Drawn by Silk

King's Landing smelled exactly as you remembered, salt from Blackwater Bay, smoke from a thousand hearths, fish, sewage, damp stone, and too many people packed too closely together. But beneath it all lingered the sweetness of summer flowers climbing through the terraced gardens, stubbornly blooming above the city's filth as though none of it concerned them.

You had forgotten how overwhelming it was or perhaps distance had simply polished the memory.

The smell hit you the moment the wheelhouse passed through the gates of the Red Keep. Instinctively, you pressed the back of your hand briefly to your nose before deciding that was an undignified gesture for a princess and lowering it again.

Across from you, Aerion glanced up from the letter in his hands. He had been reading the same reports for most of the journey. You suspected this particular letter was on its fourth inspection.

“We can return,” he said, he had been reading and re-reading reports for the last three hours of the journey, as though the words might rearrange themselves into better news if he gave them enough attention.

“We cannot,” you said pleasantly. “You know that.” You shifted against the cushioned seat, or tried to, at nine months along you had, made peace with the fact that your body was no longer entirely your own. The child moved as it liked and your ankles complained regularly. Still, you managed.

The Red Keep rose around you as the wheelhouse came to a stop, and Aerion was already reaching for your arm when the door opened, his hand settled at your elbow, steady and firm.

The days that followed passed in a blur.

Aerion had barely set down his travel cloak before the summons came, Maekar, requesting his presence at the first of what would be many meetings, briefings, discussions that bled from afternoon into evening into the following morning. The rebellion was not yet a rebellion, it was still a rumour with increasingly credible sources, movements of men in the Riverlands, conversations that should not have been had, allegiances tested quietly at the edges, and Maekar intended to deal with the problem before it became a war.

Aerion understood this. He had said so himself, in the brief intervals when he was with you. He understood the urgency; he agreed with his father's decision to act before the situation kept growing.

What he did not seem to understand was how exhausted he looked. You saw it in the mornings first, the dark circles beneath his eyes that had been there when you arrived and deepened with each passing day, staining the skin beneath them to the colour of a bruise. He slept perhaps three hours, perhaps less, and you knew because you felt the absence of him in the bed before you fully woke. By the time you were awake he was already at his writing desk, surrounded by maps and reports, a candle burned to almost nothing beside him.

You saw it in his movements. He was precise by nature, controlled, deliberate, each gesture measured, but under enough exhaustion that precision began to fray. Small things, the way he set down a goblet slightly harder than necessary, the slight tightening around his eyes when someone spoke to him at a volume, he found unnecessary.

His temper had always been a live thing. He had worked, with considerable effort and at considerable cost, to shorten its leash. But a leash under pressure tends to loosen.

You said nothing yet. You watched, and you waited.

You were not present for the council meeting that day. You heard about it afterward, in pieces, from a maid who had it from a steward who had stood outside the doors.

The meeting had begun well, by all accounts.

King Maekar had laid out the intelligence gathered so far, the scale of the rumoured movement, the families implicated, the question of where the rebellion might grow if left unchecked. Several of the older knights had offered assessments, cautious and conservative in the way men became when they had survived enough wars to be suspicious of certainty.

Then Aerion had presented his strategy.

He had prepared thoroughly, you knew this because you had watched him prepare, had seen the maps spread across the table in your chambers at all hours, had woken in the night to find him still working by candlelight, his silver hair loose around his face, his finger tracing routes through the Riverlands with intensity. He had done the work; there was no question of that.

His proposal was bold, decisive, characteristically Aerion. Strike early and disrupt supply routes, force the conspirators into the open before they could unite. But then Ser Duncan the Tall had spoken.

Not loudly, not with any evident desire to undermine, simply in his direct, honest manner. He had identified the flaw. The strategy assumed the rebellion's consolidation point was where intelligence suggested. But intelligence on the ground, Duncan had noted, indicated two separate and apparently uncoordinated movements. Aerion's plan addressed one, but it left the other entirely free to act while attention was directed elsewhere. Worse, it might inadvertently drive the two movements together, forging unity where there had previously been only parallel discontent.

He had offered an alternative, less elegant, but more methodical, requiring patience and a longer timeline. The room had fallen silent, Maekar had considered it and the others followed.

The storm had been building since midday.

You'd watched it from the windows of your chambers as dark clouds crept across the horizon, swallowing the sunlight piece by piece. By the time evening fell there was nothing left of the sky at all, only a low, churning dark pressed against the towers of the Red Keep, and the rain had begun in earnest, wind rattled the shutters hard enough to make them shudder in their frames, and cold drafts slipped beneath the doors.

You had tried to read, after the third time rereading the same page, you gave up.

Nine months pregnant to the day, you had spent the last week adjusting to a new kind of discomfort. The weight of the child seemed lower now, settled deep in your body. Pressure came and went in strange waves, leaving an ache behind that never fully disappeared. The maester assured you it was normal; your body was preparing itself.

That knowledge should have been reassuring, instead, it made everything feel worse. You shifted carefully in your chair and rested a hand on the curve of your stomach. The child moved beneath your palm, slow and heavy.

Aerion had returned from the council chambers in the early evening; he barely moved in over an hour. The flames cast shifting light across his face, catching in his silver hair and painting sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones. He looked carved from stone, one elbow rested against the arm of the chair, fingers curled loosely against his jaw. His eyes remained fixed on the fire.

These days you could read him almost as easily as weather, he had been worse than he had been in a long time. Plans for the rebellion had reached a critical stage. Meetings stretched late into the night. Reports arrived faster than anyone could answer them. Prince Maekar was making decisions Aerion disagreed with, and disagreement sat poorly with him even under ideal circumstances.

You saw it in the tightness around his eyes. In the clipped replies he gave servants who happened to arrive at the wrong moment. In the way his shoulders never seemed to fully relax anymore, as if he expected another problem to appear the instant he looked away.

The problem was that the discipline was running out, you had watched it running out, and had been patient, had given him space, and you had tried in small ways to be steady around him, tried to become one thing in his life that required nothing from him.

“My love,” you said quietly. “What's wrong?”

His gaze stayed on the fire, hard, distant, the flames reflecting in his violet eyes until they seemed almost unreal. You waited and he still said nothing.

“Aerion.”

A thunder cracked, a long, rolling sound that shook the window in its frame, and for the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression, you thought he might answer, a muscle jumped near his temple and he exhaled through his nose.

“Nothing,” he said.

You adjusted yourself in the chair, slow and careful. The movement sent another dull ache through your lower back. One hand settled automatically over your stomach where the pressure had been building all evening. “Don't push me away,” you said. “Talk to me.”

“I said-.”

“I heard what you said.”

Something flashed in his face, the last of the control giving.

“Nothing!”

The word came out sharp and loud and far harsher than anything he had directed at you in a very long time; the rain battered the windows.

You were quiet for a moment.

“I know you're stressed-.”

“You know nothing about stress.” His voice had dropped again, low and venomous. “What would you know about it? You sit here all day, you read and you wait for me to come back and fuck you like a slut every night.”

For a moment neither of you spoke, you looked at him and he was staring at the fire again, jaw tight, breathing fast, and you could see, that he knew. The moment the words had left his mouth, some part of him already knew, the ugly implication behind them.

“You can be an asshole all you want,” you said at last, your voice steady despite the hurt pressing against your ribs. “But I know you don't actually think that about me.”

“Don't act like you know me.” His voice was low, cracking at the edges, just slightly, a fault line beneath the venom. “You don't know what I'm dealing with.”

“Aerion, I'm your wife-.”

“You're carrying my child.” He turned from the fire at last, and his eyes met yours, the fury was still there, so was exhaustion, and underneath both, buried deep enough that most people would have missed it entirely, was fear, raw and desperate. “That doesn't mean I owe you sweetness every second.”

You pushed yourself to your feet.

It was slow, he shifts forward pulled at your lower back, and the familiar ache settled across your hips as you straightened. Still, you rose, because you refused to sit there and let him speak to you like that, you were his wife. You had given him more of yourself than he could possibly understand, and you would not simply absorb his anger because he happened to be carrying too much of his own.

“Aerion.”

You reached for his arm, slowly.

He jerked away, a reflex, already drowning in his own thoughts and he couldn't bear being touched in that moment. He moved his arm and by mistake, a miscalculation, his hand pushed you away.

It didn’t require much force and balance failed you. Your foot slipped on the damp stone. You felt the world tilt, the floor disappearing beneath you. You fell, hard enough on your side to drive the breath from your lungs, enough to send a sharp, frightened sound from your throat before you could stop it, enough to leave you sprawled on the stone floor, one hand pressing flat against stone while the other flew immediately to your stomach.

Then you felt it, the warmth between your thighs, a sudden rush between your thighs, your heart stopped and you lowly looked down, realization hitting you all at once.

You raised your head and Aerion was already staring at you.

He had seen your face, the wide-eyed terror that you could not control, the way your other hand pressed against your belly with a groan that wasn't only pain. You watched the comprehension move through his face. Watched the anger disappear so completely it was as though it had never existed, replaced by something you had never seen on him in all the time you had known him.

Pure horror.

He dropped to his knees beside you so quickly the movement was almost clumsy. His hands hovered helplessly over you, unable to decide where to touch, terrified of making anything worse. His voice when he found it had nothing of the earlier cruelty left in it, was cracked and desperate.

He said your name, coming out in pieces. He said it again, louder, and again.

You felt the world go grey at the edges.

“No.” His voice broke. “No. No, stay with me-.”

He slipped one arm under your shoulders, the other against your back, taking you to the bed with tenderness. He was shaking, you could feel it in his hands, a fine tremor running through the same hands that had wielded swords, reduced to shaking by this one thing, this one moment, this thing he had done without meaning to.

“Guards!”

The shout cracked through the room and through the door and into the corridor beyond, not a command but a plea. The door burst open, weapons were half-drawn before the guards understood what they were seeing. He didn’t even look at them.

“Get the maester.” His voice had gone frighteningly quiet. “Now.”

The room exploded into motion. Voices, footsteps, the fire being stoked higher so that the room blazed with sudden light, linens appearing from somewhere, the sound of running in the corridor beyond. Aerion's hand found yours, cold fingers intertwined with colder ones, he held on tightly and his other hand settled over the curve of your belly. Then he leaned forward until his forehead rested against your temple, words coming out in a whisper, just for you.

“I'm sorry.” His voice fractured on the word. “I'm so sorry.” He said it again, and again. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.” The same desperate prayer, each syllable trembling and broken.

You came back to yourself in fragments. A contraction rolled through you with terrifying force, dragging you upward from darkness and slamming you back into your body. Your breath came back first, sharp and gasping, and then your eyes, unfocused on the ceiling and the blazing light above you, then the awareness of where you were, what was happening, the sound of the maester's voice somewhere at the edge of your hearing giving orders.

And through all of it Aerion's hand, still holding yours, your fingers tightened around his.

Another contraction hit, harder than the first, and your back arched and your fingers dug into his hand with a force you had not known you possessed, and a moan escaped that you couldn't contain. You heard the maester's voice cutting through the chaos, clear and firm.

Aerion caught your hand to his lips, a kiss against your knuckles, soft, and then another on the back of your palm, his breath warm and unsteady there, lingering like a prayer he hadn't finished saying, his forehead dipped toward your hand.

“It's okay,” you whispered.

His head lifted immediately, and his eyes found yours, the disbelief in his face almost hurt to see. You were pale and soaked in sweat, in more pain than you had known existed before tonight, and somehow you were the one comforting him.

“It's not your fault,” The words wavered but held.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It is,” he said, barely above a breath.

“We can argue about that later.” A weak smile touched your lips. “After.”

Something moved through his expression, something he could not contain and did not try to, for once. He turned his face away for a moment and pressed your hand against his cheek, and you felt him breathe, just breathe, the shaking in his hands had not entirely stopped.

“Push, my lady.” The maester's voice cut through everything. “Now.”

You obeyed.

The sound that came out of you was nothing you recognized as your own voice. It came from somewhere animal and desperate, and your body tensed into it like a bow being drawn past its limits, Aerion stayed beside you, steady as stone, allowing you to crush his hand if you needed to.

“Again! Push!”

You screamed and you pushed harder than the first time.

And then, a cry, small, thin, breaking through the storm and the pain and the chaos of the room like a needle through cloth.

The maester lifted the child, small and red-faced and furious, wailing his outrage at existence. Through your exhaustion you caught sight of silver hair gleaming in the candlelight, that was entirely, unmistakably Aerion’s.

Then the maester's expression changed, only slightly.

“Another.” The room froze. “A second babe my lord, and tangled.”

Aerion's hand went cold around yours; you looked at him, is attention snapped toward the master then toward you. The contractions returning, faster now, harder, your body pressing on before you had been given a moment to simply breathe.

“I can't,” you cried, you had given everything you had, there was nothing left in you to give. “I can't do it-.”

“You can.” The maester's voice, firm but not unkind. He wouldn’t dare to do so in the presence of the brightflame prince.

Aerion bent close, his mouth brushed your ear.

“You can do this.” His voice was rough at the edges, still cracking. “My princess. You are the strongest person in this room. You are the strongest person I have ever met-.” His hand tightened around yours. “You can do this. Do you hear me? You can.”

Somewhere inside yourself, you found one final reserve you didn't know where it had been hiding, didn't know how it still existed.

You pushed, your back lifted from the bed, and Aerion's arm went behind you, an anchor, solid and unwavering, bracing you against the force of yourself.

And then silence, the maester working with swift, silent efficiency, and the room holding its breath around him, and no sound from where the second child should have been. No cry came, no sound. The maester's hands moved, one firm touch, once, twice. He leaned down and breathed into its tiny lungs.

Then, a faint hiccup, so small you almost imagined it. One more breath from the master, one more firm touch against it, and then a cry.

Thin and wavering and furious and entirely, completely, overwhelmingly alive. Your eyes filled instantly, tears spilled before you could stop them. Aerion exhaled hard, pressing a hand over his eyes, a single, private instant, and then it dropped. He looked at the two small faces being cleaned and wrapped in the firelight.

The midwife placed one child carefully in his arms and he looked down. Small, red-faced, silver-haired, tiny fists already protesting the world with remarkable determination. And suddenly every wall he had ever built disappeared, there was nothing left of the prince, there was only a father holding his son.

He leaned toward you, slowly, the child cradled against his chest, and pressed his lips to your forehead, careful and gentle, filled with something too large for words.

You looked at the child in your own arms, your bundle of small, perfect outrage, and felt the child in his being shifted gently closer, until two very small faces were inches apart. Both silver-haired, both absolutely, terrifyingly, entirely real.

“Twins,” you whispered, your voice came out hoarse and ruined but you did not care at all.

Aerion looked at you, his eyes still glassy. “Twins," he said.

“They're perfect,” you said.

He looked down at the small face in his arms.

Then, quietly. “Yes,” he said. “They are.” His thumb brushed the baby's cheek.

Neither of you spoke for a while, your head rested against his shoulder, his arm lay around you. The child in your arms had finally settled, his tiny face relaxed into a peaceful expression, you brushed your thumb over his cheek, his skin was impossibly soft, untouched by wind or sun or the roughness of the world.

You could have stayed like that forever.

“How are we going to call them?” you asked, your voice came out softer than intended, almost swallowed by the crackling fire. The question felt delicate somehow, as though speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile thing had settled over the room.

Aerion was quiet for a moment.

“I have been thinking about it for some time,” he said at last. “I was hoping for your approval.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him and his eyes were on the child in his arms, the first-born.

“Tell me.” you said.

He was quiet for another moment.

“Baelor,” he said. “And Maekar.” He was still watching the child in his arms, and the line of his mouth lifted, too sad to be a full smile. “It is my own immaturity that killed my uncle,” he said with and even voice. “Not my father. It was only my fault.”

He turned slightly, and something in his face stopped the protest before it reached your lips.

“I do not need reassurance,” he said. “Nothing is going to change my mind about that.”

You closed your mouth and he looked back at the child.

“But I thought…” His fingers adjusted the blanket around the baby with surprising care. “Perhaps I could give them another chance. In this new life.” He paused. “To be brothers again.”

The tears came before you could stop them and he turned to look at you then. Whatever reaction he had expected, it clearly was not this, his hand rose, he brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb, slow and careful.

“Why are you crying, my love?” he asked with genuine confusion.

“Because what you're doing is utterly sweet, Aerion.” Your voice trembled despite yourself. “I'm proud of you.”

For a moment he simply looked at you.

“And of course you have my approval,” you added.

A quiet breath escaped him, a soft laugh, it lingered somewhere close to happiness in his chest. He looked down at the child in his arms, Baelor II. Aerion lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the child's forehead, the touch so light it barely disturbed him.

The child in your own arms stirred, a small, restless shifting, one tiny fist uncurling and recurling against your nightgown, Maekar II. The one who had frightened everyone, the one who had arrived second and nearly not at all, and who seemed, in the brief time you had known him, to have inherited his father's particular talent for making an entrance.

“Mmh…” You blamed the babe growing within you. Surely that had to be the reason, you thought, as you kissed him back with equal fervor, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while his arms lowered you to your marital bed.

“Heh,” Aerion chuckled under his breath, watching your screwed-shut eyes as you chased his lips, incredibly wanton to him.

Strange, wasn’t it? The way life could twist bitter enemies into lovers before either of them even realized it themselves.

Your breath hitched as his hands slid beneath your knees, spreading your legs apart. He broke the kiss then, drinking in the sight of you— and you became self-conscious, only then realizing that he had made a quick work of your dress and you had been left in nothing but your lace undergarments.

“Y-You can’t...” You pressed your lips together, instinctively touching the swell of your belly. “That won’t… be good for the babe.”

Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.

“Oh?” he drawled, violet eyes glinting as they swept slowly over you. “Then why, pray tell, are you dressed like this, sweet wife?”

He was right, this was your own doing. Why would you have chosen such a racy, provokating thing to wear tonight?

Perhaps because—even if you wouldn’t admit it—a part of you had already suspected the evening would end with his hands on you and that dangerously pleased look in his eyes.

“A lesser man might say you want to tempt him,” Aerion mused, tracing a slow finger along your cheek, his smile still unbearably wicked.

“So you are not tempted?” you questioned boldly, meeting his gaze, despite the furious heat blooming across your face.

“No.” He shook his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours, his voice smug and smooth as velvet. “I am, after all, a man blessed with extraordinary restraint.”

He said that, yet the way his sharp violet eyes focusing on your lips and the way his fingers drifted between your legs said otherwise.

Really, what man could resist the sight of his wife beneath him— soft, flushed, thoroughly marked as his with a babe in her belly while pretending innocence with those wide, coy eyes?

Your husband decided you were playing with fire, so you would get burned. Aerion suddenly slipped two fingers inside your underwear, before pushing one into your folds that made you wide-eyed and suck in a sharp breath—

“You just boasted about restraint!”

“And I possess it. I’m just choosing not to neglect my good wife,” he countered, his cruel grin returning as he inserted another finger, making you gasp in process.

Perfect. You were unraveling by the second, and he had barely even begun.

“There are, after all, many ways to pleasure an expecting wife like you... without compromising the babe.”

Such was your marital life now— with your prince bringing you pleasure nights after nights with the same greedy devotion he seemed to reserve only for you.

And somehow, this was merely the beginning of your happily ever after.

Ever since the word got out that you were with child, Aerion had become more protective of you.

Suddenly, servants were reprimanded for allowing sharp objects near your chambers, guards trailed several paces behind you whenever you wandered the gardens alone and healthy meals appeared at exact hours, prepared according to whichever elderly midwife had most recently filled Aerion’s head with warnings.

And once again, you noticed it most that afternoon when you merely tried to descend the stairs.

Your husband had been halfway through a conversation with his steward when he abruptly stopped speaking altogether, violet eyes narrowing upon you as you placed a hand against the railing.

“…What are you doing?”

You turned to him, blinking innocently. “Walking.”

Not that he would admit it or realize it himself though.

The steward wisely lowered his head, pretending sudden fascination with the floor tiles as Aerion strode towards you with an irritated frown.

“You nearly slipped yesterday,” he hissed, sliding an arm around your waist as he carefully guided you down the stairs.

You rolled your eyes, remembering how you stepped on a parchment the night before. “It was a harmless accident— and for the last time, no, I wasn’t slipping!”

Truthfully, beneath your outward annoyance, deep inside, you were sort of delighted. Because truly, who would have imagined that the arrogant dragon prince would express concern in ways that were somehow endearing?

Or more like, inconveniently endearing.

“Huzzah,” you declared with the flattest tone the moment your feet reached the bottom step, folding your arms dramatically as you turned to him. “I have survived the dreadful staircase, lord husband. Thanks to you.”

Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.

. . .

Soon, it was evident before the rest of Summerhall too.

You lifted your chin, eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “You dismissed a maid yesterday because she served me tea that was slightly too hot. Aerion, this has become ridiculous!”

The Bright Prince, however, remained unmoved, believing his actions were perfectly sensible. “She had one job yet failed to perform it properly. It could have scalded you.”

“You also confiscated my riding boots!”

“You are not riding, wife—”

Behind the half-open door of the solar across the hall, two spectators to your marital quarrel were your husband’s brothers. Daeron raised an eyebrow while young Aegon looked moments away from bursting into hysterical laughter.

“You are enjoying this far too much, Egg,” Daeron muttered dryly.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered back. “This is Aerion we are talking about. Aerion!” He gestured dramatically towards the door with both hands. “The same brother who once claimed affection was ‘a weakness designed by the gods to humiliate men’!”

Well, neither Daeron nor Egg had ever imagined they would witness their notorious middle brother reduced to hovering over his wife. This was indeed a sight.

“I have ridden since childhood!”

“And now you are carrying my child, woman—”

Daeron gave up at last, a chuckle escaping him too. “I never thought I would live long enough to see Aerion become a mother hen.”

“A dragon hen,” Egg corrected conspiratorially, as he strained his ears, thoroughly enjoying your marital dispute.

Another moon passed by, and the maester advised you to get more rest from now on as later moons will prove far more taxing on your body.

However, a royal summons arrived from King’s Landing not long after. The King himself intended to host a grand celebration tourney in honor of the birth of your first child—and both you and your husband were commanded to remain at court for the remainder of your confinement.

You were leaving Summerhall behind, but that was the least of your concerns.

Aerion would be entering the lists.

You had known he would before he even said it aloud. Aerion Brightflame would sooner stop breathing than ignore an opportunity to prove himself before the realm. Under ordinary circumstances, you would proudly bestow your favor upon him and watch him ride with your head held high, but—

Your labor pains could begin while he was in the field. He would be absent from the birthing chambers. Worse, he could get injured—

The thought should not have affected you as much as it did. Men rode in tourneys, princes fought for glory, and discomfort in childbed is how women served the realm.

And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—

“The shape sits high,” the midwife in King’s Landing had declared while measuring your belly, now heavier and more pronounced than ever in your seventh moon. “And my lady craves salted meats more than sweets. It should be a boy.”

Everyone seemed most pleased by the possibility. Aerion himself made it clear he favored a son. You, however, found yourself uncertain what to feel.

. . .

“Where is my lady wife?”

Contrary to what most might have assumed, Aerion was not particularly pleased to be back in King’s Landing.

The long journey from Summerhall had exhausted you so thoroughly that you had scarcely risen from bed for several days. Sure, the grand tourney stirred his excitement— his grandsire honoring the birth of his firstborn with such spectacle was a distinction not even his cousin Valarr had received.

But King’s Landing was still where rumors of another Blackfyre uprising drifted through like smoke, and with your confinement only weeks away, Aerion found himself increasingly ill at ease. These days, peace only came when you were somewhere within his sight.

“The Lady Lannister is bathing in the royal spring, my prince.”

The spring behind Aegon’s High Hill had long since become property of the royal family, secluded from common visitors and hidden behind walls of stone and tangled greenery. It was meant to be a place of relaxation— but still not somewhere his heavily pregnant wife should be wandering unattended.

His irritation simmered all the way through the winding path. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead as Aerion pushed past hanging branches with impatient steps. He had half a mind to rebuke you the moment he arrived—

But every thought dissolved into dust the instant he saw you.

You stood waist-deep within the pristine spring waters, your body half-submerged in the cool waters. A white shift covered your breasts, but the generous swell of your stomach was exposed under the sunlight. Layers of skirts floated around you like scattered clouds, preserving your modesty while doing very little to dull the breathtaking sight before him.

The sight of you beneath the open sky, drenched in sunlight and water was ethereal. He was rooted near the edge of the spring, spellbound.

At nights, he had worshipped that divine body of yours with greedy hands and wandering lips, had learned every sigh you tried to hide, had savored the softness of your thighs, and the sleepy way you clung to him.

But, in the light of day, the temptation of you felt almost cruel.

His gaze lowered shamelessly over the curve of your figure, lingering upon your barely concealed breasts first, before trailing lower. Pride unfurled hotly in his chest at the sight of your rounded belly, heavy and almost ripe. You carried his blood there.

Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to calm the sudden heat crawling beneath his skin.

You noticed him then.

Your eyes lifted towards to him, and the moment your face softened at the sight of him, whatever remained of his irritation died completely.

“Well?” you asked with a coy smile, tilting your head slightly. “Are you merely going to stare, husband… or are you going to join me?”

Like some bewitched mortal lured by a river nymph from old Valyrian tales, the Bright Prince descended the stone steps without hesitation. His boots scraped against damp stone as he shrugged off his doublet with careless impatience, dark eyes never once leaving you.

By the time he stepped into the spring, he was clad only in his dress shirt and breeches, the cool water curling around him as he crossed towards you and drew you effortlessly into his embrace from behind.

“Standing there as though the Maiden herself rose from the spring,” Aerion murmured against your ear, lips brushing the damp skin beneath it. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you intend to torment me in broad daylight?”

“I needed time to think,” you countered softly, though your breath caught when his wandering hands settled upon your chest beneath the wet fabric.

“To think? About what?”

You bit your lower lip as the waters lapped gently around the two of you. The way your face now marred with a frown made him click his tongue.

“Speak, wife. I dislike that look upon your face.”

“You are going to join the tourney,” you admitted at last, turning to face him. “While I may very well be laboring alone.”

“I shall return victorious,” he vowed, his violet irises blazing with conviction. “I shall place every honor I win before you and our child, just as it should be.”

Yet he could feel how you were unsatisfied with his answer. Aerion sighed quietly before lowering his mouth to your shoulder, brushing a kiss against your damp skin.

“You fret too much. The midwives will attend you day and night. You have nothing to fear— I will make certain of it.”

You pursed your lips, feeling foolish for being sullen knowing his presence would be demanded in the field regardless, but you just couldn’t help it.

Aerion fell silent for a moment, his hold around you tightening almost instinctively beneath the water.

“Look at me,” he commanded suddenly, and you did reluctantly, your lips still puckered in dissatisfaction.

Gods, how sweet could you be?

“Stop filling your little head with nonsense. I will return to you unscathed. Your task is to rest, eat whatever strange cravings seize you, and carry my child safely.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t stray from his gaze.

“Aerion—”

“I’m not finished.” His tone sharpened, though the hand cradling your face remained gentle. “I have ridden in tourneys since I was barely tall enough to hold a lance. I have been thrown from horses, split open, battered, and yet I remain standing before you now. And you think some hedge knight or a lordling’s second son could best me?”

A ghost of arrogance curved his lips. “I think not.”

His violet eyes swept over your face then. Gods, you looked painfully sweet like this— so soft with vulnerability.

“You carry blood of the dragon,” he murmured, his palm spreading over the curve of your belly beneath the water. “Do not insult either of us by imagining I would fail to return to you. And if your labor does begin while I am away...”

The thought seemed to sour his expression. “Then you will endure it exactly as I know you will. Know this, I will return to your side the moment I am able.”

You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”

Aerion snorted, his lips curling into a smirk. “You married the wrong man if you expected sweet comforts from me, wife.”

You let out a soft scoff despite yourself, some of your spirits finally lifting seeing his infuriating confidence.

“There,” he murmured smugly, poking your cheek when you broke into a little smile. “Are you done sulking now?”

“Perhaps not for long,” you countered lightly, throwing him a look. “If my husband fails to comfort me properly, perhaps I ought to find another man willing to do so.”

Aerion’s expression hardened at once, violet eyes narrowing as his grip around your waist tightened beneath the water.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

A dark look crossed his face, then—

He devoured your lips, one powerful arm locked securely around your waist while his other hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head. The cool spring water rippled sharply around you as he deepened the kiss with blatant possessiveness, as though determined to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

When he broke the kiss, you breathlessly clutched his body for support. Breathing heavily against your lips, his voice dropped to a fiercely low growl—

“I wouldn’t let another man touch you while I still draw breath... oh sweet wife of mine.”

“My lady, I trust you are well?”

House Targaryen hosted a grand luncheon several days later within the halls of the Red Keep, gathering notable lords and ladies from across the realm.

You had been navigating the crowd with practiced grace when a warm, familiar voice cut through the ambient noise. Turning, you found yourself facing your cousin-by-law, the Prince Valarr Targaryen.

“Your Grace,” you greeted with a bright smile and slight curtsy. “Yes, I have been well.”

The Young Prince had arrived from Dragonstone with his wife. From where you were, you could see the princess consort mingling with other guests with radiant smile and perfect decorum.

She truly is beautiful, you often thought to yourself. Delicate features, graceful bearings, eyes that seemed almost luminous beneath the candlelight— it was easy to understand why bards wrote songs about her beauty.

Valarr’s gaze dipped towards the unmistakable swell of your stomach, far too prominent now to be concealed beneath your dress.

“Good to see you, really. How far along are you now?”

A wistful smile came to your lips. “Near enough that everyone has begun hovering over me as though I might break apart at any moment.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him. “Still, you are in your most delicate state now. I imagine my cousin can’t stay still as well.”

“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”

You were still smiling when another voice suddenly joined the conversation. You turned to find Lord Manderly, stout and red-faced from the midday wine, waddled over with an easy grin, goblet in hand.

“With a wife as lovely as you, oh lady—” he slurred, “I imagine Prince Aerion guards you like a dragon atop treasure!”

“You flatter me, my lord,” you answered politely.

Lord Manderly waved a dismissive hand, laughing boisterously. “Not at all, not at all! Though I confess, recalling how the Prince Aerion making quite the spectacle of himself—” he turned to Valarr, “with you, my prince, years ago...”

Ah, that story you once heard in a passing too. The tourney in King’s Landing, in which Valarr and Aerion fought each other in a contest of arms, supposedly, over pride.

Valarr’s expression shifted almost immediately. “My lord—”

But Lord Manderly, either oblivious or too deep in wine to notice, continued on cheerfully enough—

“For a long time, everyone was talking about how the Bright Prince was quite captivated by Her Grace’s beauty! Enough to demand her favor and fight her husband!”

You blinked, realization settled over you with sudden, uncomfortable clarity.

“My lord, if I may.” Valarr cleared his throat, a restrained but cross look on his face. “Words are wind. A tourney floor is full of grand gestures and exaggerated flattery. I assure you, everyone would do well not to concern themselves with such baseless rumors.”

Lord Manderly’s red face drained of color all of a sudden as the weight of his social blunder finally registered.

“Oh Seven— forgive me, my lady!” he said quickly, turning towards you with genuine embarrassment. “A foolish old man’s rambling, is all! My deepest, most sincere apologies— I meant absolutely no disrespect to you, nor to Prince Aerion!”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Manderly,” you replied smoothly, your voice a perfectly crafted mask of composure. “The wine is indeed potent today.”

Relieved to be dismissed, Manderly excused himself with hasty bows, and Valarr quickly steered the conversation back to safer waters before he also excused himself from you.

You appeared to be smiling, but deep inside, you were perturbed.

Your eyes involuntarily scanned the crowded solarium, searching through the sea of silks and velvet until they landed on your husband standing amongst a cluster of knights and courtiers.

And right in that moment, you caught how his gaze followed not you, but the princess consort at the far corner of the hall.

Something inside your chest curled unpleasantly, but you decided not to dwell in it. Whatever might have existed between them once, they meant nothing now, you assured yourself.

So, to distract your wandering thoughts, you reached for the tea the server had offered to you, thinking to calm your nerves—

Until the citrus scent suddenly turned rancid in your senses, so putrid it made your stomach lurch violently that you spit it out and let go of the porcelain cup.

. . .

When a loud crash rang through the solarium, Aerion’s attention snapped instantly toward the disturbance.

And much to his surprise— in the middle of it stood you.

Standing amidst shattered porcelain, you had one hand covered your mouth while the other clutched at your abdomen, your face drained of all color as though you might collapse where you stood.

He immediately dashed towards where you were, nearly sending one poor lord stumbling aside in his haste. The crowd parted instinctively for him as he crossed the hall at frightening speed.

By the time he reached you, his hands were already on you.

“What happened?” he demanded immediately, gripping your arms as his eyes swept frantically over your form.

You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. “T-The tea…”

“What?”

You shook your head weakly, leaning into him. “It tastes so foul—”

His gaze snapped toward the shattered mess beside your feet. Without hesitation, Aerion crouched and snatched up what remained of the broken cup from the floor. The pungent scent hit almost immediately, and his expression darkened in realization.

Moon tea. He recognized it instantly—it had once been his most reliable safeguard during his years frequenting whorehouse before he wed you. He had forced it into those unkempt women after he was finished with them.

However, even a single sip could have made you miscarry. Someone has intended exactly that.

Aerion surged back to his feet at once, turning towards you so quickly with wild eyes.

“Did you drink any of it?” he demanded harshly. “Did you?”

You shook your head immediately. “No—”

Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.

Aerion closed his eyes briefly before gripping the back of your head, pulling you to his embrace. You breathed in his scent, your nausea receded somewhat.

Around the two of you, the solarium had begun to descend into chaos. Voices overlapped in alarm while guards moved swiftly through the hall. Servants looked petrified, several nobles already retreating from the tables entirely as whispers of poison spread like wildfire.

Moon tea. At a royal luncheon. You. When Aerion lifted his head again, the relief in his expression had vanished entirely, and in its place was pure fury.

“Seal the hall,” Aerion ordered sharply, but at first, no one moved quickly enough for his liking. “I said seal the fucking hall!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall.

Kingsguard immediately surged into motion. Doors slammed shut. Panic rippled through the gathered guests as guards began seizing servants and blocking every exit from the hall.

“No one leaves this place,” Aerion continued, drawing you protectively against his side while his vengeful gaze remained fixed upon the crowd.

“I want every servant, cook, and miserable soul here questioned. One step forward— and I will have your head severed and hung to rot in Flea Bottom for all to see.”

You could feel the hammering of his heart in your ears. His expression still murderous, it was only when he looked back down at you did some fragment of restraint finally return to his face.

“You are certain you swallowed none of it?” he asked again, quieter and softer this time.

You looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I am certain.”

Aerion searched your face carefully, as though trying to convince himself you truly stood unharmed before him.

And in that moment, you found yourself clinging to him instinctively—your steadfast protector amidst the chaos.

The entire castle remained in uproar long after you had been escorted back to your chambers. The server who had handed you that accursed tea was apprehended with ease, and Aerion had gone personally to beat the fear of the gods into him in the dungeons.

Yet another Blackfyre loyalist hidden amongst the castle’s walls like a serpent. No one told you exactly what became of him, but when your prince returned not long after, there had been blood across the cuffs of his tunic that certainly had not belonged to him.

By then, relief and exhaustion had finally overtaken you, dragging you into a light and restless sleep. You awoke sometime later in his arms, to the soft crackling of the fire.

His deep violet eyes were fixed on you, dark shadows under them as if he hadn’t been resting at all.

“You’re not sleeping...?”

“Was about to.”

Though he tried to conceal it, exhaustion lingered plainly across his face. It was rare to see Aerion so bare and vulnerable like this.

The memory came rushing back all at once then. The putrid stench, the panic in the hall, the horrifying realization that someone had wanted you and your child dead before they had even drawn breath—

A tremor ran through you before you could suppress it and your husband engulfed you in his embrace, holding you tightly.

“Cease this at once, wife,” he whispered in your ear, sounding almost irritated despite his obvious and clumsy attempt at comfort. “So long as I draw breath, no one will harm you.”

Your eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”

“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”

“No.” You shook your head against his chest, your voice small and bitter. “Make him suffer first, and only then do you give him a painful death.”

That actually managed to pull a dark smile from him. “No,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against you. “I will make him rot first. Death is a mercy he has to earn.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips when you pulled away from his hold, though worry still lingered beneath your ribs.

“There.” Aerion brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his violet eyes warmer than you had ever seen before. “Better already.”

How both of you reached this point astonished even you. The mad boy who had terrorized your childhood, your enemy who had become your destined husband— Aerion Brightflame was your greatest bane of existence too.

Yet here you were, trusting him more than anyone else alive in Westeros. You knew his cruelty, but you also knew his loyalty—and you knew, just as surely as he would make anyone who ever came close to harm you rue the day they ever did, he would guard you like a dragon atop treasure.

And because of that, the doubt in your voice was softer than it might have once been when you finally asked:

“…What if the babe is a girl?”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately, as though the question itself puzzled him.

“A princess,” you explained, fingers drifting protectively over your stomach. “You value a son and heir above all else. But who could have known the will of the gods?”

Aerion stared at you for a long, unreadable moment, as though carefully weighing your words before at last letting out a scoff.

“Mark my words now, wife, for I will not repeat them. I require that this child, boy or girl, survives.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. However, his expression hardened slightly afterwards.

“And the same goes for you. If you don’t, I will never, ever forgive you.”

In that moment, you thought you would willingly give everything of yourself to place this child safely into his arms. You would give him a son too, gods willing.

You reached for your husband then, pulling him down into the purest and sweetest of a kiss.

“Be welcome, noble knights and lords of the realm!”

Commoners and nobles alike buzzed with excitement for the grand tourney, their cheers echoing throughout the stands. High up on the royal dais, King Daeron stood, his voice amplified by the roaring acoustics of the arena as he opened the games with salutations.

“...and this glorious day has been made all the more blessed by joyful news,” the good king proclaimed proudly. “My beloved granddaughter has begun her labors! May the Seven grant fortune to every combatant this day!”

Down on the field, however, the King’s words brought no celebration to the man affected most.

Aerion sat atop his warhorse, motionless. Beneath his dark armor, his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. While other knights waved jovially at the crowd, his gaze was locked entirely on the opposing end of the lists.

Your pains had started since last night. Through the early hours of midnight, you had endured them in silence, determined to hold yourself together a little longer, yet occasionally curling into him for comfort. By dawn, however, you were in tears, and every hour after that became a new torment for you.

But when it came time to see him off this morning, you had refused to look weak. Sweat clung to your face, and your eyes were glistening, but a fierce light burned right through them. Gripping his armor, you had hissed a command through gritted teeth:

“Win that fucking tourney, and only then are you allowed come back to me, husband.”

“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”

A violent, dark impatience overtook him.

“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”

If he had to tear through every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to get back to your side, he would do it. And he would do it quickly.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”

Lowering his visor with a sharp, echoing snap, Aerion gripped his lance. He would come back as a victor, exalted and feared, and you would give him his child.

Your child too. He knew already they would be sweet, just like you.

“—will choose his first opponent!”

. . .

The air inside your birthing chambers was thick by midday, smelling heavily of copper, sweat, and the sharp scent of crushed lavender oil the maids used to soothe the air.

But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.

Another of your heartbreaking wails filled the air when another violent contraction hit, seizing your spine and twisting your abdomen with a malice that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

“Push, my lady! You must push!” the midwife urged, her hands busy prodding you beneath the heavy linens. “The child is close, but you cannot lose your strength now!”

Your body felt broken, torn apart from the inside out. Your eyes were rimmed with tears of pain and pure exhaustion, blurring the stone walls of your chambers into a hazy nightmare.

Your prince was out there tearing through the realm’s finest knights just to earn the right to return to your side. He was conquering the field for you. For this child.

And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.

“Again!” the midwife commanded when that familiar, iron grip curling and seizing your womb once more. “Now, my lady!”

But the next wave was the most terrible pain you had ever experienced, and your voice cracked into raw scream as you pushed with every last shred of strength left within your body.

You could feel the crushing pressure, the burning fire, the blinding and unforgiving sensation of your very body being split apart—

The midwife cried, her voice rising in triumph over the distant rumble of the arena:

“I see the head! One more, my lady! Give me everything you have!”

. . .

“The Prince Aerion wins!”

He had done it. The second he threw the other knight off his horse and he yielded, he had ridden his warhorse, torn his helmet off, and marched towards your chambers like a specter of death.

In his frantic rush to end his final foe, he had made one careless mistake though— leaving his guard down just enough for a lance to slice a deep gash down his forearm, and now crimson blood dripped steadily onto the pristine floors with every step towards your chambers.

He had been told that you had tethered between life and death—shivering before falling unconscious the moment the child was born.

“My prince! You cannot go in there!” a maid cried, stepping in front of the heavy oak doors, her hands raised in horror. “You are covered in filth! The lady must be kept clean, the babe—”

“Get a maester to dress my wound,” he spat viciously, making the poor girl recoil. “Now.”

The maester came soon, scrambling to pour a wine over the wound to cleanse it, hastily wrapping a fresh linen binding over the gash. It was a rushed job, done in mere seconds. The white linen instantly bloomed with a fresh patch of red. His attendant quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face and helped him out of his armor as fast he could.

Aerion shoved them away after they were done, turning back to the heavy doors, but the midwives still stood there, hesitant between duty and fear.

His arm burned, exhaustion and blood loss leaving him half-delirious, and they knew better than to deny him his right. Aerion stormed into the chambers, drawing gasps from the wet nurses and your maids. Instinctively, every gaze in the room flickered toward the small bundle wrapped in linen within the cradle beside the hearth.

They expected him to demand his heir. They expected him to look for the son he had so desperately coveted—

But to their surprise, he didn’t even spare a glance at the cradle. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and went straight to where you lay still.

“Wife,” he breathed hoarsely, reaching for you at once. “I am here.”

You were deathly pale. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, as if you were pulling yourself back from a long, deep sleep.

Then, you looked up and smiled at him— so beautiful and tender it nearly broke him.

He gathered you into his arms, engulfing you in a fierce, crushing hug— pressing a hard kiss to the crown of your head. You let out a watery laugh, clutching at him too.

“It is a son,” you told him with pride. “He looks just like you.”

Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle at that. In truth, the idea of a daughter didn’t seem terrible to him at all right now.

In fact, now that the thought had crossed his mind, he found himself wanting a pretty little girl too... one who had your eyes and your smile.

History would fondly remember the romance between the bitterest enemies who found the truest of love, for the realm had borne witness to that auspicious day—

The dragon prince has won his triumph, and so has his lion princess.