«life is ours, we live it our way.»

The past few days had been anything but enjoyable.

No one from the Districts really associated the Capitol with anything positive at all. Despite the humongous amount of propaganda they shared, advertising it as something so great and glorious, only they themselves were actually dense enough to believe it. Everyone else was glad to stay as far away from it as they possibly could.

A lot of people would rather live in poverty, wondering every day if they’d go to bed hungry or not, than even step foot into the Capitol. Countless people did. Snow and his team had been brainwashing the entirety of Panem for decades. With some, it worked. With some, it didn’t. Surprisingly enough, it seemed to be more effective in the lower districts, the ones closer to the Capitol. The ones that were already quite rich themselves.

Alright, maybe it wasn’t that surprising.

Unfortunately, there were times where going to the Capitol was inevitable.

The worst of them all was getting reaped for the annual Hunger Games. And even worse, if you happened to be the lucky person to return back home, it wouldn’t be the only time you’d ever stepped foot in the Capitol. Though lucky might not have been the right word.

The peace and quiet that was promised to the victors of the Hunger Games never truly comes. Year by year, they need to return to the Capitol, stepping in as mentor for two more unlucky kids that would most likely need to lay their life down way too early. Or to attend the parties and galas President Snow loved to host.

And despite masking these events as peaceful get-togethers, to let the Capitolites and the victors connect, they knew it was punishment wrapped in silk and riches. There was no backing out of the Capitol events. If Snow called, you answered. And if you didn’t, he’d make you feel it. Regret it.

Returning from these type of trips always left you hollow, a shell of who you once were. That small part of yourself that the arena hadn’t been able to erase, to steal from you, it always dimmed and flickered each time Snow called for your presence. The talking to the journalists, having to relive the worst moments of your games all over again. It wrecked you. Each and every single time.

And by seeing the silent smugness and satisfaction on Snow’s face at these galas, you knew he revelled in the suffering of his precious victors. He thrived in it.

How you wanted to drive an axe through his head.

Despite everything, you called yourself lucky. As lucky as you could be, in a world like this. With a fate like yours. Said luck came in the form of two words. One person.

Haymitch Abernathy.

He had won the Hunger Games two years prior to you. And arguably, he’d had a fate worse than yours. The 50th Hunger Games. The second Quarter Quell. Twice as many tributes. Only one victor.

You could remember watching his games, watching one of the boys you’d seen around the district countless times, fighting for his life, losing people that he considered friends and family. Having to become a murderer for the sake of survival.

He’d won, barely alive by the time the last cannon had fired, announcing the end of the games.

And as soon as he’d returned home, his suffering only worsened. His house burned down, his mother and little brother right with it. It was adamant that it certainly wasn’t an accident.

Snow must have had a personal vendetta against him. And after having returned from your own victory tour with him, he’d explained to you that he’d tried to destroy the arena. End the Hunger Games. That they’d manipulated the footage to make it seem like nothing happened.

That explained Snow’s actions. Explained, not justified. Because this type of cruelty could simply not be justified.

It had been four years since the 50th Hunger Games. Two since the day you’d miraculously made it out of that hellhole alive.

And now that boy had become your pillar. The reason you hadn’t completely lost yourself to the grasps of insanity that tried to wring their hands around your neck and squeeze every last ounce of your soul out of your being until nothing but a hollow shell remained.

And you’d be as bold as to say that you were the same for him.

Despite having two different houses in the victor’s village, most of your time was spent together in one of the two estates. Mostly his. Because as tragic as it was that he was forced to live alone, no family left to keep him company, you needed exactly that from time to time. Only him, no one else.

Your family, bless them, felt overbearing a lot of the time. They treated you as if the arena never happened. Which, technically, was a good thing. You didn’t want to be coddled or hovered around. You just wanted to be yourself. But that was the problem. “Yourself” had changed after the Hunger Games. The person you were before the Games did not exist anymore. Not in the same way.

And that was something your family struggled to accept. They just wanted their child back. Which you understood. More than you let on. You wanted nothing more than to be who you were before your name was called on that day. Before you were forced to endure and watch unimaginable horrors and survive them.

So, whenever you reacted to something not with the same enthusiasm you would have several years ago, when everything was still much simpler, your parents struggled. They didn’t know what to do with you. Sometimes, they got all quiet and tense, avoiding eye contact as they barely recognized who sat in front of them. You knew that feeling, better than anyone, every time you looked in the mirror.

Other times, they got angry. Mostly your mother. It was mostly because she was hurting, you knew. You knew she just wanted you to return to who you were before. When you were happier, more carefree. But you couldn’t. As much as you wanted to. Because being reminded of what happened each night when you closed your eyes made it difficult to let go.

Being forced to return to that wretched place every year made it impossible.

Tonight has been one of those nights.

Your mother had cooked dinner, something she came to enjoy greatly in the high quality kitchen from your house in the Victor’s Village.

She had cooked your favourite. What you could have eaten every single day as a child and never grown bored of it.

You hadn’t had the energy to eat one bite of it.

You’d just returned from the Capitol that morning, forced to attend one of Snow’s Galas. So eating was the last thing on your agenda. It made you nauseous to even think about. You felt sorry for your mother. She thought she could cheer you up with it. But you weren’t in a state to be cheered up.

You know she hadn’t meant any harm, that it was only her own frustration bubbling up as well, but when she had snapped at you, called you ungrateful as you didn’t even try and touch the food on your plate, you needed to get out. Get away from them.

Without a word, you had pushed back the chair, making a beeline for the door.

You walked a straight line across the street and up the front porch steps. You didn’t bother to knock. You pushed the door open and walked inside.

“Haymitch?” you called out, feeling your voice trembling in the slightest. You hated it.

When no answer came, you wandered further into the house, until you reached the living area. There he was, sprawled on one of the couches, head hung low. A glass of whatever liquor rested in his hands, still half full.

You sighed, lowering yourself onto the couch next to him. He startled as he felt the couch dip, his head turning to face you. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey.” you returned quietly, leaning back into the pillows.

You nodded towards his glass. “How many?”

“First one. I know, unbelievable.” he muttered, taking another sip.

You squinted, sceptical. For you, it was highly unlikely that this was only his first glass. You took in his face, his eyes, and found that indeed, he didn’t look drunk. At all.

“Why’re you here?” he asked then, his expression twisting into something almost concerned.

“My mother.” you responded, averting your gaze slightly.

“She cooked my favourite. Couldn’t even get one bite down. And she got angry.” you explained further.

“How fucking useless can I be?” you exclaimed, the frustration and all the suppressed emotions from the past few days coming back.

“My mother cooks me a meal. My favourite. And I don’t even eat it?”

You could hear how Haymitch sighed in response, setting the glass on the coffee table.

“It’s okay. Doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful or some shit. You’re just exhausted. Don’t break your head over it.” he tried to reassure you, soothe you slightly.

But by the way your breathing stayed as shallow, by the way your eyes stayed glassy, he knew it wasn’t working.

Another sigh.

“Okay, come on.” he said, standing up. “You’re staying here tonight.”

He held a hand out to you. When you only blankly stared at it and didn’t take it, he beckoned with his fingers impatiently. “I don’t got all night, so up with you.”

A small groan escaped him. “I’m trying to help you here. So just indulge me, hm?”

When, finally, you placed your hand in his, he pulled you to your feet and over to the stairs. He led you up and into the nearest bathroom. He sat you down on the edge of the bathtub.

“Alright, wait here.” he gave you a look before vanishing from the bathroom. Barely two minutes later, he came back with some of his clothes. A shirt and some pants. He held them out to you.

“Here. These should fit you. Get changed. Shout when you’re ready.”

It seemed your brain and your body had trouble catching up with everything he was currently doing for you. Your mother’s anger had left you rattled, so Haymitch caring for you felt completely absurd to you right now. Even if he often did. Subtly, you would have pay attention to notice it. But he always did.

He placed the clothes in your lap when you didn’t take them. “Get changed.” he repeated, before leaving the bathroom and pulling the door closed behind him.

With slow and almost sluggish movements, you slowly got changed. Pulled his shirt over your head, the black and soft fabric nice against your skin. Pulled the pants to your waist, securing them with the string.

Not being able to muster up the energy to call out for him, you simply reached for the doorhandle and opened the door, seeing him waiting, leaning against the opposite wall. He came back in, reaching for a spare toothbrush. He wet it under the running water, put some toothpaste on and once more, held it out to you.

“Think you can manage that?” he asked.

He sounded disgruntled. Every thing he said left him with a tone that suggested this was a burden to him. And in your state, it should have unsettled you further, should have made you shrink into yourself even more. But it didn’t. Because this was just… Haymitch.

He pretended like this was some great obstacle for him. Like nothing annoyed him more than caring for you. But you both knew he didn’t. Not enough to send you away. If he truly didn’t want to help you, take care of you, he would have told you to get out.

But even if he didn’t admit it. Didn’t have the courage to, after everything that happened to everyone he loved, he cared for you. More than he let on. And that is why he was doing this.

Why he was practically offering you to even brush your teeth for you. Why he asked if you could do it on your own, instead of just thrusting the toothbrush into your hands and telling you to get it done with.

You managed a nod, reaching to take the toothbrush from him.

He retrieved his own, and got to brushing his own teeth. The eye contact through the mirror, his attentive eyes on you the whole time, it calmed you. Like his presence always did. His a little bit grumpy behaviour, as if all of this was torture for him – even if you knew it wasn’t, not entirely, at least – it made you lean on him even more. Just as he did on you.

After brushing your teeth, he took your hand once more, leading you to his bedroom. He switched the bedside lamp on, casting a dim and warm light over the room. Nothing overwhelming, nothing too bright. Neither of you could handle it right now.

“Lie down.” he said it like it was an order. And in some way, it was. But not one with severe consequences, would you not obey. Not like it was with Snow. Or the Capitol. Where you would lose everything precious to you if you didn’t listen.

You moved to sit on the mattress, and Haymitch assisted you to get comfortable under the thick sheets.

“Good?” he asked. You nodded.

“Alright. I’ll be in the guest room. Shout if you need me.”

He was just about to turn and leave when your hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist. He looked at you with a mixture of shock and curiosity. You had slept in his house more than once. A lot of times, actually. He had accompanied you until here before. But never had you done this. Reach for him before he could leave.

“Stay?” you simply whispered, almost as if you were afraid to ask.

The look in his eyes softened remarkably at that, part of his façade slipping.

“Stay? You sure?” he asked, moving his hand so that your fingers weren’t around his wrist but rather encased by his.

You nodded. “Yeah, please.” you whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay.” he whispered back. He moved then, walking around the bed and getting under the sheets on the other side. He turned to face you, his blond hair sprawling across the pillow below him.

“Better?” he asked, reaching for the hand he’d been holding before, intertwining your fingers once more.

“Better.” you whispered, the touch of his hand soothing, grounding. It tethered you to the moment, rather than letting you stray to that dark place that existed in your head. It kept the demons at bay, letting you focus on his touch, his presence, rather than anything else.

And unbeknownst to you, it did the same to him. When you were with him, everything felt a bit lighter. Not easy, not entirely gone. But it stayed away for the meantime, lingering somewhere in the shadows but not coming closer. It felt manageable, controllable. It didn’t feel like a wild whirlwind of emotions that came crashing in like a giant wave and dragged him under. It felt like quiet sea. Where he could step in and it wouldn’t drown him.

And so he kept your hand in his, the both of you tethered to each other’s grounding presence and keeping the memories and terrors of the Capitol exactly there. In the Capitol. Not here, in District 12. At least for a few hours.

Both his and your breathing slowly start to even out as a comfortable silence settles between the two of you. You breathe almost in sync with him, both your chests raising and falling in the same rhythm. It is grounding, you find, the way his breath matches yours. The way he has not moved a single inch from where he is currently positioned on top of you.

You lie on the linens of his mattress, partially covered by the silken sheets. The fabric is comfortable against your skin, albeit slightly damp from the thin sheen of sweat which has formed on both your skins.

He still hovers over you, careful not to press too much of his weight on you. His forearms rest on either side of your head, one of his hands intertwined with yours on the plush pillow. His fingers are tight around yours, as if afraid you’d disappear, should he dare to let go.

His blond hair, which usually falls just to the ends of his neck, is not spared by gravity as the ends tickle over your cheeks where his face remains just inches from yours. His lips are almost close enough to brush yours. His eyes, the dark purple of them almost appearing black in the dim light, are sharp, attentive. Normally, a thin glaze lies over them, like a fogged up mirror, caused by the endless amount of wine he pours into his system. As if he could literally drown out his misery – wash it out of him with the wine.

But now, they are firmly locked onto yours with a focus, an intensity, which you have rarely ever seen in them. He has not drunken anything all day. A rare occurrence, as you cannot even recall the last time he ever went an entire day without it.

You notice how he trembles faintly, little tremors wracking through him. To the naked eye, it would almost be imperceptible. But you have been able to read your brother his entire life. You see things no one else does. Certain flicks of his eyes, certain twitches of his fingers. Every little movement that no one else would pay attention to helps you to figure out exactly what he is feeling, what he is thinking about, what he currently needs.

And the way his eyes now slowly start to avert from yours more and more, as you both come down from the highs of your pleasure, tells you that all the dark thoughts he had finally been able to put aside in your arms come creeping back. Infiltrating his mind and wrapping themselves around his neck like a vice, suffocating him.

Your hand, which had been resting on his shoulder – fingers curled tightly into the skin just mere minutes ago as you had clung to him in the heights of your desire – moves to the side of his face, gently resting over his skin. With the least amount of pressure you can muster, you tilt his head to face you directly once more.

Again, the minimal bit his head had moved away from yours would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not by you.

“Daeron.” you whisper, your tone gentle and barely audible, just enough for him to hear you, to ground him to your presence – if not anything else. “Open your eyes, love.”

Daeron had not even noticed at first that his eyes had fallen closed as he tries to fight against the demons taking root in his head. The past hour spent in your embrace, spent tangled with you in the sheets – it had let him escape from every single other thought he had.

During that time, there was only you. The way your lips felt on his, the way they trailed over his neck and shoulders. The way your hands roamed over his entire being, exploring every inch of him you could reach. He is pretty sure you had reached into his chest and laid bare his soul.

The way your little sounds had reached his ears as he brought you and himself pleasure, as he moved on top of you with slow and gentle shifts of his hips. Enough to take you both apart – not enough to entirely overwhelm. Not physically, at least. Mentally, spiritually, he feels absolutely destroyed, exposed. In the best way he has ever felt exposed in his life.

And now, as the last remnants of your shared pleasure had waned, leaving only the aftermath of it behind, the thoughts come creeping back. He feels them everywhere. From his toes to the top of his head. Everything feels like it is going to be consumed once more. And this time not by you, but by the darkness of his mind.

And he dreads it, fears it. The two of you had never done this before. But tonight, the terrors plaguing his sleeping mind had grown too much. Too cruel for even him to handle. Him, who has been cursed by these dreams all his life.

And you, his angel of a sister, must have a sixth sense just for him, he thinks. Because in the dead of night, barely minutes after he had woken up soaked in cold sweat, the doors to his chambers had creeped open and you had stepped through. You had made a beeline for him, crawling over the deserted side of his bed to where he sat with trembling fingers and wet eyes.

You had taken his hands in one of yours, willing them to stop trembling. You had cupped his face with the other, wiping at the lone tear which had escaped without his permission. You had pressed your forehead against his in the darkness of his chambers, only faint moonlight shining in through the windows, and you had leaned forward and pressed a chaste, lingering kiss against his lips.

No movement, no fervour. Just a gentle press, lips resting upon each other in the means to tether him to your presence, your comfort. Your warmth. One of his hands had left your grip and wandered to the side of your neck, needing to touch you, feel you.

For the first several minutes, it was the same as every night you came into his chambers with the intention to comfort him from his dreams, from the dark thoughts rooted so deep in him he feared they would never leave him and drag him down with them.

You had pulled away after a few minutes, your eyes locked onto his. Second after second passed, the eye contact never broken once. His thumb, almost subconsciously, had then moved to brush over your lower lip, eyes dropping to observe his own movement.

Your eyes had stayed on him, not oblivious to that certain glint which flashed through his eyes. That desperate need for escape. To forget. Even if only for a few moments.

The two of you had never crossed that boundary. Not yet. But in this moment, with Daeron completely sober and in obvious despair in front of you, that hint of need in his eyes, it only felt right.

You had leaned back in, your lips connecting to his once more. But that time, it was less gentle, less chaste. You mirrored his need, his want, feeling it welling up inside you once more.

And the both of you had given in. For the first time.

And now he still hovers on top of you, eyes remaining closed despite you gently prompting him to open them. Your thumb softly runs over his closed eye-lid with a barely there touch.

“Daeron, look at me.” you order tenderly. He finally does, his dark lilac eyes fluttering open and meeting yours, causing a little breath of relief to tumble past your slightly parted lips. As long as he looks at you, you can reach him.

“Breathe for me, my love.”

Your hand which is still tangled with his lifts from the pillow. You keep his hand in yours as you bring it to your exposed chest, right where your heart beats steady beneath the skin.

“Feel me. Just breathe. The thoughts and dreams cannot harm you here. Not while I am here. They cannot touch you.”

His breaths, which had turned ragged again, slowly evened again as he followed the way you breathe in and out. Deeply, slowly, carefully. In and out. In and out.

“Good, just keep breathing.”

Daeron insists in that moment you must be the only good thing the gods have blessed him with. Too good to be true. Because with your skin against his, with your voice in his ears, he feels how the horrors slowly fade away. They return to whatever place they had escaped to when you had first kissed him earlier that night.

He wants them to stay there forever and never come back. But he knows it is wishful thinking. Still, he wills himself not to think of it now.

The two of you had just shared something you had never shared with each other. He wants to enjoy it. Revel in the aftermath of it.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice still trembling slightly, still breathy as his gaze turns concerned for your own wellbeing. The hand which still rests on the pillow on the other side of your head brushes softly over the strands of hair which sprawl beneath you on the fabric.

You feel a soft smile break out onto your face as the first thing he says after several minutes of panicked and tormented silence is to inform himself about your wellbeing. You nod.

“I am more than alright. Do not worry for me.”

You nudge him slightly. “Come on, lay down. Let me take care of you.” you prompt him gently, helping him get comfortable on the mattress next to you as his weight finally leaves you, albeit reluctantly.

He keeps his eyes firmly trained on you as your brush the hair out of his face.

With almost sluggish movements, your limbs still weighted by the pleasure from before, you reach for the cup of water on the table by his bedside. You turn back to him, bringing the rim of the cup to his now dried lips.

“Drink.” you whisper, tilting the cup once his lips part just enough. He drinks down several swigs of the water, the cold liquid a soothing balm against the dryness of his throat. When he has had enough, you remove the cup from his mouth, taking a few sips of your own before placing it back on the table.

“Are you alright?” you ask him then, returning his earlier question.

He nods, faint, as the corner of his mouth twitches up in the slightest.

“Yes. I am now. Thank you, my angel.” he replies, his tone laced in loving softness as he looks at you with nothing but affection and admiration in his eyes.

To him, you are his angel, his darling sister. The only thing that can fight off the darkness in his head, his heart. Cast it out just with one brush of your lips, one word tumbling from your mouth.

He just hopes the gods will never be as cruel as to take you from him. For he would follow you instantly.

When you have convinced yourself he is being truthful, that he really is alright as of now, you lower yourself back onto the mattress next to him, gesturing for him to lay on you.

He scoots down just slightly, partially leaning on you as his head comes to rest just above your chest, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. One of his arms lays across your midsection, keeping you close to him. As close as he can.

Your hand comes to thread through his hair in soothing gestures, and you feel the way the last bit of tension in him slowly melts away. He completely relaxes against you.

“I love you.” he murmurs, already half-asleep, into your neck.

Your lips twitch upwards again as your eyes drop to look at him in your own adoration.

“I love you too, Daeron.”

song: dark thoughts - the funeral portrait

Several years ago, you’d been exiled to the city of Lys by your father. Back then, in the midst of your rage at being sent away from everything you’ve ever known, you never would have been able to comprehend just in what direction your life were to go once you reached the east.

Lys brought a lot of advantages with itself. Advantages you had not wanted to acknowledge when you’d first arrived, alone, angry and hurt. You’d been granted your own small residence. Carrying Targaryen blood – even if not technically seen as legitimate in the eyes of the Faith – had its perks, after all. You’d barely left it at first, still furious at the audacity of your father to send you to a place practically littered with whores.

But when the lack of food forced you to wander out into the markets, when the first places in the city began to attract your attention – you came to see just how much of a blessing it was that your father had sent you here, of all places. He’d done it as punishment, as a means to make you see reason, cure you from the poison which had taken root in your blood and mind – as he claimed.

How stupid he’d been to even think that a place such as this would help you better yourself. In Lys, you were free to do as you pleased. You could eat, drink and fuck as much as you desired – no one would bat an eye. The loose clothes made of silk felt like a gift from the gods, in comparison to the suffocating gowns and corsets you were made to wear back in Westeros. The weather was always warm and sunny, a stark contrast to the storms and winds from the west.

And no one hindered you in the practice of your magic. By the hearth in your house, you’d carefully positioned fourteen candles, just as you had back home. And this time, when you spoke the High Valyrian words beneath your breath, when you let droplets of blood trickle into the flames, no one barged into your room and dragged you out kicking and screaming. No one banished you from your home. Here, you were free to do whatever you wished.

The most interesting thing you would encounter in Lys, however, arrived mere moons after you. Aerion Brightflame.

A Targaryen prince, sent to the east to reflect on his actions, turn into a better man, after causing almost his entire family to fall apart at a tourney held for the nameday of a minor Lord’s daughter.

In Lys, most possessed Valyrian features. The silver hair, the bright eyes - either amethyst or blue – the pale skin. You’d sensed him different from the start. You had not seen him arrive by boat. You only knew that you had never seen him before when you laid eyes on him for the first time. But you knew instantly that this was not a simple Lyseni man. The short and almost spiky hair – nearly looking like scales – paired with the pride he carried within himself and the unmistakable lilac eyes. He practically radiated that royal stench that came naturally with Targaryens – a name you were raised to despise. But alas, those who raised you had turned you into an outcast as well.

You watched him, kept your eyes on him as he began to get accustomed to his new surroundings – and the freedom that came with it. One day, you decided you would not stay away any longer. You’d approached him while he lounged in one of the plush chairs outside a tavern, sheltered from the sun by the shade of the building as he sipped on a cup of some fruity wine from the free cities.

You slide your fingers over the back of his chaise as you round it, gaining his attention instantly. His sharp eyes follow your every movement. You do not falter, coming to a stop on front of him.

“A Targaryen prince in Lys.” you drawl, eyes roaming over his rather exposed body, as he had now also taken to dressing in Lyseni fabrics, rather than thick, red and black doublets or chainmail. You could see several angry scars littering across the visible parts of his upper  body, no doubt from wounds healed not long ago. The kind of scars that would fade with time, yet never disappear entirely.

“Tell me, your grace.” you go on, the title laced with thin mockery. “This vacation of yours, is it voluntary, or no?”

His eyes never stop following you, tracing every movement. Be it a twitch of your hand, or a quirk of your lips. He is assessing you, trying to categorize you.

“Which one of the princelings are you?” you continue when he still does not say anything. “You surely do not look like one of Breakspear’s brood. Too little… dornish.” you pause, eyes raking over him once more. His pale skin – slowly beginning to tan in the heat of Lys – has a reddish tint to it, making apparent that his body is not accustomed to this type of heat. The words were meant to tease, to provoke, and by the way his fingers curl just a tad bit tighter around the armrest of the chair, you can tell it’s working. By the way something hot and flaring flashes through those eyes of his at even the mere suggestion that he could come from the seed of Baelor Targaryen.

“One of the Anvil’s offspring, then?” you hum thoughtfully. “You have too much control over your cup to be the drunken one. One’s at the citadel, that could not possibly be you. Well, unless you’ve suddenly decided you had enough of the maesters and celibacy, which would make this a wonderful place to break free from those chains. The others are too young. No, you are the one they whisper about. The one they fear…” A pause. “Brightflame, is it?”

You can tell you have him in your clutches by the way an entirely different glint shines in his eyes at the mention of others fearing him. A certain satisfaction. You watch as his lips curl upwards in the slightest, finally giving you a reaction.

“And who are you, to be making such a bold advance on a prince of dragon blood?” he returns, the taunting in his tone matching yours perfectly.

“Y/N. Blackfyre.”

You cannot quite tell if your name causes his amusement to rise or vanish, as his expression turns almost unreadable.

“Blackfyre?” he repeats, humming shortly. His eyes assess you once more, roaming over your entire being before settling on yours again. “Awfully confident for someone whose family constantly loses against mine, are we?”

That coaxes as slight laugh from your lips, not at all deterred by what he surely means as an insult to you.

“Awfully big talk for someone who has not once fought in those rebellions, don’t you think?” you retort smoothly.

By the way his finger twitch, you assume he is torn between lashing at you like a feral dragon – something you’ve come to realize he reminds you of quite a lot – or joining your amusement.

He brings the cup of wine to his lips, eyes never once leaving yours as he takes a sip, tongue flicking out to taste what little liquid had caught in the far corner of his mouth. Ultimately, he settles on the latter, the sharp smirk from before creeping back onto his features.

“So, Brightflame. What was your name again?” you ask then, head tilting in the slightest. He likes the attention, you can tell.

“Aerion.” comes his reply, short and firm.

“Aerion.” you repeat after him, tasting the name on your tongue. You expect it to taste bitter. Like hatred and distain. You find it does not. It tastes dangerous, yet in a concerningly alluring way.

“And what exactly brings you to Lys, Aerion?” you ask then, all the while lowering yourself into the thickly cushioned chair next to his. Your body is angled in his direction just enough for it to appear intended.

“In the eyes of my father, it seems I am at fault for the events that led to my uncle’s death.” The reply comes smoothly, almost trivial, as if he were talking about the weather. As if he were completely indifferent to the fact that his uncle has passed.

Your heart stutters for a few seconds at his words, the meaning of them, the weight, settling in your mind. It takes a few moments for you to gather your senses and to manage a reply.

“Your uncle? You mean to tell me Baelor ‘The Hammer’ Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, is dead?” you ask in thinly veiled shock.

Aerion only hums in response, nodding once.

You exhale a breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.” A whirlwind of emotions arises inside of you. Happiness, relief, pride, uneasiness. It seems your conscious refuses to settle on one.

You snap out of the depths of your mind when Aerion speaks up this time. “And you? For what reason does a Blackfyre get sent to Lys?” he asks, unable to conceal his own curiosity. His gaze is filled with intrigue and suspicion, still unsure whether to trust you or not.

“Blood magic.” You reply and find that, hypocritically, you’ve said the two words with the same lack of weight to them as he had done when informing you about his uncle’s death.

Your eyes are locked onto his own as you say it. And to the day you die, you’d swear you’ve never seen someone’s stare of suspicion and hesitation turn into fascination and something dangerously close to devotion so fast.

****

As your time in Lys progressed, it seemed that Aerion found it difficult to stray from your side after that first meeting. It did not bother you in the slightest. Quite the opposite, as you yourself sought out his company quite often on the days he did not come to you on his own.

You showed him more hidden corners of the city, places one would rarely wander to on their own. Not without the purpose of finding them. You let him discover his newfound freedom – viewed as punishment by his family – and watched him grow to enjoy the ability to indulge in whatever he pleased. You showed him where he could drink the finest either local or imported wines to his heart’s content. Where, depending on his tastes, the best dishes from all around Essos and Westeros were served. And because you knew that everyone had their needs, especially men, you also showed him the finest pleasure houses with the prettiest Lyseni whores. They were pricey, but he was a prince of the blood – he could afford even the most expensive courtesans. And he did.

Aerion Brightflame quickly became known among the brothels of Lys. And not only in those he frequented. The pleasure girls either anticipated a visit from him, or dreaded it. Rumour spread like wildfire that the prince enjoyed his endeavours rather rough. And not the regular roughness one could expect from a man of his standing.

They said that he revelled in the taste of blood just as much as in that of a woman’s desire. That his teeth were sharper than they appeared and that breaking skin came naturally to him – that it brought him pleasure. He liked his whores pretty and dolled up – just so he could leave them utterly and entirely ruined.

What might have surprised you the most, however, was that he was said to be a generous lover – despite being drawn to violence and pain. No woman left his clutches unsatisfied. A rareness in men such as him.

As time passed and you kept on listening to the brothel workers’ whispers – you always listened when it was about him – you could not help but desire a taste of your own. You had no doubt that the women he bedded in the pleasure houses took what he gave without protest, surrendered to him like pliant little does and let him claim them as he wished. As they were paid to do.

But you wanted to show him what it felt like when he laid with a woman who could match him. What it felt like when the person beneath him knew how to bite back. You wanted him to sink his teeth into your flesh and return the gesture with just as much ferocity. You never made any direct advances, however. The furthest you went were low whispers that could border on suggestive, inviting. Or lingering touches along his wrists, his hands, on rare occasions even the broadness of his shoulders, sometimes straying to his collarbones – a spot that made him shiver, you discovered.

Aerion was not stupid. The man was an expert at observing those around him and reading their intentions from their eyes, their movements, from their veiled words. He knew you desired him when your subtle touches began to linger longer than necessary. He’d had to refrain from dragging you against him and putting both of you out of your misery on several occasions, feeling the need in his veins burn hotter than the sun whenever you were nearby.

But it seemed you both enjoyed this dance. Your own dance of dragons. You circled each other like vultures, just waiting for the right moment to strike – to claim.

That moment came one evening after several moons of this unresolved tension between the two of you. You’d been sitting on the terrace of your home, overlooking the nearest bay – granting you a perfect view of the setting sun. If it was one too many cups of Arbor Gold or if it was one heated glance too much, you couldn’t recall. You could only recall that one second, the two of you had leisurely sipped on your cups of wine, and the next, he had all but dragged you from your chair into his lap, nails digging into the skin of your waist through the silk.

His lips ghost over the junction between your neck and the underside of your jaw, his breathing shallow – hot and uneven – against your skin. From your position, you cannot see his eyes, but the usual violet brightness in them has darkened from untamed desire.

“You madwoman.” he rasps against your jaw, lips slightly brushing against you as he speaks. His tone is low, a mixture of want, frustration and desperation. “What have you done to me? Is this one of your wretched spells?”

Your hand comes up to rest on the side of his neck, leading his head away from you, just enough to lock your eyes with his. His grip on you tightens almost instinctively as your body warmth leaves the side of his face. He looks undone, completely at your mercy yet ready to pounce all the same. Your hand rises from the side of his neck, thumb running over his cheekbone. The corner of your lips twitches upwards almost imperceptibly. He catches it anyway.  

“It would be no fun if it was a spell, zaldrīzes.”

The Valyrian word slips from your tongue deliberately. Dragon.

His mouth curls into something akin to a snarl, like an animal – only living up to the name you’d given him. He has never looked more attractive to you.

“You madwoman.” he repeats. “You magnificent fucking madwoman.” he practically growls as one of his hands leave your waist, snaking up the length of your back and settling on the nape of your neck.

With one sharp pull, he drags your head down to his, connecting his lips to yours.

It’s not soft, not gentle. It’s all tongue and passion. Two unbridled flames colliding and flaring up into one big fire as he moves his lips against yours. In a matter of seconds, you’re all over each other, fingers tugging at fabric, lips wandering and teeth dragging over every new exposed inch of skin.

You rock your hips over his, feeling the desire radiating off of him. Just as he can feel yours. It is like a vicious cycle, how the need pulsing through you spurs him on, causing the same reaction in you.  

The two of you ruin each other that night beyond compare. Torn silks and sheets, sweat-coated skin, scratch-marks, bruises from tight grips, unwilling to let go. Both your necks are littered with bite-marks and dried blood where your tongues hadn’t reached in the height of your pleasure. Both his and your lips are bruised and swollen, decorated with the metallic taste of blood – from both the broken skin on your necks and the sharp teeth which had sunken a bit too deep on occasion.

****

Neither of you was able to rein in the desire you felt for each other after that night. Barely a day passed where the two of you did not drag each other into the sheets, claiming one another over and over. Even when there was no inch, no crevice, left to claim, you did it all over again.

The whores at the pleasure houses suddenly became entirely uninteresting to him. After the first time, Aerion had tried. Gone to the nearest brothel to try and drown the lingering heat of your touch – a Blackfyre’s touch – in another woman. It had been a miracle that said woman was not strangled by his bare hands that day. She had lain there, took what he gave and told him exactly what he wanted to hear. No sincerity. She did not fight back, did not return his fire in the way that you had. She had no fire, he came to realize. It infuriated him. She may have carried Valyrian blood, as a lot of Lyseni people did, but there was no Targaryen blood flowing through her veins. There was not enough heat to match him.

And after one night with you, he craved that heat. Craved the fight. The feel of teeth sinking into his skin in retort to his own. The feel of nails scratching at him and laying him bare. And only you were able to give him that. Because you had that Targaryen blood, the same blood that he carried also burned through you – even if illegitimate in the eyes of many. He had been taught to despise the likes of you, but you had captured him in a way that he could not wrap his head around.

He had come crawling back to you the very same day, and you let him. Because you could not resist him either. You had never felt desire such as this – and you did not need to stray into the arms of another man to know that only Aerion could quench that thirst. That in some twisted and contorted way, the two of you had become intertwined in more ways than one that night. In ways neither of you could fully explain.

It was on a exactly such a night, almost a year into your stay in Lys, when he asked you what exactly had happened for you to be exiled here. He knew, from your very first conversation, that it had been because of the blood magic you practiced, like few of his ancestors did. But he had never asked for the full story. That night, his curiosity overcame him.

You weren’t shocked by his inquiry about the details of your exile. You were more surprised that he hadn’t asked earlier. He was curious – and ever fascinated by the tellings of your witchcraft. You could practically see the look in his eyes changing whenever you spoke of it, as he hung onto every word that slipped past your lips.

You had been lying on his exposed chest when he’d asked, both of you bare and partly covered by the silken sheets of your bed, legs entangled. Your hand rested where his heart beat steady beneath your touch, his fingers idly gliding up and down your arm in a barely-there touch, almost subconscious. The nightly breeze flowing in through the opened balcony doors, cooling down your overheating bodies.

You had tilted your head to look up at him, asking him: “Why the sudden curiosity?”

He’d only shrugged in response, and you found you could not deny him either way, so you retold the story of the night your father had caught you. At first, you considered lying, twisting the story and veiling the actual truth of it. But honesty was something that had been crucial between you and Aerion from the start. Not discussed. Not demanded. Just there. For some reason, the two of your had laid your souls bare to each other from the start. Every dark and twisted crevice of them.

So you told the truth. Every detail.

This is your chance. Your chance to bring victory to your family. If this turns out to be successful, you could be celebrated as one of the greatest Blackfyres of all time. Besides Daemon Blackfyre, maybe. You doubt they would let a woman surpass the likes of him.

The fourteen candles are carefully positioned around the hearth of your chambers, surrounding you where you kneel in front of the crackling flames of it. You light each candle, one after the other. One for each of the volcanoes in Old Valyria. Channelling the source of their magic.

With a few muttered High Valyrian words, the candles burn just a tad bit brighter, telling you that the gods of Old Valyria are listening. Just as you intended.

With careful fingers, you reach for the pitch black napkin, unfolding it slowly, until it reveals a single silver hair. Daemon Blackfyre’s. While the guarantee of success would be much higher, had you something of the right person in your possession, you’d read that it can work nonetheless – as they share blood. You would just need to be more careful, more precise in your words to make sure it takes the right man.

You set the napkin, the hair still positioned on top of it, down on the stone floor of your chambers. You unsheathe your dagger, crafted from valyrian steel. A gift you had received from your father on your thirteenth nameday.

You cut across the palm of your hand, blood welling immediately. Same as with the hair, the chosen man’s blood would make it easier, safer. Even Daemon Blackfyre’s blood would have been better. But you could not make Daemon Blackfyre bleed without being named a traitor and getting executed on the spot.

So your blood will have to do. You share blood with Daemon. It could work. It needs to.

With your uninjured hand, you pluck the hair from the napkin, laying it delicately across the wound, where blood covers it instantly. You lean forward then, turning over your hand so the soaked hair falls into the flames of the hearth, droplets of your blood following.

You begin to speak again, the words low and quiet.

“From my blood, take the sacrifice. From the hair of the Black Dragon, take the connection.”

Footsteps approaching your chambers almost make you falter. You need to finish this, fast.

“For the blood and hair may not be his, but connected to him nonetheless. The Spear shall break. Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

Just as the last few words leave your lips, eyes closed tightly as the blood continues to trickle from your hand – the candles burning bright around you – the door to your chambers opens, your father stepping through the threshold.

He halts in his tracks when he sees you, knelt in front of the hearth, palm bleeding into the fire. He looks at the candles surrounding you. He does not need to count them to know there are fourteen.

He only hears the last few words you mutter, your voice too quiet for him to make out what exactly you are saying. Yet he knows it is not the common tongue. It is the language of your ancestors.

He recognizes the scene immediately. You, his own daughter, practising blood magic. Like Visenya Targaryen, one of the Conqueror’s herself, had done. The blood magic which was rumoured to have been involved in the making of Maegor The Cruel. He knows you admire your ancestors. But he never would have guessed it to run this deep. To lead you to such poisonous acts.

He finally gathers his senses just as the last word dies on your lips. In furious outrage, he exclaims your name, taking quick strides in your direction. You startle out of your daze, head snapping around to see him advancing on you.

No. Not yet. It is too early. The ritual has not ended. The sacrifice cannot have been enough for it to work. Your thoughts are frantic as you squeeze your hand shut over the fire once, forcing more of your blood to trickle into the flames below.

Before you can do much more, two hands hook under your arms, dragging you away from the fireplace. Away from the candles, which all diminish the second your blood stops feeding the fire.

The gods are gone. You just hope it was enough.

You kick and you yell as you try to get out of your father’s hold. But his grip on you is strong, tight. He drags you out of your chambers and into the hallway, practically throwing you to the floor by the opposite wall. He pulls the door of your chambers shut, severing every last connection between you and the ritual you had built within.

“What has gotten into you!? Are you mad!?” your father exclaims, staring at you with wide eyes filled with rage.

“These- these abominable acts. How long have you been practising them?” he asks.

You don’t reply. You are not afraid – only worried that your ritual might have not worked. Because if it hasn’t, it could take the wrong person. And the consequences for you could be fatal, should the fault be traced back to you.

“Answer me, daughter!” he yells. You don’t.

Your father eventually drags you before Daemon Blackfyre himself, where the decision is made. You are to be exiled. Sent away. Far from where you can poison others with the witchery in your blood.

****

Aerion had been eerily silent once you finished telling him the reason for your banishment. His eyes did not meet yours for several minutes as he stared at the ceiling. His expression was nearly unreadable, a thousand thoughts running through his head.

He recalled your words. You had repeated to him exactly what you had spoken to the fire.

“From my blood, take the sacrifice. From the hair of the Black Dragon, take the connection.”

“For the blood and hair may not be his, but connected to him nonetheless. The Spear shall break. Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

“Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

Let the Hammer come to his downfall. The Hammer. A nickname Baelor had gained during the first Blackfyre rebellion. Just as Maekar had been titled the Anvil. May it be used against him. While not exactly accurate, Aerion remembered vividly that it was his father’s mace that had struck the back of Baelor’s helm, which had ultimately led to his uncle’s death. A mace could be considered some type of hammer, technically.

He repeated it in his head over and over again. Could it possibly be that you were at fault that Baelor Targaryen had fallen in the Trial of Seven at Ashford? Could it be, that no matter his own actions, Baelor would have fallen either way? That his exile was wholly unnecessary and the one at fault for it currently laid in his arms? That the death of Baelor Breakspear, heir to the Iron Throne, was technically a victory at the hands of the Blackfyres, caused by the hands of a young woman in their ranks. The woman he had claimed in every way possible. The woman who had claimed him for herself just as much.

One part of him wanted to shove you off him, pin you beneath him into the mattress and strangle you until the last bit of breath died on your lips. This had been your fault. His humiliation by that tall fucking Hedge Knight. His father’s fury against him. His exile to Lys. All of it had been your fault. You had made a blood sacrifice. Your own blood gifted to the gods of Old Valyria, with only the request to take Baelor Targaryen with them.

But as much as he wanted to kill you, leave you to rot on these very sheets, he could not bring himself to. Not when he felt the faint touch of your fingers over where his heart beat in his chest. Not when he felt the comfortable weight of your body partially leaning on his, completely relaxed despite what you had just told him. Not when he looked into your eyes and only felt the need to hold you tighter, kiss you, and take you all over again.

Not when you were the only one who saw him as exactly what he was.

A dragon.

You were the only one who saw it. In the way you called him ñuha zaldrīzes. My dragon. You’d told him that the sharper ends of his hair reminded you of dragon scales, when the light hit them from the right angle. You’d told him his tongue was long and thin, snake-like, as that of a dragon, when he had licked all over your neck one night.

Once, when he’d laughed at something you said, you had stilled, staring at his lips. When his mouth had closed, you reached out, pulling at his upper lip carefully. You dragged it up, revealing his teeth, with it the naturally sharpened canines he had. You’d called them his own little fangs. Like a dragon’s.

In your eyes, he was exactly what he had always known himself to be. A dragon through and through. You took him apart piece by piece, finding proof after proof of what he truly was. And you saw it too.

He could not kill you. He could not lose the only person that saw him. He needed you, craved you. Seven hells, he was pretty sure he loved you. In the only twisted way he could feel that type of emotion. Expressed in the way his eyes followed you, in the way he gripped you just a bit tighter than he was used to doing to anyone else. In the way he could sink his teeth and claws into you and brush his lips over yours in the most tender motion all the same.

You could sense the battle taking place inside his head as he connected the pieces. His fingers twitched just slightly over where they had been brushing against your arm. The fingers of his other hand, arm stretched out along the length of his body, curled and uncurled repeatedly in the silken sheets.

His breathing changed. From calm and relaxed to shallow, making it apparent that he did not know what to do with himself in that moment. You watched every emotion that flared in him, only visible in the amethyst of his eyes. Rage, murderous intent, conflict, desire, that hint of devotion that often entered his gaze when he looked at you.

“Ñuha zaldrīzes.” you had whispered tenderly, hand reaching up to brush over his temple, smoothing over the furrow of his brows.

“You are thinking too much.”  

The sound of your voice, soothing him in the tongue of your blood, it had a calming effect on him. One he could not fight, even if he wished to. His breath evened slightly, though not entirely.

You could feel the way he started relaxing, the rigid tension in his muscles fading away.

“Breathe, my fire. My bright flame. I will make sure you forget all those troubling thoughts of yours. No thinking. Just feel.”

You moved, climbing over his lap. Your hands steadied yourself on the planes of his defined chest, feeling how the thumps of his heart picked up again. For an entirely different reason this time.

You smirked, leaning down to breathe into his ear. “Good. Let it take you. Far away from that torturous place your mind has led you to.”

****

The first time he’d told you that he intended to take you as his wife was in the heights of your shared pleasure, just over two years into your shared time.

He’d been sprawled across the sheets, his grip tight on your hips as he moved you over him. Your own dragon to claim, to ride.

The words had left his lips so breathlessly that they almost appeared subconscious. Yet with no less determined intent. He meant them, even if they were perhaps not said in the situation he had originally meant to.

“I am going to make you my wife. You will be mine. For all eternity.”

You had not replied, only leaned down and kissed him.

For several days after, neither of you mentioned what he had said. For a moment, you might have thought that he had entirely forgotten that he had said it. But it was Aerion. He was painfully aware of what he said and did. Nothing left his lips without intent, without purpose.

But he also did not stay silent without intention behind it. Most of his actions were done with full awareness and willingness. They were not always calculated, not always smart. Anything other than that. The decisions were often made without thinking, rash and impulsive. But he meant them nonetheless, with every fibre of his being.

The two of you had been soaking up the sun one afternoon, a week after those poisonous words had slipped past his lips. They had ingrained themselves into your mind. Playing in your head over and over again. “I am going to make you my wife. You will be mine. For all eternity.”

It was only then that he approached the subject again. A comfortable silence had settled between the both of you, broken only by his words.

“I meant it.” he says out of nowhere. Your head, which had been facing the sun, taking in the warmth, turns to meet his gaze. Only then he continues. “What I said. A week ago.” he pauses once more, one hand reaching out to brush over the skin of your temple. A barely there touch that sends a shiver through you.

“I wish to take you as my wife. No other woman could see me as I am just how you do.” His tone is almost soft, but filled with possessiveness. His eyes never once leave yours.  

He is right, in what he said. And you know it. From the day the words ñuha zaldrīzes had first left your lips, loud enough for him to hear. You know that this attention is exactly what he desires, craves. For someone to view him as what he is, what he thinks he knows himself to be. And you have given him that. From the very start.

You know that, could he purr like a satisfied cat, he would, each time you call him your dragon, each time your fingertips nudge his sharpened canines in the depths of pleasure. Every time your hands run through his hair, through the jagged ends you’d told him reminded you of scales, in certain light.

You do not fear him. Do not cower in his presence. And while he revels in the fear and submission of others, the fact that you stand and meet him at eye-level undoes him completely. It makes him sink his claws into you just that much deeper, unwilling to let you slip through his fingers.

“No Septon would wed us, Aerion. Not without demanding the blessing of our parents.” you reply eventually, your hand coming up to rest over his where it still brushes against your temple in careful movements. You encase his hand with your own, turning your head to press a kiss to his fingertips.

He scoffs, lips curling into something between irritation and amusement as his eyes linger on where your lips brush over his fingers. “I do not intend to wed you in the ways of the Seven, my love. We will be united in the ways of Old Valyria. As true dragons must. And we are true dragons, are we not?”

“Of course we are, Aerion.” you reply in earnest. “And when do you wish to do it?”

“I would do it right now, had I come prepared.” he responds lowly. “But soon. Soon, I will make you mine in the eyes of our gods. As you will make me yours. We will be one. Not just by words and promises, but by blood and fire.”

The look in his eyes, possessive and bordering on a hint of madness should unsettle you. As it would unsettle anyone else. But you only feel a smile creeping onto your lips as his words.

“Your family would be enraged, should they hear that you took a Blackfyre as your wife. A blood traitor.” you retort lowly, almost teasing.

“Then they are fools.” he hisses, though the heat is not directed at you. “Valyrian blood must connect with valyrian blood. Dragons do not mate with sheep. I fear that is something my family has forgotten over the decades. Our blood is tainted, watered. We can strengthen it again. We will. And if they cannot see it, they shall wander in blindness until their sacred Stranger takes them.”

****

Aerion had spent the moons following that conversation in search of a priest who was specialized in the wedding customs of Old Valyria. You knew he’d scarcely find one, as the tradition of valyrian weddings had died out long ago.

Word said that the last such ceremony had taken place in the year 120 after Aegon’s Conquest, almost one hundred years ago at that time. The ceremony had united Rhaenyra Targaryen with her uncle, Daemon Targaryen. Two of the last dragon riders in your bloodline.

Barely any priests or septons were taught the traditions of valyrian weddings since then. So the chances of Aerion finding one were close to none.

But Aerion was not the type of man to accept defeat. He would find a person to wed the two of you. No matter what. He had set his mind to it – and when he did – nothing could bring him away from it. Not that you would have thought to try. You wished for him to find one. Marrying in the ways of your ancestors, in the way of Old Valyria, had been what you desired.

No ceremonies in the eyes of the Seven. Only fire and blood.

One night, Aerion had come to you, the delight and satisfaction clear as day in his eyes. He had found a willing priest. To this day, you do not know if the priest was willing or threatened. It would not have mattered to you either way.

He told you that while the priest was not familiar with the customs, he had agreed to read scripts of the ceremonies – and that he would wed the two of you in the traditions of your ancestors. That he would unite the two of you as you intended.

Aerion stands before you, the two of you dressed in traditionally valyrian robes. He had them fabricated especially for this ceremony, wishing to do everything right. Everything needs to be perfect, down to the last detail. If he is to marry you in the ways of Old Valyria, he is to do it right.

The priest, who had read and memorized the vows and details of the ceremony, steps forward and holds out a blade to you, made of valyrian steel. Both you and Aerion already know what you must do.

You take the blade from him, eyes moving to meet Aerion’s. You exchange a determined glance, no hint of hesitation in either of you. Your gaze drops to his mouth as you bring the blade to his lower lip. With careful movement, you drag it down the center of it. A tiny amount of blood wells beneath the steel, coating his lip red.

You raise your hand, thumb coming to brush through the liquid. You then bring your thumb to his forehead, wiping his blood over his still rather pale skin, no matter how much Lyseni sun he had soaked in.

He takes the dagger and repeats the exact same gesture with you. A clean cut down the middle of your lower lip, thumb catching the blood before bringing it to your forehead, mirroring his own.

He moves the steel across his palm then, his fingers twitching minimally from the pain. You offer your own hand, and he does the same to you. You do not falter, do not wince. You are used to cuts littering the palm of your hand. Blood sacrifices demanded exactly that – blood.

The priest steps forward, in his hands a thick and long ribbon, red with gold embroidery. You and Aerion connect your hands, palms touching and your blood joining, becoming one. While the priest wraps the fabric tightly around your hands, your mixed blood trickles out beneath it, running down your wrists and dropping onto the floor beneath you.

Neither of you really notices, eyes firmly locked onto each other’s.

The priest then reaches for a black chalice, filled partially with wine. He holds it beneath your joined palms for several moments, letting the wine mix with your shared blood. He hands it to you.

You lift the chalice to your lips, eyes not once leaving Aerion’s. You drink half of it, letting the taste fill your mouth and consume your senses. Sweet, the metallic taste not to be missed. You let it run down your throat and into your system as you hand the chalice to Aerion.

He mirrors you, drinking the second half of the liquid. Neither of you are strangers to the taste of blood, though it is watered down by the wine this time. Neither of you shy away from it, the thought of what it implies. You never have.

All the while, the priest chants High Valyrian words. The vows said to unite the two of you. To make you one.

“Blood of two. Joined as one.”

“Ghostly Flame. And song of shadows.”

“Two hearts as embers.”

“Forged in fourteen fires.”

“A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness.”

“The vow spoken through time – of darkness and light.”

When the priest comes to a stop, his words dying out into silence, Aerion lifts his free hand, setting it on the side of your face. Your hands come unbound, neither paying attention to the priest, wholly focused on one another.

His other hand, coated in his own and your blood, comes to the other side of your face. You feel the wetness of the liquid smearing over your skin, but it does not bother you.

He pulls you into him, connecting his lips to yours.

And with that, you are his. And he is yours. Two dragons, bound as one.

He loses himself in you, lips unable to part from yours except to whisper just once, with certain finality to it:

“My wife.”

You return it. But you do not call him husband. It would be logical. That is what he is. And yet, you only call him what you’ve always done. What you know he wants to hear more than anything.

“My dragon.”

****

The years that passed after the ceremony were mostly uneventful. You and your husband indulged in the relaxed and lavish life you could live here in Lys. No one to meddle in your business, no one to pressure the two of you into conceiving heirs. While the two of you intended to – one day – honour the dragon’s third head on your family’s crest, you had no reason to hurry. So you did not.

One day, Aerion came to you, a piece of parchment tightly clutched in his fingers.

“A letter. From my father.” he had said, settling on the edge of the bed next to you, where you had just taken a nap in the early hours of the afternoon. You had lifted yourself onto your elbows, glancing at the neat handwriting on the parchment,

“And what does he want?” you had asked in return.

“He demands my return. He claims that the amount of years I have spent here have been enough. That my punishment must come to an end and that I shall return to Summerhall by the end of the week. He will send his people by boat to get me.” Aerion had explained.

You could tell that he was conflicted. You knew part of him longed to return home. To the place where he was not an exiled man, but a prince of the blood. Where his words and actions held more power than they did here. And that a small, twisted part of him, longed for his family. Even if he would never admit it.

But the other part of him wished to remain here. A place with no restrictions – no demands and no expectations. The freedom he’d had here he would not find back in Westeros. The relaxed days spent lying in the sun, bathing in the sea, sipping on fruity wine would end, vanish. And they would scarcely ever return.

“Then we shall return, if your father demands it. I highly doubt he would let you stay here, even if you asked him to.” you had replied in a soft tone, your leg moving beneath the silken covers to brush your outer thigh against his back where he had sat on your bedside. The physical contact was meant to calm him, ground him, bring him back from his wandering thoughts.

“You will return with me.” he had stated.

“Of course, I am your wife. But they will not be happy with my presence.”

“I do not care. The dragon protects what is precious to him.”

“I know, ñuha zaldrīzes. I know. I do not doubt it. Do not doubt you. You are the fiercest dragon of them all.”

You had seen the way the tension in his shoulders slowly lessened at your words. As it always did.

“Then we will return. By the end of the week.”

****

Maekar Targaryen’s men had been utterly confused and dumbfounded, when in the stead of only the volatile prince they were said to escort back to Westeros, he was accompanied by you. A woman. You had known they most likely thought you a whore at first glance, still clad in Lyseni silks.

They most likely thought he had bought you free from one of the pleasure houses. That he had liked you so much he intended to bring you back home with him and keep you as his personal courtesan.

Fortunately, they had been smart enough not to comment on it, only welcoming both Aerion and you onto the ship which would bring you back to the west. Otherwise, the ship would have had no one left to lead it back home.

The journey had been much too long and tedious for your liking. Spending several days and nights upon a rocking ship through storms and windy weather irritated you to no end. You had already missed the familiar heat of the Lyseni sun. Or the slight burn in the evening when you had stayed outside just a tad bit too long.

The fresh smell of the open sea transformed into the familiar, almost long forgotten, stench of the west once the boat finally docked. The thick and dense smell of the soil, the rot of the cities, such a stark contrast to the east.

The ship had docked in the haven of Stonehelm, the closest bay to Summerhall. After that had followed another days long journey by carriage, bringing the two of you from Stonehelm to Summerhall at last.

And so, here you were, stepping out of the carriage after Aerion, his hand in yours as he led you out of the confined space. It was cloudy, a state you had last seen the sky in years ago. And now, it seemed to be its default state. You had never been in Summerhall, so the towering castle was entirely new as you took it in while stepping out into the courtyard.

Your eyes roamed over it for a few moments while Aerion led you further forward, into the direction of where his father was already waiting, posture rigid as the elder man’s violet eyes, much like Aerion’s, fell on you.

Maekar greeted his son first, even pulling the man into a short embrace. Aerion had been gone for several years, after all. He pulled back, the palm of his hand lingering on the side of Aerion’s upper arm for a few seconds longer before falling to his side.

Then his eyes, filled with suspicion, landed on you.

“Who is this, Aerion?” he asked, voice laced in confusion and already flaring anger. Maekar knew his son. He knew nothing good would leave the prince’s lips in response to his question.

“This, father, is my wife.”

The words were said dripping with pride. You were his valyrian bride. Everything he had ever desired in life. He claimed you as his, as a dragon was born to. And you had given yourself to him willingly.

Maekar’s expression blanked before it quickly contorted back into anger.

“Your wife?” he repeated, tone sharp. “And does your wife have a name, son?”

“Y/N.” you cut in then, redirecting the prince of Summerhall’s attention to you. “Blackfyre. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

You spoke your family’s name with smugness, fully aware of what chaos it would cause. What weight it carried that Aerion, a prince of house Targaryen, had married you, a Blackfyre, in secret – without the permission of his father.

“Blackfyre?” Maekar practically growled, repeating the name while his lips curled in distain.

It was comical, almost. How similar yet different father and son were all the same. It was the exact same thing Aerion had first said once you had introduced yourself to him. An echo of your name. Only that Aerion’s had been laced in curiosity, surprise almost, while Maekar’s dripped in hatred.

A small smirk crept onto your face, which did not go unnoticed by the elder man.

His eyes snapped back to his son, his entire body vibrating with fury.

“Have you taken complete leave of your senses, boy!?” he snapped, keeping his voice low enough to not attract the attention of the entire courtyard. If he could, he would keep this under the wraps for all eternity.

“I send you to Lys, to reflect, to better yourself. And you come back with the exact same arrogance you carried when you left. And not only that, but you have married a Blackfyre. A blood traitor. Without consulting me once. What in the seven fucking hells has gotten into you?”

Before either you or Aerion could get a word in, he went on.

“And you have not only wed any Blackfyre. Of course it had to be the witch. Have you gone mad? Which Septon approved of this?”

His words did not deter you. You did not feel insulted, even though you possibly should have. The word witch was no bit belittling to you. In a way, you were what could be considered a witch. It amused you, rather, the outrage of the Anvil. A man said to be so strong, composed and focused in battle, reduced to a fuming mess by the fact that his son had wed the enemy.

As Maekar insulted you, however, Aerion’s own anger began to flare. He sensed that it did not bother you, he could see it in the calmness, bordering on amusement, on your features. The lack of tension in your shoulders.

But it irritated him. How his father had the audacity to disparage you. To talk down on you, his wife. His perfect valyrian bride. The woman who saw in him what no one else did. The woman who saw the truth of him.

“You will not speak in this manner of her, father. She is my wife. I chose her and married her in the ways of Old Valyria. She is a Targaryen by marriage – and therefore she deserves your respect.” Aerion hissed, his hand coming back to clutch onto yours, the grip so tight his knuckles turned white. The pressure of the grip stung slightly, yet not enough to truly hurt.

“My respect.” Maekar scoffed sharply in return. “This whore of yours does not have my respect. She will be sent back to her family, shall they decide whether to take her back or send her away once more.”

Aerion bristled at that. “She stays here. With me. I will kill everyone that as much as thinks about taking her from me. You know I will, father.”

As Maekar saw the sheer willpower in his son’s eyes. The possessiveness with which he clung to your hand, unwilling to let go of you, made him come to realize that there was no escape to this situation. He had discovered firsthand what Aerion was capable of back in Ashford. For long years, as the boy grew up, he had tried to bury it. Had tried to blame Aerion’s cruel acts against his siblings, the staff, even animals, on teenage foolery. On not knowing any better. But the events of Ashford had destroyed that illusion.

And now, as his son stood in front of him, his Blackfyre bride next to him with an irritating glint of pride and amusement in her eyes, Maekar’s anger ebbed away into worry. He knew that he would need to let you stay. That somehow, he would need to find a solution to whatever consequences came with this union. What would happen if children were to come out of this marriage.

Because if he did not, if he tried to do anything to you, Aerion’s rage would consume them all and he would leave nothing but ashes and ruins in his wake.

****

You settled in Summerhall over the following weeks. Aerion had been granted bigger chambers, which he now shared with you. He made sure you were always tended to, also ensuring no one that could pose a threat stepped too close to you. He did not trust his father’s words of acceptance to your presence. Not yet.

The inhabitants of the castle mostly avoided you. When you passed the maids and servants in the halls, they lowered their heads, walking just a tad bit faster. They were afraid, you found. Afraid of you. You were Aerion Brightflame’s wife. A Blackfyre. In their eyes, you could only be just as vain and cruel as him.

The other Targaryens stayed clear of your path as much as they could. At breakfasts and suppers, they were forced into your proximity. Fortunately for them, you preferred conversation with your husband.

Maekar always eyed you with wary eyes, as if he was just waiting for you to snap your jaws closed around one of their necks, revealing that this was all a tryst to get the Blackfyres closer to the Iron Throne. That you did not truly feel such deep affection for Aerion as you made it appear that you did.

Daeron was too drunk to pay close attention to you most days. His eyes strayed far from yours when you were in the same room, keeping his stare mostly downcast. He wished anything but to either attract your or Aerion’s rage for as much as looking at you.

The only time he had spoken to you was on one of your first nights in the castle. You had been wandering the halls at a rather late hour, and came across Daeron in a deserted hallway. His clothes had been crumpled and creased, the collar askew. His hair tousled and messy, dark rings under his eyes and the drunkenness clear in his posture.

His eyes had met yours, and he had said one thing. Only one thing.

“It was you. You killed the dragon.”

The words had left his lips slurred, barely comprehendible. But you had heard them nonetheless. You did not know the exact history of his words, but you were aware of the what they meant. You had heard that Daeron had what they called Dragon Dreams. Quite a few of your ancestors had had them as well.

The dragon. Baelor.

In his dreams, he had seen that it was you who was at fault for Breakspear’s death.

But he never mustered up the courage to tell anyone of that dream. He kept it to himself, never spoke of it. Not even to you, except on that one night.

Kiera of Tyrosh, Daeron’s wife – formerly Valarr’s – feared you. She had heard horrible stories and tales of the Blackfyres from her late and current husband’s lips. She had heard tales of you, in particular. The blood witch. That you were exiled for tampering with witchcraft.

And that you were Aerion’s wife only heightened it. While she had not spent much time in his presence while married to either Valarr or Daeron, she had seen and heard enough to know just what kind of man he was. What he believed himself to be. A dragon in human form. And by the way the two of you interacted, she saw that you encouraged that twisted mindset of his. You seemed to share it even.

But despite everyone’s fear and distaste for you and your presence at Summerhall, Aerion let none of it touch you. He would never dare to. He had sunken his claws deep into your skin, his wings sheltering you from anything that would come too close. Baring his teeth at anyone who tried.

He was a dragon. He knew it. You knew it. You told him so every day. Always with a soft caress over the side of his face, brushing the corner of his lips. Always with a tenderly whispered ñuha zaldrīzes. My dragon.

He was your dragon. And you were his treasured wife.

And dragons protect their treasures. With fire and blood.

song: black soul - shinedown

General.

Anything by @the-darklings

The way she writes is incredible. If you haven't already, go through her entire LS (Lady Stark) verse. The way she writes the characters and the unique dynamics of each pairing is insane (meant entirely positively). Like many others, I'm a complete sucker for her trailer-trash!Aerion. The dynamic is so good. But I'm also always here for some #icespring and #winterhall (and the others)

Welcome To The Family by @padmespetal (6 parts)

Generally a platonic little series centered around Egg and Reader. So amazing. But with some undertones with other characters that can be viewed as romantic/attraction. Just absolutely amazing. Absolute emotional rollercoaster and so wholesome. I love it. And the two extra fics for Daeron and Maekar where it turns into more? *Chef's kiss* as well.

She's My Wife by @cosmictheo (5 parts)

A series where our dear Duncan mistakes the wives of several characers as their child/sister/whatever. Very wholesome. I love it.

Aerion Targaryen.

Behind Closed Doors & Always You by @targaryenstar

My Only Peace Was You by @da2019

also heavily featues Valarr.

To Tame A Dragon by @/iydiamartinx

!Not on Tumblr!

Conflragated by @/alyssatrgryen on Wattpad

It's an x OC (Aerion's twin, Aerea), and I know that's not everyone's thing but I swear, this has to be one of the most amazing things I've ever read in my entire life. Well written, great characterizations (Daeron is hilarious, Valarr's a sly little piece of shit, I love him), insanely amazing dynamics. Just wow. Aerea's just as fucked up as Aerion and it works so well. Tragic and hot at the same time. If you don't mind some x OC then read this. Trust me. And read the warnings; as I said, they're both fucked up.

Daeron Targaryen.

Drowning You In My Sleep by @novaursa (2 parts)

Just chef's kiss. So beautiful.

Sleepless Nights by @thought-you-knew

This rearranged by brain chemistry. I love Daeron.

Can't Two People Reconnect? by @redwinelewis

Valarr Targaryen.

Anything by @lalalovelyly

Her works are incredible. So well written, amazing ideas. I love it. A lot of Valarr content for those starving for it (like me). And the newest Aerion pieces are absolutely great as well.

Vow Of Love by @magneticwritings

Hard Headed Woman by @sansaorgana

All Creatures Great And Small by @/thought-you-knew

Don't get me wrong, I'm terrified of spiders, but this is adorable. I really relate to Valarr in this one. He's really like "burn it. get it away from me." and honestly? same.

Forbidden Fruit by @teavocationmagic

my bisexual ass loves some girl on girl action as well.

The Goodswood Escape by @targlove

Baelor Targaryen.

What Duty Asks Of... by @fluttervoid

Well-Bred by @gutsby

Don't even ask. This changed something in me. I- wow.

The Dragon And The Stag by @lovebugism

also heavily features Lyonel.

Born Of Fire And Flame (Blood Calls To Blood) by @frankels

Maekar Targaryen.

I'd Give My All by @feral4youu (4 parts, as of now)

Amazing. The tragedy of them? Heartwrenching. They love each other so much. Be aware, Dyanna's a bit of the bad guy here, but it works really well with the story, although I have nothing against her (in canon). Excited to read more!

The Spoiled Wife Of Prince Maekar by @lostrealityr (4 parts)

A Full Bed by @maekarsmistress

So wholesome, I love it. Maekar, his wife and all the Maekarlings united.

Doubt Your Man by @escapic-mezzanine

Lyonel Baratheon.

this by @myladyship

It's not a fic, just a little idea, you could say. But I just loved it too much not to include it. Lyonel brings me so much comfort for some reason. been hooked on this man from second one.

My Difficult Woman by @entitled-fangirl

I love their dynamic so much. The way he calls her "my dragon"? Mwah.

The Helm Stays On! by @pearlessance

Storms And Dragons by @iydiamartinx

Most likely my favourite Lyonel fic. I just love their energy so much.

Stormbound by @siolixz (2 parts)

Honey Slurred Words by @trulyumai