challenged me to a duel because I suggested he might want to visit a brothel. These are the things I complain about when you are here. These are the things I tell Father I cannot tolerate.

I was wrong. I was so wrong. I would take a hundred duels. I would take a thousand. I would let him call me a drunkard every day for the rest of my life if it meant he would stop looking at me like that.

He does not pick fights anymore. He does not call me boring. He does not challenge me to duels. Instead, he finds me. He finds me wherever I am hiding, and he sits beside me, and he asks me questions. Questions, Y/N. He wants to know about my day. He wants to know what I am drinking. He wants to know if I am happy. He has never asked me if I am happy. I did not think he knew the word.

Yesterday, he put his hand on my shoulder. He has never touched me voluntarily in his entire life unless it was to shove me. He put his hand on my shoulder and he said, "Daeron, do you think she misses me?" And his voice was so small, Y/N. I did not know his voice could be small. His voice is always loud. His voice is always demanding. His voice is the sound of something about to be set on fire. But yesterday, his voice was small, and I did not know what to do, so I lied. I told him of course you missed him. I told him you probably thought about him every day. I told him you would be back soon.

He smiled. He smiled, Y/N. It was not his normal smile, which is sharp and cruel and usually means someone is about to be humiliated. It was a real smile. A soft smile. A smile that made him look like he was not a menace to society but just a man who missed his wife. It was the most unsettling thing I have ever seen.

I want my brother back. I want the brother who calls me boring and challenges me to duels and sets things on fire. I want the brother who makes me want to throw things at his head. I do not want this brother. This brother makes me feel things. This brother makes me want to help him. This brother makes me want to be kind to him, and I do not know how to be kind to Aerion. I do not know how to be kind to someone who has spent our entire lives making kindness feel like a trap.

Please come back. I am begging you. Come back and restore him to his natural state so I can go back to hating him in peace.

Your good-brother,

Daeron Targaryen

She was everything Valarr was not allowed to protect from Aerion’s attention; beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal, as though the gods had carved her from moonlight and breath. Her presence softened rooms hardened by ambition; her voice carried warmth even when she spoke of duty and politics.

There was gentleness in her eyes, a kindness that made even hardened knights falter in their speech. She smiled with sincerity, laughed without any mocking tilt, and believed, foolishly, dangerously, in the goodness of those around her.

Including Aerion.

Including Valarr.

Including the world that watched her like prey.

Aerion’s obsession with her was no secret and Valarr knew it.

He had known it from the first day Aerion saw her.

It had been at court, months before the betrothal was announced. Y/N had stood beside her father, hands folded neatly before her, listening as the king spoke of alliances and futures. She had worn pale silk that caught the light, her hair braided simply, as though she had not understood how every gaze in the hall would be drawn to her.

Valarr remembered turning to Aerion then, only briefly, only out of habit.

It was a mistake.

Aerion had been smiling.

Not the sharp, mocking grin he wore when he bested someone. Not the lazy curve of his mouth when he bored of conversation.

This smile was intent.

Focused.

Hungry.

He looked like a dragon wanting to devour a lamb.

“Well,” Aerion had murmured, not taking his eyes off her, “isn’t she exquisite?”

Valarr’s stomach had tightened.

“She is spoken for,” Valarr said flatly.

Aerion had laughed softly. “So is half the realm.”

That had been the beginning.

Now, months later, the torment had become ritual.

The tournament grounds were alive with noise; steel ringing against steel, horses snorting, banners snapping in the wind. Valarr stood near the lists, helm tucked under his arm, sweat cooling on his skin as he watched the next bout assemble.

Aerion approached like a shadow given form.

“Well fought,” Aerion said lightly. “You nearly took Ser Harlan’s head off.”

Valarr didn’t look at him. “If you’ve come to mock, do it quickly.”

Aerion chuckled. “Impatient. Is that for me, or for her?”

Valarr stiffened.

“She asked about you,” Aerion continued pleasantly. “Your sweet Y/N. Wondered if you’d be fighting again before supper.”

Valarr turned sharply. “You spoke to her?”

“Briefly.” Aerion shrugged. “She was radiant, as ever. Concerned. It’s charming how she worries.”

“You have no right—”

“No right?” Aerion raised a brow. “Cousin, we are family. And she is soon to be family too, is she not?”

Valarr’s hand tightened around his helm.

Aerion leaned closer, lowering his voice. “She smiled when I told her you fought like a man with something precious to lose.”

Valarr’s jaw clenched. “Stay away from her.”

Aerion’s eyes gleamed. “Or what?”

The unspoken truth hung between them.

Or nothing.

Because Valarr knew the cruel truth he could never escape.

Aerion always got what he wanted.

That night, Y/N sat by the window in her chambers, candlelight painting her features soft and luminous. She was brushing her hair when Valarr entered, his presence filling the room with tension he could not shed.

“You’re late,” she said gently, smiling at him in the mirror.

“The tournament ran long,” he replied.

She rose at once, crossing the room to him. Her hands found his, cool and reassuring. “You weren’t hurt?”

“No,” Valarr said quickly. “I’m fine.”

She searched his face. “You’re troubled.”

Valarr hesitated. How could he tell her that the man who laughed with her at supper looked at her like conquest? That every kindness Aerion showed was a calculated cruelty aimed at him?

“It’s nothing,” he lied, giving her a brief kiss on her forehead.

She nodded, trusting him as she always did. “Your cousin Aerion spoke of you today.”

Valarr’s blood went cold. “Did he?”

“Yes. He said you fought bravely.” She smiled. “He seems… fond of you.”

Valarr forced a tight smile. “He enjoys games.”

Y/N laughed softly. “He does have a sharp tongue, but I think there is warmth beneath it.”

Valarr closed his eyes briefly.

If only she knew.

Weeks passed. The taunts grew sharper.

Aerion praised her beauty too openly. Commented on her kindness in ways that sounded like claims. He found reasons to be near her, at feasts, in gardens, during council gatherings where she had no business but was invited nonetheless.

Always with a smile.

Always with Valarr watching helplessly.

One evening, Aerion intercepted Valarr in a quiet corridor.

“She wears blue tonight,” Aerion said casually. “It suits her.”

Valarr stopped walking. “Why do you do this?”

Aerion tilted his head. “Do what?”

“This,” Valarr snapped. “You know what you’re doing.”

Aerion stepped closer. “I’m admiring what is admirable.”

“She is not yours.”

Aerion’s smile faded, just slightly. “Not yet.”

The words were soft.

Terrifying.

Valarr felt something break then, something brittle and long-strained. “If you touch her—”

“You’ll what?” Aerion interrupted. “Challenge me? Defy me? Beg?”

Aerion leaned in, voice a whisper. “You know how this ends.”

Valarr did. He had always known.

Because Aerion had never been denied.

Not crowns.

Not dragons.

Not people.

And Y/N—sweet, ethereal Y/N—was standing far too close to the fire.

When Aerion finally spoke to her alone, it was in the gardens at dusk.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said gently, approaching her beneath the flowering trees.

She turned, startled, then smiled. “I enjoy the quiet.”

“So do I,” Aerion said. “Especially when it leads me to pleasant company.”

She blushed faintly. “You flatter too easily.”

“Only when it’s deserved.”

They walked together, Aerion matching her pace. He spoke kindly, thoughtfully, of books, of music, of duty and the weight of expectation. He listened when she spoke, truly listened, and she found herself relaxing despite herself.

“You care for Valarr deeply,” Aerion said at last.

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “He is good and honorable.”

Aerion nodded. “He is fortunate.”

She glanced at him. “You speak as though you envy him.”

Aerion smiled. “Perhaps I do.”

Something in his tone made her uneasy.

But she did not yet know the shape of the storm.

And Valarr, watching from afar, felt the future closing in.

Because Aerion was patient and inevitable.

And the cruel truth waited, smiling, with fire in its eyes.

Valarr did not remember deciding to go to her.

He only knew that his feet carried him through the corridors of the Red Keep as though pulled by a cord tied directly to his chest, tight and aching. The torches blurred past. His thoughts were a storm: Aerion’s voice, Aerion’s smile, Aerion’s certainty echoing again and again in his mind.

Not yet.

By the time he reached Y/N’s chambers, his breath was uneven.

He did not knock gently.

She opened the door herself, surprise flickering across her delicate features before relief softened her expression.

“Valarr—”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with more force than necessary.

She turned fully to him then, eyes searching his face. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, he only looked at her.

Candlelight wrapped her in gold. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves, her gown simple but clinging where it mattered, as though it had been made for his hands alone. She looked at him with concern and trust and quiet devotion and something in him fractured.

“I can’t lose you,” he said hoarsely.

Her breath caught. “Valarr—”

He crossed the space between them in two strides and cupped her face, his hands warm and trembling despite all his training. She gasped softly at the suddenness of it, but she did not pull away.

Instead, she leaned into him.

“I can’t,” he repeated, pressing his forehead to hers. “I won’t.”

“Lose me to what?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

He kissed her.

Not gently. Not cautiously.

His mouth found hers with a hunger that startled them both, weeks of restraint breaking all at once. Her lips parted beneath his, a soft sound escaping her as she clutched at his tunic, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring herself to him.

“Valarr,” she breathed against his mouth, her voice unsteady.

He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, savoring her warmth, the familiar sweetness of her, the way she responded so readily, so completely, as though she had been waiting for this same release.

His hands slid to her waist, firm, possessive, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. She could feel the tension in him, coiled and urgent, and it sent a shiver through her.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured, her lips brushing his jaw.

“So are you,” he replied.

She laughed softly, breathless. “Because you’re frightening me.”

He stilled at once. “I would never—”

“Not like that,” she said quickly, lifting her hands to his cheeks. “You frighten me because you want me.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

The word was bare. Honest. Heavy with promise.

She kissed him then, tentatively at first, as if asking permission. When he answered her with a low sound and drew her back into him, her courage blossomed. Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair as she kissed him more boldly.

He groaned softly, resting his forehead against hers once more.

“If I don’t slow,” he said, voice rough, “I won’t stop.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she did not pull away. “Then don’t stop.”

The invitation was quiet.

Devastating.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then the delicate line of her throat, his lips lingering there as though memorizing her. Her head tipped back instinctively, her breath hitching, her hands tightening on him.

“Valarr,” she whispered again, and this time his name sounded like a plea.

“I am yours,” he said fiercely, lifting his head to look at her. “Do you hear me? Whatever comes, I am yours.”

Her eyes shone. “And I am yours.”

He kissed her once more, slower now, deeper, the urgency tempered by reverence. His hand slid up her back, resting between her shoulders, holding her as though she were something precious and fragile both.

They stayed that way for a long moment, breathing each other in, the world outside the chamber forgotten.

Until Valarr pulled back, just enough to rest his brow against hers again.

“There is something I haven’t told you,” he said.

Her smile faded, replaced by concern. “What is it?”

He hesitated.

Because speaking Aerion’s name felt like inviting poison into the room.

But the truth pressed at him, insistent and sharp.

“My cousin,” he said finally. “Aerion.”

Her brow furrowed. “What about him?”

Valarr closed his eyes. “He wants you.”

Silence fell between them.

Her breath slowed. “Wants me… how?”

Valarr opened his eyes and met her gaze. “The way he has always wanted everything he sees.”

She drew back slightly then, not from Valarr, but from the weight of his words.

“He’s been kind to me,” she said uncertainly.

“He is kind to what he intends to claim,” Valarr replied bitterly.

She looked shaken now. “Valarr, surely you exaggerate—”

“I am not,” he said, gripping her hands. “And that is why I came to you tonight. Because if he moves against us—”

“He won’t,” she said, though doubt flickered in her eyes.

“He will,” Valarr said quietly. “And I need you to understand the danger.”

She searched his face, then nodded slowly. “Then we face it together.”

Something in her certainty nearly undid him.

He pulled her back into his arms, holding her tightly, his lips pressing into her hair.

“I swear to you,” he murmured, “he will not take you from me.”

Unseen beyond the chamber walls, fate listened and smiled.

Because Aerion Targaryen had never failed to take what he desired.

And now, desire had sharpened into something far more dangerous.

The Great Hall burned with excess.

Candlelight glimmered against gold and silver, laughter rang too loud, and music flowed in practiced waves meant to drown out thought.

Y/N sat beside Valarr at the high table, serene in appearance if not in spirit. Her silver gown clung softly to her form, luminous beneath the firelight, her beauty drawing eyes no matter how she tried to fade into the background.

Yet she felt exposed.

She could feel Aerion’s gaze as surely as if it were a physical thing; hot, unwavering, intolerably precise.

Each time she lifted her eyes, she found him watching her, not with the careless interest of a courtly admirer, but with something far more focused.

As though the noise of the hall meant nothing.

As though she were the only constant in the room.

Valarr noticed her tension. He leaned toward her, his voice low. “You’re pale.”

“I’m only warm,” she replied, managing a small smile.

“Do not leave my side,” he said, firmer than before. “Not tonight.”

She covered his hand with hers. “I won’t.”

But the hall pressed closer with every passing moment. Voices overlapped. Laughter rang too sharp. When Valarr was drawn into conversation once more, she rose quietly, intending only to step away long enough to breathe.

She did not realize she was being followed.

She had not gone far when Aerion’s voice reached her. “Moonlight suits you better than fire.”

Her heart jumped before she could still it. Turning, she found him standing just within her space, his presence immediate and deliberate. He had left the light of the hall behind; shadows carved his handsome features sharper, more dangerous.

“My prince,” she said carefully, “I should return.”

“You will,” he replied, calm and certain. “After.”

She glanced back toward the feast. “After what?”

“After you stop pretending you don’t know,” he said.

They stood beneath a tall archway overlooking the dark gardens below. Moonlight spilled through the windows, pale and cold, stripping the warmth from everything it touched.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

Aerion studied her as though she were something rare, something he had taken the time to understand. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Her voice tightened. “I am betrothed.”

“Yes,” he said. “To Valarr.”

She lifted her chin. “Then this conversation should end.”

Aerion stepped closer.

Not hurried. Not aggressive.

Certain.

“You mistake courtesy for restraint,” he said softly. “I have shown you only what the court allows. Not what I want.”

She remembered Valarr’s words.

Her breath faltered. “You shouldn’t want—”

He reached for her then.

His hand closed around her jaw, firm, unyielding, tilting her face upward whether she wished it or not. Before she could draw breath to protest, before thought could catch up to instinct, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was not gentle.

It was not searching.

It was a claim.

His lips pressed against hers with unmistakable intent, holding her there, unmoving, as though the world had narrowed to that single point of contact. There was heat in it; control, obsession, a terrible certainty that left no room for misunderstanding.

Her hands lifted instinctively, catching against his chest, not yet pushing, not yet yielding. Her breath hitched sharply, the shock of it ringing through her.

When he finally drew back, it was unhurried.

Her lips still burned. Her pulse thundered.

Aerion did not look away.

“There,” he said quietly. “Now you know.”

Her voice trembled. “You had no right.”

He smiled, not amused, not apologetic, but satisfied. “I take rights, my lady. I don’t ask for them.”

“That was wrong,” she whispered.

“No,” he replied. “It was inevitable.”

She shook her head, fighting the confusion rising in her chest, anger braided tightly with something far more frightening. “You’ve put me in danger.”

His gaze darkened. “You were always in danger. You simply hadn’t realized it yet.”

She stared at him, breath shallow. “You don’t even regret it.”

“No,” Aerion said plainly. “I wanted to brand myself on you. So I did.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

“You should go back to him,” Aerion continued, stepping aside at last. “Smile. Sit at his side. Be the dutiful betrothed.”

She swallowed. “And you?”

“I will watch,” he said. “As I always have.”

She turned away from him then, her steps unsteady as she made her way back toward the light. The sounds of the feast rushed in again—music, laughter, voices—but none of it reached her.

When she returned to the high table, Valarr looked up at once.

“There you are,” he said. “I was beginning to worry.”

She forced herself to smile, though her lips still tingled, though her heart had not slowed. “I’m sorry. I needed air.”

He studied her face, frowning slightly. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she said too quickly.

Across the table, Aerion lifted his goblet.

Their eyes met.

His smile was slow. Possessive. Certain.

And in that moment, Y/N understood, with chilling clarity, that the kiss had not been a transgression Aerion feared the consequences of.

He stood at the far end of the lists, helm beneath his arm, white hair bound at his nape. His armor was polished to a mirror shine, a red dragon picked out in rubies across his breast. He glanced toward the pavilion with open confidence, lips curved in a faint, smug knowing smile.

Ser Duncan the Tall did not smile.

He sat astride his great brown warhorse, armor plainer, dented in places from years of honest use. He looked enormous beside the other knights—broad-shouldered, long-limbed, awkward in his own strength. When he removed his helm, his brown hair was damp with sweat, his face earnest and flushed.

His eyes went, helplessly, to the princess.

He did not know how it had happened.

He had come to Ashford to joust, to earn coin, to prove himself worthy of the knighthood he wore. He had not meant to notice the princess with the pretty smile and the soft voice who had thanked him for rescuing her dropped glove the night before.

He had not meant to think of her every time he lowered his lance.

But now he did.

The herald’s voice rang across the field.

“Ser Aerion Targaryen, called Brightflame, against Ser Duncan the Tall!”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Y/N straightened in her seat.

She had watched Aerion since she was a child; his temper, his charm, his cruelty wrapped in silk. He had always treated her as something he would one day own, a jewel meant for his crown.

Bound by blood, my sweet dragon, he would tell her.

But Ser Duncan…

She found herself leaning forward, fingers tightening on the edge of her cushion.

Two knights rode to the center of the field.

Aerion’s horse danced, eager and high-strung, much like its rider. Aerion dipped his lance in a precise salute—first to the king, then deliberately, lingeringly, to Y/N.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them.

She swallowed thickly.

His eyes promised victory.

Ser Duncan followed, awkwardly, bowing so deeply in his saddle he nearly overbalanced. When he raised his head, he did not dare meet her gaze for long but he inclined his lance to her as well, respectful, almost shy.

It was not a challenge.

It was a wish.

The trumpets sounded.

They charged.

The first pass shattered both lances in a storm of splinters, neither knight unhorsed. Aerion laughed aloud as he wheeled his horse, exhilarated.

“Well struck, hedge knight!”

Ser Duncan only nodded, breath heavy, hands steady as he took a second lance.

The second pass; Aerion struck true, his lance glancing off Duncan’s shield and into his shoulder. The blow rocked him, pain flaring, but he stayed in the saddle.

From the pavilion, Y/N gasped despite herself.

The third pass was brutal.

Ser Duncan leaned into it with all his strength.

His lance struck Aerion square in the chest.

Aerion flew from the saddle in a spill of silver and red.

For a moment, the field was silent.

Then the crowd erupted.

Ser Duncan reined in, stunned, staring at the empty saddle where a prince had sat seconds before.

In the pavilion, Y/N rose to her feet.

Not in triumph but in relief.

Aerion climbed to his feet, fury burning through the shock. His gaze went not to the king, not to the crowd—

But to Y/N.

And he saw it.

The way her eyes were fixed on Ser Duncan.

Something dark coiled in his chest.

The day wore on.

Ser Duncan advanced, round after round, each victory harder won than the last. By the final tilt, his armor was dented, his shoulder stiff, his breath ragged.

But he was still standing.

When the last opponent fell, the herald proclaimed him champion.

“The victor of Ashford—Ser Duncan the Tall!”

A roar went up.

Ser Duncan dismounted, dazed, scarcely believing it. Tradition demanded he choose a Queen of Love and Beauty.

He stood there, lance in hand, turning slowly.

Every noble lady leaned forward.

But there was only one face he saw.

Y/N Targaryen.

His feet moved before his mind could stop them.

He crossed the field, towering, awkward, suddenly terrified.

In the pavilion, Aerion went rigid.

Ser Duncan knelt before Y/N, removing his helm with trembling hands.

“My lady,” he said, voice low and rough, “I am no prince, and I have no pretty words. But every victory I won today, I won thinking of you.”

He lifted the crown of winter roses.

“If it pleases you… I would name you my Queen of Love and Beauty.”

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Y/N’s hands rose to her mouth. She glanced, just once, toward Aerion.

His face was pale with rage.

She shook her head then she looked back at Ser Duncan and smiled.

A soft, radiant smile that seemed to light the pavilion.

“It would please me very much, ser.”

He placed the crown upon her head.

The crowd thundered its approval.

And in that noise, Aerion Targaryen understood something dangerous.

He had lost.

Not the tourney.

Her.

To a hedge knight. It was almost a mockery.

Jealousy burned in him, hot and poisonous, as he watched the hedge knight kneel before a crowned princess while Y/N Targaryen, with roses in her hair, looked at Ser Duncan as if he were the bravest man in all the Seven Kingdoms.

The pavilion had emptied slowly, the afternoon light fading into gold and amber as servants carried away goblets and silks and scattered rose petals trampled into the grass.

Y/N remained.

She had dismissed her ladies under the pretense of needing air, though in truth her heart was still beating too fast, her thoughts tangled between pride and unease.

The crown of winter roses lay on the small table beside her.

She lifted it, turning it slowly in her hands.

It had been placed there by Ser Duncan himself, after he had escorted her back with such careful distance, such earnest reverence, that she had nearly laughed and cried at once.

She had not yet decided what the crown meant.

She was still deciding when the tent flap moved.

Y/N did not need to turn.

She felt him.

“Aerion,” she said quietly.

He stepped inside, closing the flap behind him.

His armor was gone, replaced by a dark red doublet embroidered with black dragons. His dangerously handsome face was calm.

Too calm.

“I thought you might wish for my company,” he said.

“I did not send for you.”

“No,” he agreed. “You did not need to.”

He walked closer, slow, deliberate, until he stood before her.

His eyes flicked to the crown.

“So,” he said softly, “you wear the flowers of a hedge knight now.”

She bristled despite herself. “He is no hedge knight. He won the tourney fairly.”

“I know,” Aerion said. “I watched him unhorse me.”

There was a sharpness beneath the words.

She met his gaze. “Then why are you here.”

His smile returned, like a sharp knife, thin and practiced.

“To remind you who you are.”

He reached out, not touching her, but lifting a strand of her hair between his fingers, looking bewitched.

“You are a Targaryen princess. Not a prize to be claimed by the first tall man who looks at you with honest eyes.”

Her voice cooled. “He did not claim me. He honored me.”

Aerion’s fingers stilled.

“Do you think honor is enough,” he asked, “to protect you in this world?”

She turned away from him, setting the crown down. “I do not need protecting from him.”

“From him, perhaps not,” Aerion said. “From yourself, maybe.”

She faced him again. “Explain yourself.”

He studied her for a long moment, as if choosing which truths to reveal.

“I have known you since you were a child, sweet dragon,” he said. “I have watched every man who ever looked at you forget his vows, his sense, his place. And I have always known what would happen in the end.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“That you would belong to me.”

The words were spoken gently.

Possessively.

Her spine went rigid. “I do not belong to anyone.”

His eyes darkened.

“Not yet,” he said.

She took a step back. “You speak as if my future is already decided.”

“In our family,” Aerion replied, “it usually is.”

Silence stretched between them.

She thought of Ser Duncan’s clumsy bow, his shaking hands as he held out the crown, the way he had looked at her as if she were something precious rather than something to be owned.

She said his name before she meant to.

“Duncan.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “You think of him already.”

“I think of his kindness,” she said. “Of his courage. Of the way he treated me today as if I were more than a prize.”

Aerion’s hand closed into a fist at his side.

“He will forget himself,” he said. “Men like him always do. He will reach too high, dream too boldly, and be crushed for it.”

Her eyes flashed. “You would see him crushed.”

“If he stands in my way,” Aerion said quietly, “yes.”

The honesty of it chilled her. “You frighten me when you speak so easily of destroying someone.”

He softened at once, stepping closer.

“I would never harm you,” he said. “Everything I do is for you, my sweet dragon.”

“That is what frightens me,” she whispered.

He reached for her wrist.

She pulled back.

For the first time, something like uncertainty crossed his face.

“You are letting a fantasy distract you,” he said. “A knight who will kneel, and smile, and then return to his place. He is not your future.”

She answered before fear could stop her. “Perhaps not. But he is my choice to think of.”

The words fell between them like a challenge and Aerion stared at her.

Slowly, his expression shifted into something colder, more resolved. “This is not finished,” he said. “You may play at admiration. You may indulge this foolishness.”

Y/N stiffened.

He stepped back, inclining his head with false courtesy. “But remember this, cousin.”

His eyes locked onto hers, heated and full of dark promises.

“No crown placed by another man can change what you are to me.”

When he was gone, the tent felt suddenly too quiet.

Y/N sank onto the cushioned seat, pressing her hands to her face.

She thought of Aerion’s certainty.

She thought of Ser Duncan’s humility.

And she realized, with a tremor of both fear and excitement, that this was no longer a simple tourney favor.

This was the beginning of something dangerous.

The night had settled gently over the encampment, the heat of the day giving way to a soft, fragrant stillness. Torches burned low between the tents, their light wavering across armor stacked neatly against poles and shields set out to dry. The sounds of celebration had retreated toward the center of the field, leaving the outer edge of the camp in a rare, almost sacred quiet.

Ser Duncan sat outside his tent with a cloth in one hand and his breastplate resting across his knees, though he had long since forgotten what he was meant to be polishing.

His thoughts refused to obey him.

He had ridden in a hundred lists, crossed swords with men far fiercer than he, and faced death more times than he could count. Yet never had his heart been so unsettled as it was now, simply from the memory of a girl’s face.

He saw her as she had been when he knelt before her that afternoon, sunlight in her hair, surprise and softness in her eyes as he placed the crown upon her head. He had not meant to look at her so openly then, but he had not known how to look away.

He told himself sternly that she was a princess.

That she was far beyond him.

That thinking of her was folly.

And yet.

He was still staring at the same small dent in his armor when he heard his name.

“Ser Duncan.”

The sound of her voice startled him so badly he rose at once, nearly upsetting the stool behind him.

“My lady—”

She stood a few paces from him, the lamplight catching her in gentle gold. She had left behind her jewels and heavy silks, wearing only a pale gown and a simple cloak drawn about her shoulders. Her hair fell loose down her back, unbound and unguarded.

For a moment, he could only look at her.

By the Faith of the Seven, he thought, he has never seen anyone else this beautiful.

In the bright cruelty of the lists, she had been radiant.

Here, in the quiet of the camp, she was something else entirely.

Not a dragon.

Not a princess.

Just a young woman who looked both uncertain and brave for having come here alone.

“I hope I am not intruding,” she said softly.

“You could never intrude,” he answered at once, then flushed so fiercely he feared she might laugh.

But she did not laugh.

She only smiled, and that smile struck him more deeply than any lance.

“I wished to thank you,” she said. “Properly. For today.”

He bowed, awkward and earnest. “You owe me nothing, my lady. I only did what I could.”

“You did more than that,” she replied. “You rode as if something mattered more to you than winning.”

He hesitated, then spoke honestly, because with her he found he could do nothing else. “I was thinking of you.”

The words were out before he could stop them.

Her eyes widened slightly.

“You looked at me before every charge,” she said. “I wondered why.”

“Because you were kind to me,” he said quietly. “And I did not wish to fail someone who had been kind.”

She studied him in silence, as if weighing something unseen.

“You are very brave,” she said at last.

The words were simple.

They undid him.

He had been called strong. He had been called slow. He had been called useful.

Never brave in that voice.

Never with that look.

“My lady,” he said, low and earnest, “you should not say such things to men like me.”

She inclined her head, face delicate and painfully beautiful. “Why not?”

“Because we might believe them,” he replied.

She laughed softly, a small, unguarded sound that made something twist painfully in his chest.

They stood together in a fragile stillness.

He became acutely aware of everything about her; the faint scent of roses clinging to her cloak and the way lamplight caught on her lashes.

The fact that she had come here without guards, without ceremony, trusting him simply because she believed him to be good.

And without meaning to, his thoughts turned to Aerion.

To the prince’s polished smile.

To the certainty in his eyes.

Not admiration. Not reverence.

Possession.

Duncan’s hands curled slowly at his sides.

He could not understand how a man could be born so close to her and yet fail to see what stood before him.

Not a prize.

Not a jewel.

But a rare and gentle thing that ought to be guarded more carefully than any crown.

“I fear I caused you trouble,” he said at last. “With the crown.”

“You did not,” she answered. “Others may think so. But I do not.”

He hesitated, then spoke the thought that had troubled him since dusk.

“Forgive me if I speak too boldly,” he said, “but Prince Aerion does not look at you as he should.”

Her breath caught. “How should he look at me?”

“As if he is afraid of losing you,” Duncan replied slowly. “Not as if he is certain of owning you.”

The words surprised even him.

For a moment, he feared he had gone too far.

But she did not grow angry.

She only looked thoughtful, as if he had named something she had long felt but never said aloud.

“He has known me all my life,” she murmured.

“That may be the trouble,” Duncan said. “Some men grow used to miracles.”

She was silent for a long time.

Then she smiled, not brightly, but with a quiet gratitude that made his chest ache.

“Ser Duncan,” she said, “do you know what I saw when you rode today.”

He shook his head.

“A man who was afraid,” she said, “and rode anyway.”

“I was afraid of failing you,” he admitted.

She stepped closer, close enough now that he could see the fine gold flecks in her eyes.

“No one has ever said that to me before,” she whispered.

“Then they were blind,” he said, without thinking.

The words hung between them, unguarded and dangerous.

In that moment, he understood something that frightened him with its certainty.

He would die for her.

Not for honor.

Not for glory.

Simply because she was good.

And men like Aerion, with all their blood and birth, did not deserve such goodness.

“I should go,” she said softly.

“Yes,” he agreed.

Neither of them moved.

She reached out at last and touched the edge of his gauntlet, barely a brush of fingers against steel.

“Good night, Ser Duncan.”

“My lady.”

When she turned away, he remained standing long after she had gone.

Thinking not of crowns, nor tourneys, nor princes.

Only of how cruel the world was, to give a woman like her to a man who did not know how to cherish her.

It had begun as simple smiles blooming in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, back when you were but a child clutching your father’s hand. Even then, the Lords of the Court possessed no shame; they would boldly petition for your hand to grace their sons’ beds, or, more obscenely, their own.

As the years stretched your limbs, the courtesies grew deeper than necessity required. The compliments became overwrought, smelling of false summerwine. Their eyes would linger upon the curve of your smile or the silk of your bodice a heartbeat longer than was seemly. They looked at you through a glass of unreality, forcing their kindness and sharpening their flattery, all to carve a place in your favor. They hoped, perhaps, to ensnare your heart and bind you to them in the sight of the Seven.

By right of blood, you were the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen—his firstborn, a flawless alloy of his steel and your mother’s grace. You were a vision of royalty in its highest splendor: hair of spun silver and a smile that dazzled like sunlight on Blackwater Bay. You moved with the terrifying confidence of one who knew exactly who, and what, she was.

You were a Dragon Princess, as beautiful and volatile as the wildfire burning in your veins.

That was a sin the world would never forgive. Nor would they ever permit you to forget it.

The lesson was learned early and with bitterness: men did not see you. They cared little for the contents of your soul or the mettle of your character. They saw only your name, your blood, and the power of your heritage. You were not a woman to them; you were a ledger of utility.

For that, your life had been spent parrying unwanted advances and shivering through uncomfortable dalliances. Your father had grown weary of swatting away marriage pacts like persistent flies. He had even gone so far as to backhand your younger brother, Aerion, when the Prince had dared to claim you as his own by right of birth.

To the realm, you were a trophy to be hoisted. A prize to be corrupted, to be flowered and bedded, a vessel to carry their legacy under the prestige of your name.

To everyone, that is, except for Valarr.

Your sweet cousin had always been the perfect counterpoint to your own existence, for you understood one another with a clarity that defied words. You were two bright spirits the world sought to quench.

He did not look at you as a ladder to the Iron Throne, nor did he squint to measure the span of your waist or the fullness of your breast to judge your worth as a broodmare. He looked at you because, since you were children racing through the gardens, you were the only one who could read the silences hidden behind his shy, quiet smile. You were patient with him when the court was not; you were his confidante, his shield, and above all, his most faithful ally.

You had covered for one another’s mischief, mending the echoes of broken treasures and whispering secrets as you snuck into the Dragonpit. There, amidst the towering, hollow skulls of the ancient dragons, you would play at being Old Valyria reborn, pretending the stone husks still breathed fire at your command.

When the betrothal was finally cried out, the court hailed it as the ‘Perfect Union’ to secure the succession. With the King’s blessing and your fathers’ consent, the pact was sealed. They saw it as a masterful stroke of politics; for the two of you, it was the first true breath of relief you had ever taken.

For you loved him, and Valarr had loved you since his heart first learned to beat. To him, you had appeared like a Valyrian goddess—radiant, laughing, and full of life. As the years turned, he had found himself a devotee at your altar, a prince kneeling before his own religion. He had always been there to shield you from the grasping hands of men who took advantage of your girlhood innocence.

“I don’t like how they treat you, cousin,” he would grumble, squeezing your hand in his, hidden in the shadows behind a enormous dragon skull. Naturally, that was where you both felt safest, under the dark, fierce gaze of the hollow eye pits of the dragons in their lair. “As if you were some kind of property they could claim.”

Valarr was your guardian. And now that you were his wife, the silver prince had grown more territorial, his devotion sharpening into a protective jealousy that burned as fierce as any dragon’s breath.

That evening, at some royal feast in the Red Keep, the weary pantomime played out once more. You were draped in a gown of breathtaking scarlet and black—the colors of your House—mirroring the doublet Valarr wore.

ogether, you were a vision of dragonblood manifest, your silver tresses woven with threads of beaten gold that glimmered under the fire of the lamps. Your face remained serene, a mask of pale porcelain that the lords of the realm, in their infinite dullness, so often misread.

“Your sweetness is truly exquisite, Princess,” a Lord claims, his flattery oiling the air for the third time within the hour. He pressed closer than etiquette deemed holy, mistaking your silence for the soft bloom of shyness. But as Maekar’s daughter, shyness was a stranger to you. “Surely a woman of your... temperament would find respite from the rigors of the capital. My lands in the south are far warmer, and much more welcoming.”

You do not stir or grow desperate. You merely take another slow sip of your sweet red wine, dangerously calm. You sense Valarr’s presence before you hear his boots on the stone, and so you let him handle the intrusion. You let him mark his territory.

Your husband slides to your side with the natural elegance of one born to wear a crown. He has been occupied in conversation with his father—much to his chagrin, for he detests leaving you alone in halls so thick with that kind of men. 

And Valarr, much like his father Baelor, is a man of precise words and measured gestures.

“Lord Tyrell,” he says, his voice so soft it feels like a caress, though his beautiful two-colored eyes hold the dull glint of an ice floe. “My wife already has all the warmth she could ever need here. The Targaryen fire requires no southern sun to burn fiercely.”

Valarr places a hand to rest gently on the small of your back, drawing you flush against him. 

It is a subtle gesture to the prying eyes of the court, but to you, it is absolutely everything. The heat radiating from his palm and the delicate graze of his fingers against the silk of your gown at the curve of your waist are enough to make the insult—which has begun to climb your throat—dissolve into a lover’s sigh. 

Though, you wish you could have that Lord’s eyes served on a platter for the way he undresses you with his gaze.

“Of course, my Prince,” the portly Lord stammers, recoiling before Valarr’s intimidating stare. “I was only looking after... the Princess’s well-being.”

“There is no need. I am here to ensure my wife's well-being, my Lord,” Valarr concludes with a courtly smile that does not reach his eyes. His fingers tighten at your waist, dipping dangerously toward the curve of your backside as you lean against his chest, looking down upon the other man with disdain.

When the Lord takes his leave, babbling your titles in farewell, Valarr does not step away. He leans close to you, pretending to adjust one of your ruby necklaces at your chest, letting his breath brush against your face and his fingertips gently caress the contour of your bosom, pressed together by the tight neckline.

“They are being especially persistent tonight,” he whispers, frustration lashing his tongue. Finally, that perfect calm fractures a mere millimeter, revealing the possessive zeal that simmers beneath his skin. “I wonder if I should remind them every hour that you are wed to me.”

Your hands travel up his chest, tracing a soft path of soothing caresses until they find the broad expanse of his shoulders, seeking to anchor his rising temper. 

You offer him a tight, strained smile, still tasting the bitterness of the situation; you loathe the way any other man dares to look at you, for in your heart, only your husband holds the right to such intimacy.

Your fingers toy with the ornaments shaped like crimson dragon scales upon his shoulders, and you gaze up at him with big, adoring eyes.

“They all know it, my love. I am yours...”

But Valarr does not relax. He does not release that heavy, searing exhale—as hot as the breath of a dragon—that usually signals his surrender to your charms or the sound of your seductive voice confessing your devotion. That you are his.

Instead, his hand moves from your chest, sliding slowly up the column of your throat until it reaches your chin. He tilts it upward, holding you firm, forcing you to look only at him.

“Then you should stop encouraging them, wife,” he accuses in a husky rasp. He leans down, tilting his head to claim your mouth in a sharp, brief kiss that leaves the faint sound of parting lips as he pulls away, never breaking eye contact.

The phrase falls between you like a lump of stone, cooling the air that a moment ago was burning with the heat of his closeness.

Your hands stiffen on his shoulders as you search for any hint of jest in his gaze, that he is just teasing you, but you see only eyes darkened by wounded pride—a temperament he rarely unveils.

“Encouraging them?” you repeat, your voice a mere thread of incredulity. You cling to the hope that this is some cruel play on words. “Valarr, I have scarcely opened my lips. I have remained as motionless as a statue of Baelor the Blessed.”

“And that is precisely the invitation,” he retorts, taking a long step back, causing your hands to fall from his shoulders as the distance grows between you. “You stand there with a serenity that looks like submission, permitting them to circle you like vultures over a jewel. You should rebuff them at once, reject them with the strength of your lineage before they dare to breathe your very air.”

You feel the sting of injustice prick your chest. Valarr, better than anyone, knows the crushing weight of crowns.

“You know I can not do that, much as I wish to cut out their tongues and pluck out their eyes,” you hiss like an angered viper, lowering your tone so no prying ear might catch the fissure in the perfect marriage—your first true quarrel in months. “I am the firstborn of Prince Maekar. If I humiliate Lord Tyrell or any other bannerman before the entire court for a mere ill-intentioned compliment, I invite a political war that neither your father nor mine desires.” You tilt your head slightly beneath his gaze, which now sparks with anger. “Do you wish for me to be the cause of a dispute between the Reach and the Crown?”

“I prefer a thousand political disputes to the sight of other men stripping you with their eyes while you smile at them with courtesy,” he snaps back at you, the bitterness in his voice palpable, his words measured to wound. 

You shake your head in disbelief, the movement causing your silver tresses to shimmer like cold moonlight against your shoulders. A dry, hollow laugh escapes your throat, though there is no mirat in it—only a sharp, stinging disappointment.

This time, you take a deliberate step back, increasing the distance between you until the warmth of his body no longer reaches your own. You look at him as if he were a stranger wearing the face of the man you love.

“Valarr, this is madness,” you breathe, your voice trembling not with fear, but with the sheer weight of your incredulity.

His hands retreat behind his back, hidden away as if he’s afraid of what they might do—not out of malice, but out of a desperate, clawing urge to reach for you and end this distance. He locks them together, his fingers digging into his own skin, clenching into fists so tight that the knuckles turn a ghostly, bloodless white.

It is a physical struggle, a silent war he wages against his own nature—his lifelong instinct to be close to you, the instinctive urge to reach out and touch you.

By hiding his hands away from you, he denies himself the comfort of your touch, choosing instead to let his wounded pride dictate the space between you.

“At times I wonder...” he adds, his voice dropping to a tone of refined cruelty born of an agonizing insecurity. You can tell he's hesitating for a moment before deciding to succumb to his rage and hurl out more poison. “I wonder if you secretly crave the attention. If the daughter of Prince Maekar requires the adoration of the world to feel like a queen for a fleeting moment, even at the cost of her husband's patience.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, a physical weight that seems to drown out the screech of the fiddles, the roar of drunken laughter, and the rhythmic swirl of the dancers. 

It cuts deeper than any insult from some nameless Lord; Valarr is accusing you of common vanity when your entire life has been a battle to survive the scrutiny of a world that views you as nothing more than a prize to be won.

You hold his gaze, your breath hitching as genuine offense turns to a cold, hard coal in your chest, but you don't let the tears fall.

The ancient, inherited fire of your blood finally flickers to life behind your violet eyes.

“You have known me since I was a child of three, Valarr,” you say, with a coldness that rivals his own. “If you truly believe I enjoy being a piece of meat on display... then you do not know me at all.”

And then, you wait for just a moment. You wait for his expression to soften, for guilt to cloud his beautiful eyes, and for his hand to seek yours with that touch of regret that always follows this rare moments of tension. 

You wait for him to ask your pardon, to pull you against his chest and whisper that love drives him mad, that his insecurities, his own fears, are to blame for his sharpened tongue.

But Valarr does not move.

He maintains his impeccable, princely posture, his chin high and his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on a point just above your head. His lips, which have so often whispere promises of eternal devotion, are pressed into a thin, bitter line. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.  There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.

He simply steps aside.

Without a single word, Valarr moves to the right, clearing the path and leaving you the space to depart. It is the most galling gesture of all: a calculated indifference, a silent invitation for you to retire if you are not prepared to accept his terms. Never before has he let you go while you were angry. Always, without fail, he found a way to hold you until the storm passed.

You feel the knot of indignation tighten in your throat. 

“Very well. This is how it will be, t–then,” you mumble reluctantly, swallowing a lump in your throat. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Valarr echoes, dropping his gaze to the floor, still visibly simmering.

You gather the heavy skirts of your scarlet gown with fingers trembling from rage and you walk past him, keeping your back as straight as a dragon-bone spear, and begin to walk toward the exit of the Great Hall.

You feel the weight of the gold threads in your braids, and above all, you feel the weight of everyone's eyes upon you.

Even from a distance, your father can sense that you are visually agitated and very upset, considering that pout you're holding on your lips. His frown deepens when he glances at your husband standing behind you, his jaw clenched, looking down at the floor, clearly forcing himself not to gaze at you, for his act of indignation would likely crumble into a thousand pieces.

Then, Maekar shares a knowing glance with Baelor, who is sitting next to him, as he too realizes that something has happened between their firstborns.

Now, without Valarr by your side as a shield, the gazes feel even more invasive, more ravenous. You can sense Lord Tyrell watching you from afar with a crooked smirk, noting the sudden distance set between your husband and you. So, you hurry to get out of the place, not even bothering to give excuses to your family.

Valarr had hurt you in the deepest way, doubting your loyalty and integrity just because the rest of the world didn't know how to be decent. Every time you thought about it, about the way he had accused you and looked at you, as if he didn't know you, as if you had been a stranger, you grew increasingly furious.

The seconds turned into minutes, which felt like hours. You abruptly took off your jewelry, letting the rubies fall onto the dressing table with a loud clatter. You let your hair down, letting your silvery locks cascade over your bare shoulders like a fountain.

Finally, as you are settling down for a good night's sleep, relaxing in your spacious bed and solitude, the sound of the door creaking open interrupts your peace.

There is no rush in his movements, Valarr walks in with his characteristic serenity, which now irritates you so much that you are unable to even so much as glance at him.

“Maekar was looking for you,” he informs you, his voice unusually monotone, as he begins to take off his cloak. “I told him you were not feeling yourself.”

You lay motionless beneath the satin sheets, your gaze locked on the shadows cast by the burning embers across the ceiling, imagining that they are dragons.

His words hover in the space of the room, unacknowledged. You offer no expression of gratitude, no hum of acceptance, neither even the faintest gesture of your head in his direction.

For you, Valarr is not there that night. In his place, there is only a stranger who wears his face, one who has had the audacity to question the core of your very soul.

You can hear the sound of leather sliding on wood as he begins to take off his doublet. The following is a heavy silence, charged with the weight of all that has not been said.

Valarr takes his time, moving with that regal slowness that you would usually find charming, and that, on any other day, would have you already crawling up his bare back with kisses and caresses, but now seems like a desperate tactic to get your attention.

It's really pathetic, you think.

He steps to the edge of the bed and you sense the mattress dip slightly under his weight as he sits down to untie his boots.

“You could have waited for me at least,” he is bold enough to keep talking, even when he can clearly see that you are still fuming, bursting the ice again and uttering your name in that gentle tone of his. At least that much has not changed on this catastrophic day.

Indeed, his tone has lost the harshness he displayed in the Great Hall, turning into something closer to a resigned lament. Pathetic.

“I had to make up excuses for my father and yours. It's not like us to put on such a display of disharmony in front of them and the King.”

Once again, you don't respond. Instead, you close your eyes, concentrating on the cadence of your own breathing and then, roll overyourself to turn your back on him.

If he doesn't approve of your polite silence, then you will give him an entire ocean of it.

Valarr sighs, a long, weary sound that betrays his own frustration. He finishes undressing and, after blowing out the last two candles, slips under the bedcovers beside you. 

Typically, the instant your bodies lie side by side in the darkness and comfort of your quarters, he would reach for you, wrap an arm around your waist, bury his face in your neck, and whisper how much he loves you, emphasizing his words with sweet kisses upon your skin that would often lead to passionate lovemaking.

But this time, despite sharing the same bed, the distance between you seems to be unbridgeable.

Valarr lies on his back, very close but not touching you. You can feel the warmth emanating from his body, that warmth that has always makes you feel at home. Your skin tingles, betraying you, yearning for his touch, but your sense of pride—the same pride you inherited from your father, so fierce and intense—keeps you cold and distant.

“You're not even going to look at m–me?” Valarr asks into the suffocating darkness of the bedchamber, his voice cracks with the weight of despair. 

There is a trace of bewilderment in his gentle voice. The situation is terrifyingly foreign to him as well; you have always been the one to reach out and smooth things over with patience. He has grown accustomed to your mercy, leaning on it like a crutch he never realized he needed.

But not now. 

“There is a tournament tomorrow. We are expected to be in the royal pavilion, together. We cannot afford this... this whim.”

A whim?, you think, and rage boils in your gut like the fire-breath of a dragon.

You don't give him the luxury of a reaction to his provocation. You simply adjust your pillow with a sharp movement before lying perfectly still again.

At that you feel him grow tense beside you.

Your husband is not a man of violent outbursts, but indifference is the only force that can shatter his composure. 

For the first time, he is facing the abyss of your indifference, and the overwhelming loneliness of that void is beginning to drown him.

“V–very well,” he finally declares, and this time his voice rings with wounded emotion, despite his efforts to conceal it with a veil of coldness. “Good night.”

The echo of the crowd's cheers reaches your terrace, celebrating every lance broken, every fallen rider. Normally, you would be the star of the royal pavilion, seated at Valarr's side, but today you have chosen the cozy comfort of your own bedchamber.

Earlier that morning, you had sent a message to the king and your father, as concise as it was unconvincing: you were not feeling well, a vague discomfort kept you bedridden. It was a lie, and everyone knew it. But since your whole family already knows that something has been going on between you and your husband, they decided to let it slide.

You can just imagine Valarr, looking perfect and stoic on the outside, but burning with humiliation and solitude on the inside, forced to answer all the questions about the absence of his wife, his other half, who isn't there to hand him the favor of her silk when it's his turn to ride.

The sunset bathes the big bedchamber into a bloody shade of orange as the door is flung open. This time, there is no trace of finesse or restraint.

Valarr comes in like a force of nature then. He has already stripped away the cold plates of his armor, but he still wears the dark, sweat-stained gambeson—the thick, quilted tunic of black leather and wool that served as his last line of defense. It clings to the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, damp from the grueling effort of the tourney, mapping out the frantic rhythm of his breathing.

His dark hair is all messed up and sticking to his forehead from the sweat and effort he put into the tourney, and that one platinum streak of his, the one that makes you go feral just by the sight of it, is all ruffled up. His two-colored eyes, normally as calm as a peaceful lake, burn with a fury you've hardly ever seen before. 

He looks handsome like that, you must admit, all fired up and sassy.

He tosses his gauntlets onto a nearby table with a loud bang that makes you sit up in the bed, your fingers instantly clamping shut the book you were so absorbed in reading.

“Not a single word,” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous as he storms across the room towards you. “Not a single glance all day. You left me alone in front of the court, in front of my father, like a fool who can’t even run his own household.”

You remain where you are, sitting with a graceful languor and purposeful poise on the vastness of the bed, surrounded by the soft disorder of the silk sheets. You haven't moved to acknowledge him, nor have you displayed any reaction to the agitation he exudes. Instead, you remain leaning against the cushions, your back straight and your scarlet silk nightgown sliding dangerously down the curve of your shoulder, revealing the smoothness of your skin as a kind of silent provocation.

You look devastatingly beautiful, a vision of heaven that contrasts cruelly with the miserable state in which he has returned to you. Your silvery hair flows down over your chest, simultaneously covering and revealing the delicate curves of your figure, as you hold your book with an elegance that is almost hurtful.

That nightgown is his favorite, you both know it. You are keenly aware of the effect you have on him. You know that while he has been away playing the perfect prince, you have been here preparing to be his downfall.

You gradually raise your gaze, and lock your violet eyes onto his with unnerving calmness. At least you grant him that today: the privilege of looking you in the eyes.

“I gave you exactly what you asked for, Valarr,” you reply reluctantly, stretching out your other hand to put your wine cup down on one of the nightstands and crawling out the bed to stand up. “Didn’t you want me to stop attracting attention? Didn’t you want me to hide myself away? Well, here you have it. I’ve hidden myself away from the world. And from you.”

You stand up with a measured nonchalance that only serves to fuel the fire of his rage. You move with the fluid grace of a predatory creature, walking calmly and intentionally avoiding his menacing figure, passing so close that he can smell the scent of your skin, but without allowing him even the slightest touch.

You head toward the balcony, and that's where you pull off your masterstroke. As you walk away from him, the orange, bloody light of sunset filters through the open doors, turning the thin scarlet silk of your nightgown into an nearly transparent veil.

Valarr stands rooted to the spot, his breath catching in his throat, as the sinful clarity of your body's shape is displayed before his eyes: the curve of your back, the sway of your hips, and the curve of your arse, all outlined by the glow of the dying sun as it pierces the thin fabric.

You lean on the stone railing, watching the horizon where the sun sinks like a glowing ruby into the Black Waters. The night wind begins to dance with the hem of your dress, clinging to your thighs and leaving precious little to the imagination.

And you know he's right behind you, following in your own footsteps with the patient determination of a predator. You feel the heat of his body against yours, smell the scent of sweat exuding from his skin, a fragrance that is purely masculine and dominant, making your insides knot with desire.

His warm hands catch you by the waist and pull you forcefully against his chest. You let out a breathless gasp as his face digs into the crook of your neck, and his hot, hungry lips kiss the sensitive skin just below your ear.

You try to call out his name, to scold him, to remind him that you are still upset about his awful behavior from yesterday. “Valarr...”

“You think this is a fucking game?” he grunts, his voice rumbling down your spine. “You think you can just disappear and leave my mind to rot, imagining every man in this kingdom coveting my woman?”

“You pushed me away,” your voice weakens as one of his hands rises impatiently, cupping your breast over the thin fabric of your nightgown, holding your body close to his. “You doubted me, Valarr. My loyalty. My dignity. In front of all those people. In front of my own father. Do you know how humiliating it feels?”

He sighs heavily into your neck, placing one last kiss on your skin before spinning you around in his arms so abruptly that it knocks the wind out of you. 

Instinctively, your hands reach for his shoulders to hold on to him, and he supports you with his own hands, fitting the curve of your waist, incapable of letting you go now that he has captured you.

Seeing the way you're looking at him, he sighs once more, ducking down to push his forehead onto your chest, closing his eyes as his face nuzzles between your breasts. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him and ensuring that you can't even consider moving away.

“Forgive me,” he pleads then, his voice cracking just slightly, his lips spelling out the words into your skin. “Forgive me—my love, please. I am just a stupid, jealous fool. I was out there all day, feeling like I was suffocating because you weren’t there. I am—I am so tired of your silence. I can't do it—”

He physically swoons when he feels your hand running through his hair, your fingers tangling in that lock of silver hair you love so much, smoothing it back into place.

The prince lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead still pressed against youe body, leaning into the touch of your fingers as if he’s a man dying of thirst and you are the only well in the desert. 

“I can't do it,” he repeats, his voice a muffled, raw rasp against your chest. “I can not live without your gaze upon me. Without your touch, your voice. Don't go back into that silence, p–please. Come back to me...”

You look down at him, your own anger beginning to fray at the edges, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating pull of the devotion he’s offering.

“I am right here, Valarr,” you whisper, your voice finally breaking the seal of that icy silence. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to force him to look up at you. “I forgive you”

“Thank you,” he breathes out, his voice choked with emotion before claiming your lips with his, and kissing you as if it were the first time he’d been able to kiss you in years away from you. He kisses you again and again and again. “Thank you...”

“I believe you are exaggerating now, darling,” you tell him, struggling to contain a giggle at the way he is clinging to your body, his hands sliding down to palm your arse and squish you closer to him, kissing your flushed cheeks.

But Valarr doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. Instead, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression so hauntingly solemn it makes the breath catch in your throat.

“I am not exaggerating, my heartfire,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly earnest register. He looks like a man who has just survived a war. “It has been twenty-six hours and fourteen minutes since you last looked at me with anything other than loathing. Twenty-six hours since I last heard you speak my name.”

He leans his forehead against yours affectionately, letting out a sigh of relief now that he has you in his arms again, feeling the pressure of your breasts on his chest.

“Twenty-six hours, Valarr?” you tease, your heart softening completely as you realize the depth of his devotion.

“And fifteen minutes now,” he corrects immediately, his voice devoid of any humor, lowering sheepishly.

A bright, genuine and sweet burst of laughter escapes you, the sound ringing out like silver bells across the terrace and shattering the last of the tension. You lean back against his loving arms, your body shaking with amusement as you realize just how deeply you’ve unraveled your husband.

You feel the heat radiating from his skin as a deep, crimson flush creeps up his neck and floods his cheeks.

Aerion's question pulled you from the peace of your mind, drawing your attention up to your husband. A weary smile pulled at your lips, face still glistening with sweat from the efforts it took to bring new life into the world. “The maester says all is well.”

Aerion only nodded, pleased with your tired reply for now. His brow wrinkled just slightly, and with a touch too tender for a man of such cruel nature, he reached out and touched the newborn's forehead. The babe stirred slightly, a small, humming sound as she shifted in her swaddling clothes and settled again. His forefinger traced her soft hairs, then down the line of her nose. His nose.

“A girl, I hear,” the prince said thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand to admire both mother and child. He had never been a man fond of soft things, but something deep within his chest tightened at the sight of the fragile being in your arms. His expression showed none of his confliction, carefully blank as he tilted his head.

“Does that upset you?” Your voice trembled faintly, eyes searching Aerion's impassive expression. This was different from Maegor's birth. Your husband had taken your firstborn into his arms, declaring him a strong little dragon. Now, there was only silence — thick and dreadfully brittle.

“No.” His reply came low in his throat, a mere mumbled word as though his thoughts were elsewhere. The babe stirred again, her small brow pinching as she blinked her eyes open. Violet irises fluttered up, a silent, innocent gaze meeting his own. Aerion swallowed. “Visenya.”

“What?”

“Her name.”

“Husband, I had hoped we would decide to-”

“Her name is Visenya.”

His tone was firm and unwavering, leaving no room for discussion. Aerion knew his children were strong, fierce dragons just as he was. They deserved names befitting of their lineage and succession. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping along the bone as he met your gaze to await submission. You sighed, but offered a weary nod. Some fights were not worth pursuing, and this was one of them. Visenya was a strong name for a strong girl.

Aerion seemed pleased with your reluctant acceptance, a small smirk tugging at his lips before he forced it away. He looked back down at the small creature in your arms, reaching out to stroke her round cheek. “She has eaten, yes?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, laying further back against the plush pillows that had been stacked behind you, the cushion a well-needed respite from some of the ache in your spine. “I've never met a newborn with such an eagerness to feed. Even her brother was not so hungry when he was born.”

“She already has the greed of a dragon, then,” Aerion said with the faintest curve of his lips. His brief amusement was replaced with a quiet concern when he met your gaze. “You should rest. I know the turmoil of your labors has been taxing. I will see to it that the maester and nursemaids attend to you both. Here, hand her to me.”

With a quiet relief, you handed your husband your new daughter. Visenya stirred lightly, whining at the change of hands, but she settled down in her father's hold. Her small lips parted slightly around noisy breaths, her head cradled reverently in one of Aerion's hands.

It came to pass that Aerion held his greatest treasure in his arms. Not gold. Not a crown. Not a scaled dragon of his own. But her.

He leaned down, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Hello, Visenya.”

Evening had settled over Summerhall, and you had returned to the familiar comfort of your marital chambers from the birthing chambers. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting odd shadows against the walls as the last light of the sun slipped through sheer curtains. It was quiet and warm and serene, and you had once again grown accustomed to the weight of an infant in your arms.

Aerion sat on a velvet-lined settee by the hearth, dressed down to a loose tunic and breeches, a goblet of wine hanging haphazardly from his grip. The arbor gold had scarcely been touched, save for a few idle sips. The prince's attention was aimed towards you as you stood over Visenya's cradle. She was cradled in your arms, her small hands curled around your breast as she nursed eagerly. His gaze couldn't help but follow that loosely-fitted nightgown that slipped from your shoulder, revealing the delicate line of your throat and the curve of your spine as he admired you from behind. The picture before him was one of softness, the warm sunlight painting your figure in an angelic view, your face pulled into a tender look of love as you tended to his daughter.

Aerion exhaled slowly, his chest tightening up once again. He had never been a man prone to tenderness, but the sight of his wife and child did that odd thing it always did. It brought up warmth, like the fire within a dragon's belly.

He set his goblet down with a faint clink, rising to his feet. He approached with slow strides, careful not to disturb the delicate atmosphere that had taken over the chamber. He stopped behind you, peering over your shoulder to watch as Visenya drank hungrily. "Always so demanding, the little hatchling," Aerion murmured, though his eyes never left the baby’s face. He stepped closer, closing the small gap, his presence looming and warm. "She has her father's appetite for what is hers, it seems.”

He reached out, not for his daughter, but to catch a stray curl that had escaped your hairpins, winding the thick strand around his finger. His touch was deliberate, a silent claim. He already envied the ease with which Visenya could command your attention, much like Maegor, yet he found a twisted sort of pride in the way their newborn mirrored his own voracious nature. "Let her have her fill," Aerion commanded softly, his voice dropping to a velvet rasp as he leaned down, his breath ghosting against her ear. He placed a delicate kiss to the shell of it. "And once the little one is sated and dreaming of dragons, perhaps you might find a moment to attend to your husband. He has been quite patient, has he not?”

“Aerion,” you said his name lightly, head tilting just a bit when his lips grazed your ear. “You know we cannot do anything. The maester says it will take my body time to heal after this birth.”

“I am no fool, wife,” he said, the words heavy with a bit of sharpness at the offense he felt. Aerion knew well enough that your body needed rest, and he had not intended to imply otherwise. “Can a man not simply hold what is his? You look beautiful like this, my brave girl. Soft with motherhood, still rounded and mine. Besides, I fear this may be the one night I have until things return to as they were. Tomorrow, Maegor will meet his sibling, and once again, I shan't be able to tear him away from your side. The little wyrm is as clingy as a leech.”

You sighed quietly, a bit of tension leaving your shoulders. It was odd that your husband was not demanding anything more from you, but perhaps that was the reward for all of the hardships it took to bring forth life. A faint smile touched your lips, amused. “Are you asking me to cuddle, Aerion?”

“Cuddle,” he scoffed, repeating the word as though it had personally attacked him. “I am not asking to cuddle, I am asking to hold what is mine.”

Your smile didn't waver, but you knew better than to poke the dragon. “That sounds lovely.”

A faint, hesitant knock on the door broke the gentle moment.

Aerion exhaled lowly, pulling away from you and Visenya with a noise akin to a growl. He reached for the iron-wrought handle on the door. It swung open quietly, his hand firmly gripping the wooden edge. Whatever frustration he had felt now mounted to its peak, glaring at the nursemaid in front of him, and little Maegor holding onto her skirts. “The boy is supposed to be in bed.”

“Y- yes, your grace,” the nursemaid stuttered, avoiding his gaze like the plague. “But the prince insisted that he could not sleep without bidding goodnight to his mother.”

“Our lady needs her rest after childbirth. You know this.”

“Yes, my prince-”

Maegor stepped forward, reached to tug on the loose hem of Aerion's tunic. His lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, his little brows furrowing as he looked up at his father. “Please, papa,” the boy pleaded, tugging on the red silk in his hands. “I want… I want to see mama!”

Aerion let out a heavy exhale, glancing over his shoulder to share a look with you. You relented, nodding. “Fine, then,” he said grumpily, guiding Maegor by the shoulder to enter the room. He didn't spare a glance at the nursemaid before dismissing her with a flippant wave of his hand. “Begone, wench.”

The door closed.

“You must be quiet, sweet Maegor,” you said gently as the boy approached. He appeared hesitant, his features — which were now beginning to look more and more like his father's with each passing day — were pinched with a quiet worry. He toddled across the bedchamber, violet eyes glued to the small form in your arms. “This is Visenya,” you explained, turning to face Maegor when he stopped by your side. “Your baby sister. Once she is done eating, you may hold her if you wish.”

Baby sister.

Those words lingered in the air, light on your breath but heavy as they landed on Maegor's ears. His frown deepened, his small chin quivering and something close to fear struck your heart. Your son looked seconds away from weeping, but startled at the sound of Aerion's voice.

“It seems you are no longer the one vying for your mother's attention. She won't have much time for us any longer.”

That did it. Something shattered on Maegor's small face, tears beginning to roll down his fat cheeks. He let out a small cry; high-pitched and hoarse in his throat before he turned away from you. For once in the two years of his life, he turned to his father for comfort, his arms wrapping around his leg.

“Aerion!” You hissed his name like a scathing scold, jaw trembling from how tightly it was clenched. Aerion had always been a jealous man, even when it came to your own son. He had always been prone to cruelties, but antagonizing Maegor was not something you would let happen while you sat idly by. “How dare you say such horrid things?”

“It's the truth.”

“No, it is not and you know it!”

Aerion pouted at that, one hand sliding down to rest upon Maegor's silver curls.

“Don't pout, it's unbecoming of a prince who calls himself a dragon,” you quipped, before your gaze landed on Maegor. He looked so pitiful, face hidden against Aerion's breeches. Once Visenya had unlatched, which only took a few seconds more, you settled her into her cradle. She didn't whimper or cry, clearly unperturbed by the chaos that had erupted around her. “Maegor.”

The boy didn't respond at first. He merely whined, sniffling against the fabric of the pants he now clung to. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head to meet your gaze. You smiled gently, approaching him. You offered your hand, a bridge between the distance that had suddenly been put between you. Maegor took it, his chubby hand slotting against your own as his tears began to slow. You guided your son to the shared bed in the center of the room, offering your arm to help him climb up onto the mattress.

Aerion watched from a few strides away, gaze darkened as you gently wiped away Maegor's tears with the sleeves of your nightgown. “Do not listen to your father. He says cruel things because they amuse him, not because they are true,” you urged, pressing a kiss to his forehead. You straightened up, one hand settling onto your son's small shoulder before you turned to adress both him and Aerion.

“My love is not a finite thing. It does not have to be split. All three of you are my family now, and I love you more than anything. You both should know that.” It was a statement mainly directed towards your husband, the last words laced with a hint of anger at his childish whims. “I will always have time for you.”

Aerion felt his cheeks flush with something he would not name. Guilt? Embarrassment? He blinked, avoiding your gaze as shame washed over him like a second skin. There were few who could tame the dragon, but your words made him see reason when his jealousy blinded him. He closed the distance between you, hands sliding down to gently cradle your hips as he stood behind you. “I'm sorry, my love,” he whispered so that only you may hear, ashamed that he had to stoop so low to begin with. He had been frustrated with the interruption, anger coiling in his chest when the quiet moment he had shared with you and Visenya had been shattered. But it was not fair to his son, and your words rang true in his mind. His lips found your neck in a slow kiss, a silent apology. “You just brought our daughter into this world. You should be resting, not dealing with my actions.”

Maegor sniffled, his hands reaching for the front of your gown. His little fists clenched around the soft linen. “Mama, I'm sorry, too,” he whined. He had no need to apologize, but he had watched with wide eyes as Aerion had done so first. You only breathed out a sigh, and ran your fingers through his silver.

“Now, Maegor, would you like to meet your sister?”

© morriganstark 2026: do not repost, translate, copy, or feed my works to ai.

Because it made him violent.

The feast had been held in honour of a visiting delegation from the Stormlands. The hall was crowded with lords, ladies, knights, and their endless entourages. Music drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. Servants wove between the tables carrying silver platters while nobles laughed loudly enough to make sure everyone knew exactly how important they were.

Aerion had tolerated the evening remarkably well.

For nearly two hours.

It wasn't your fault.

You were simply being polite, the same way you were with everyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in your company. You listened when people spoke. You smiled when it was appropriate. You laughed when a story was amusing. It was a quality that made people gravitate towards you without even realising they were doing it.

Most considered it one of your greatest virtues.

Aerion considered it one of your most troublesome.

Kindness invited familiarity, and familiarity bred confidence. Men who should have known better convinced themselves they were special because you remembered their names. They mistook your patience for affection and your attention for interest. Given enough time, they imagined significance where none existed.

The young lord appeared to be no exception.

Whatever story he was telling had clearly captured your attention because, each time Aerion looked across the hall, the fool seemed more increasingly comfortable in your presence. The distance between the two of you had gradually disappeared. His posture had relaxed. His smiles had become easier, more familiar.

As though he had forgotten who he was speaking to.

Or perhaps, more importantly, whose wife he was speaking to.

Aerion's jaw tightened.

Across the table, Daeron followed his brother's line of sight and immediately understood the source of the problem.

The realisation was followed by a long, suffering sigh as he set his cup down, as though preparing himself for the inevitable.

He didn't even need to ask.

"No."

Aerion didn't bother looking away from the hall when he answered, his voice flat with distraction.

"No what?"

Daeron tilted his head slightly, watching him now with the weary patience of someone who had survived this exact situation far too many times.

"Whatever it is you're thinking."

Aerion's gaze remained fixed across the hall, unblinking.

"I'm not thinking anything."

That earned him a quiet, humourless exhale.

"That's a lie, and a particularly poor one."

Only then did Aerion finally glance towards him, slow and disinterested, as though the interruption itself was an inconvenience.

Daeron met his stare without flinching, his expression entirely unimpressed.

"You've been staring at the same man for the better part of ten minutes," he said, taking another calm sip of wine as if discussing the weather rather than impending disaster. "If you focus any harder, I suspect you'll discover a way to kill people with your mind."

Aerion's brow barely shifted, "an interesting ability."

"One I hope you never acquire," Daeron replied immediately, cutting him off before he could entertain the idea.

Aerion made a faint sound of acknowledgement that wasn't quite agreement and wasn't quite dismissal, already losing interest in the conversation as his attention drifted back across the hall.

His fingers closed around his goblet again.

This time, the silver didn't just protest. It groaned under the pressure, a faint dent beginning to form where his grip tightened without him seeming to notice.

Daeron noticed.

Of course he did.

His eyes dropped to the cup, then to Aerion's hand, then back again in slow, disbelieving succession.

"Seven hells."

Aerion didn't look at him when he responded, though his grip loosened slightly.

"What now?"

Daeron exhaled through his nose, leaning back as though physically bracing himself.

"You've dented it."

Aerion finally glanced down, turning the goblet slightly as though inspecting a minor imperfection rather than evidence of strength he hadn't bothered to control.

There it was.

A visible impression in the silver.

He set it down with casual indifference, as though it had simply ceased to matter.

"Poor craftsmanship."

Daeron gave him a long, tired look. "Yes," he said flatly. "I'm certain the goblet is entirely at fault. Fragile thing, really. Practically begging to be crushed."

Aerion watched for a moment longer, his jaw tightening as the man laughed at something you'd said and leaned in just slightly too much. Not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but enough for someone like Aerion to notice exactly what it was.

Then he stood without warning or hesitation.

Just the scrape of his chair against the stone floor and the immediate shift in the room that followed.

Conversation dipped, then stopped altogether in scattered pockets as people noticed him moving.

Daeron didn't look up this time, only exhaling under his breath as though he already knew how this ended and had no interest in watching it unfold again.

"No," he muttered, like a man repeating something that had never worked in the first place.

Aerion didn't answer him.

By then, he was already walking.

The space around him changed the way it always did when he moved with purpose, not because he forced it, but because everyone else instinctively corrected their position before he ever reached them. Servants stepped aside without being told, lords fell quiet mid sentence, even the music seemed to lose its confidence as he passed through it.

He did not rush.

He never needed to.

And that, more than anything, was what made people notice him too late.

By the time he reached you, the lord still hadn't realised.

He was still talking and smiling, acting comfortable, as if he thought everything was going fine.

Aerion stopped just behind him, close enough that the air itself seemed to shift. Only then did the lord's voice falter as he finally became aware of who stood behind him, turning mid thought.

Whatever composure he had been holding collapsed instantly.

"My prince—"

It came out too quickly, the words stumbling into a bow that was equally rushed, as though speed might somehow compensate for poor judgement. Aerion didn't acknowledge it, not even with the courtesy of a glance.

His attention went to you first, just briefly.

Long enough to see that your expression had changed— not fearful, not startled, but resigned, in the way someone looked when they already knew a situation was about to become unnecessarily complicated.

Only then did his gaze return to the lord.

"You've been speaking to my wife," Aerion said, his voice even enough to pass for polite to anyone who didn't know him well.

The lord swallowed, straightening too quickly. "Yes, Your Grace. Only conversation. I meant no disrespect—"

Aerion tilted his head slightly, as though considering whether the phrase meant anything at all when repeated so often by men in situations exactly like this. "No disrespect," he repeated slowly, testing the words.

The lord nodded again, faster this time, as though agreement might somehow smooth over what instinct was already telling him had gone terribly wrong.

Aerion stepped forward, close enough that the space between them stopped feeling accidental and started feeling claimed. The confidence that had settled so comfortably in the lord's posture only moments before quickly faded, and Aerion noticed every bit of it.

"I was only telling the princess about the tourney," the lord said quickly. "I didn't mean to take her time."

"You didn't take my—"

"I'm speaking." The words were quiet, but the look Aerion shot you was enough to stop you before you could finish. His eyes met yours for only a moment, cold and unwavering, making it perfectly clear he had no intention of letting you interrupt him again.

His attention returned to the lord.

"You did take her time," Aerion said, his voice calm enough to make the words sting even more. "Do you not have somewhere else to be?"

The lord's face flushed almost instantly, "yes, Prince Aerion." He bowed so quickly it bordered on clumsy before muttering another apology and disappearing back into the crowd without another glance.

Almost as if nothing had happened, the hall went back to normal. The musicians started playing again, servants moved between tables with full platters, and conversation slowly picked up, as if everyone had agreed to ignore what they’d just seen.

You couldn't.

Not after the way Aerion had spoken to you.

Not after the way everyone had watched.

Aerion turned towards you then, a pleasant smile appearing on his face so suddenly that anyone watching would've believed the entire interaction had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. If they looked closely enough, however, they would've noticed the tightness in his jaw and the way his hand settled against the small of your back with just a little too much firmness.

"Come," he said smoothly, and you knew it wasn't a request, it was one an order in which he expected you to obey to.

He guided you from the Great Hall without another word, smiling politely at the nobles who greeted him along the way as though nothing at all had happened.

The moment the doors closed behind you, the noise of the feast faded until the corridors were left in near silence. No servants wandered the passage at such a late hour, and even the guards stationed nearby had long since moved on with their rounds.

The instant you were alone, Aerion's patience disappeared.

His hand tightened around your waist before he turned you sharply, backing you against the cold stone wall of the keep, leaving little room for escape as he stood over you, his expression stripped of the smile he had worn only moments before.

There was nothing pleasant left about him now.

"Do you take me for some sort of fool?" Aerion asked, his voice deceptively calm. There was no shouting, no raised voice, only the cold certainty of a man who expected an answer he already believed he knew.

"No, I—"

"Don't." The single word stopped you where you stood. "You've spent enough of this evening speaking. Now you'll listen."

You held his stare, refusing to look away even as his hand came to rest against the wall beside your head.

"You stood there laughing with him," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "You smiled at him. Listened to him. Gave him far more of your attention than he had any right to receive, and all the while he stood there looking at you as though he'd forgotten exactly whose wife you are."

You frowned, brows pinching together in confusion at his wordss. "He was only being polite."

Aerion gave a quiet, humourless laugh, “polite?” He repeated your word back to you. “Is that what we're calling it now?”

“That’s exactly what it was.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head once. “That fool wasn’t speaking to you because he wished to discuss a tourney. He was speaking to you because he believed he could. Because every smile you offered him convinced him he'd been invited to stay a little longer.”

“You're making this into something it wasn't.”

“Am I?” His voice remained level, but there was something far more dangerous beneath it, and you didn’t want it to be another reason it lashes out.

“Then tell me why he thought he could stand so close to you. Tell me why he touched your arm as though it belonged to him. Tell me why he was comfortable enough to forget I was sitting less than twenty feet away.”

You opened your mouth to try and get him to understand the fact that he mistook friendly chatter for something completely different, “Aerion—”

“Don't defend him. I have no interest in hearing excuses for a man who couldn't keep his eyes where they belonged.”

You folded your arms across your chest, frustration beginning to outweigh your patience. “You're jealous.” The words lingered between you.

For the first time since leaving the hall, Aerion smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile, it was quite the opposite one.

“Jealous?” he echoed quietly. “No.”

He stepped closer until there was barely any space left between you. “I simply dislike people forgetting their place.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment before he spoke again.

“Every man in that hall was watching you. I saw it before he ever walked over. Then he had the audacity to think he could keep your attention for half the evening while I sat there expected to tolerate it.”

His jaw tightened. “I don't tolerate insolence well.”

You let out a slow breath. “You embarrassed him.”

“Good.” There wasn't the slightest hint of regret in his voice.

“Perhaps next time he'll remember that approaching another man's wife so comfortably has consequences.”

“You're impossible.”

“Perhaps.”

His expression softened only slightly as he looked at you, though possession still burned plainly in his eyes, “but you're mine.”

Before you could answer, he closed the remaining distance between you, one hand settling at your waist and the other gently cupping your jaw. He kissed you with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding, lingering just long enough to steal the words from your lips before finally pulling back.

His forehead rested briefly against yours.

“Let them wonder,” he murmured, his voice quieter now but no less certain. “Let every lord in this keep see exactly where you belong.”

His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek.

the moment the doors close behind you, he’s already there. a hand at your waist, fingers slipping into the fabric of your sleeve, as if to check that you’re still real. he doesn’t say anything at first, just presses his forehead to your temple, drawing a long breath until it evens out in your space. “Don’t— move yet, stay here.”

Aerion never sits beside you when you’re alone, instead he sits close enough that his knee touches yours, or your feet rest in his lap, or your back leans into his chest. if you shift away, even absentmindedly, he follows, not possessive in words— just by quiet, constant contact, like so long as he feels your pulse he’s grounded. and the same goes for at night, he sleeps almost afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. an arm thrown over your waist, leg hooked over yours, his face pressed into the back of your neck, pressing chaste kisses until your fall asleep.

he is quiet when he wants you most. glaring what to the watchers eye as daggers at you from across the banquet table, when really he is only thinking about taking you on it, perhaps in front of the council as he fucks into you from behind; drawing gasp by hiccuped breath out of you, or atop his father’s throne, you seated and rocking on his cock like an empress taming her dragon— the only one that ever could. but he stills, sits on it like a man possessed until you are pressed up against stone walls and doors, breath uneven, as his fingers tighten around you just enough to make his meaning clear. the halls and corridors clear until you make it to your chambers, sometimes only making it to the stairwell. he likes the way you react to him— how your body answers before your mouth ever does. and whoever, could hear you he couldn’t care less, it’s having you in his arms, alone, is his breaking point.

and once you do bare children, he pretends he’s unimpressed. tells them not to cling or skulk about, and somehow, there’s always a child tucked under his arm, fingers wrapped around his sleeve, a small head of ivory of resting against his shoulder while he reads or stares into the fireplace. and the catch? he never moves them, not once, and he wouldn’t dare think about it.