He had grown to dislike the chosen heir to the Iron Thrones – Baelor, his uncle, and Valarr, his cousin – leading to this… hatred, or even rivalry as you can call it, to your chambers. Physically and mentally irked with what seemed like jealousy, for his father not being in the line of succession, always mentioning rather than his uncle, but his father, to be carrying the typical Valyrian features and having better “suitors” for sons as heirs.

It has always been a competition since Valarr’s first presence in the Summerhall, always gloating, or so he says, of his valor and status, fueling the fire to Aerion’s hatred over their distinctive authority, maddened at the difference of title.

Aerion had stood up, even more enraged as his tendency for perfection interrupted his little plans for bothersome as he smoothed the wrinkled-silked sheets from where he sat, sighing as his bare feet managed to tear through the air with a distinct sound, sharply turning towards where you busied, as you continued with your routine of “Religiously cherishing in your hair” – as what he called it, contemplating whether you truly were multitasking and hearing his wails of jealousy with that ponderous furrow he carried – he denies that of course – or busying yourself with anything close to your proximity as you sneakily sighed out your frustrations with his whining.

“Huff. My prince. My love, of course I am,” you sighed, making expressions of concern at him through the silver of reflection from your mirror,  as he stared off into your eyes, drifting… then lowering that lavender-laced gaze down to the silks of your gown hugging your body… as, he shot back up to your glare with a blush of an uncertain man, scoffing as he played off the weird interaction with a turn of his head, turning back away of embarrassment from that “disruption” by your breathtaking beauty, stripping away from the silver links adorning his neck, and anything else that was hints of the day’s past.

Putting down your silver-ornamented brush as you snapped back with focused intent in your mind, you stroked starting with the close-end hairs of your scalp with your fingers, combing them through to the ends of your strands with your nails, taming them even more before readying to tidy them up into your night-time braids, you finally ended the minute of candle-filled silence.

“But please…for a man – dragon – as prideful as you are with your household, your kin, you seem to be quite… cross with them for what you deemed as the… oh? What did you call it? Ah right, the uh ‘A blood greater than the other houses, a gift of the gods,’ is that not true?” exhaling, repeating back to one of his daily ego-boosting boasts with the exasperation and dealings of the years of this torment, by your husband's what-seemed-to-be constant rage against his own blood, had grown tiresome over the hour of the owl.

You were sitting there still, ears bleeding from the strain, grooming your cascading hair to calm down the bundling nerves of stress that he had caused, still, mixing between massaging your taxed mind with your fingers and slowly separating them for braids as you constantly tugged at your hair a little bit harder ever so often whenever he started inflaming that undeserved rancor towards you.

Like said, it was late into the night; the hour had grown with its chilling breezes, the silence spoke openly among you as his usual hushes of rants had grown louder from the chirps and noises from the never-resting echoes of Summerhall. The candles had lit more at this time; the moon’s light had not been bestowed upon your windows, where only the source of heat was his own steam-like fury coming from his head, and the light from the cackling fire of the hearth had illuminated you both.

“Ugh, do not even get me started with that wretched Dornish-stained ‘prince’ of a man–wait, no, boy is better suiting. He’s what, eight and twenty now? And he still acts as merely a child? Gods, he and Matarys, my fucking uncle as well, they’re all insufferably, irritably,” Aerion riles up another flame of hatred, throwing his head back from his shoulders once more as he ran through his face with roughened hands from trading steel, staring at you from his peripheral view as he glanced from the side – making it a point –

“Exasperating! Ughh, I even have to describe those grotesque Dornishmen with two of the same meanings! this is absurd!” he spat, drooping his arms down like a defeated blackfyre soldier, shifting his head slightly to stare at the mirror that reflected your movements of braiding as he furrowed his eyebrows closer.

You stared back at him as you noticed his glance from the side again, feeling that cold, angry temper as he could get burning through you whilst you tightened the braids from the closeness of your scalp.

You knew how to calm him down; you know how to navigate and lead him away from his temper tantrums. You just decided to toy delve into whatever stupidity he jabbered on about, pondering what caused him to be so vexed in the first place, to spark his incessant tirade.

You grabbed another strand of your hair as you both shared another moment of silence, just breathing in the stolen observations between you two, as you crossed another piece, then another, perfectly embellishing your hair into what seemed like a dragon’s tail, a little connection you picked up with the years spent in his parade of dragons reborn as humans.

“If you so wish to gossip, Aerion, do so without the use of Baelor,” He’s a good man, my dragon, you thought to say, “the thought of—”

“Why not him? Oh, leave be with your weird fantasy of him.” He griped, striding towards the table of the wine-filled pitcher near the outskirts of your curtain draped bed, muffling his retorts against what you said as he accidentally bumped into a chair of yours as he hastily rushed towards it and cursed wretched things, finally grasping the handle of the pitcher and hadn’t a care to properly pour it in a goblet, just downing messily as he drank like a man mistaken wine for water, spilling the red-like soft silks as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, flowing down his bare body, down to his chest… gathering up below as he laid his head back further to empty the wine even more. Gods, it was a sinful, picturesque, messy, and darkly chiaroscuro scene with his temperamental self – he sure knew how to be the pretty, lingering sight he was whenever he had shut that mouthy mouth of his…

“Oh hush, you know he does not deserve the remarks, Aerion.” You snapped back,  turning your head quickly as you awkwardly scooted to the center of your chair, feeling the way he opened his eyes again to… gaze at you, with wine dripping down, slowly. Finally, you finished the ends of your braids, admiring your work with an exhale of pained arms and relief. You suddenly stood from your hours of sitting, chair screeching through the floor as you hadn’t bothered to place it back, halting whatever nonsense that would come out of his mouth, shocking him with your yet striking figure, thrice.

You stood with your stature, straightening your wrinkled silks as you stretched like a cat, yawning as though his talk had bore you, which did, having the curves of your body emphasized with every little move you made. Aerion had gazed everywhere, gaping as your softened steps strided towards where he stood, bottom to up, absorbing in the beauty of your goddess-like visage, figure, and grace, licking his lips as his brain had stopped thinking for him and finally shutting up for a moment, to adorn his sight of you.

Yet, in Aerion’s case, he never seemed to stop talking. No matter the “interruption,” “You seemed riled up from the mentions of hi–”

“Shush, Aerion. That’s enough now,” you closed the distance between you as you made your way to the far end of the table, grabbing a piece of a cloth lying on the surface, closing in his space as you softly grabbed the ends where his jaw connected to his neck, wiping off the marks of the red-stained trails the darkened wine had left, caressing, swiping off the remnants as you assessed his hate-filled corners of a mouth, giggling mostly to yourself as he glanced down at your usual tenderness, stilled.

​aerion was a prideful man after all, one who displayed, proclaimed it practically, even now. Even though you, the lady-wife of the second son of Maekar, had spent your company with him over the years, it still had jabbed at his carefully curated malice, some way softening his anger, somehow softening those indelible furrows he carried. Everyone said so, even his father, brother, and the others of the court had acknowledged it. Such a hot topic among the whispers of the Red Keep to the halls of your now-home, gossip shared between your ladies and your close servants, you were known to be the pedestal of his calmer moments, the cause of his unusually more tame demeanor. Even now, you had an effect on him, a bewitching one at that – one he struggled to either hate or love, something he constantly battled over, between his arrogance and genuine love for you.

“W-what are you doing?” He quickly yanks your wrist away after the cascade of your care, holding it tightly as his softened glance hardens to a glare at you with an ambiguous look, maybe an attitude swing from his previous feeling, hating the fact that you're treating him as some sort of baby. You only smiled, never reciprocating his familiar reactions towards your sweetness. Instead of battling against fire with fire, you approached his hand that clutched onto your latched wrists with a delicate hold, nudging him to let go as you leaned closer to the warmth of his unsteady breaths.

“Aerion, my love, the hour has grown late; you’ve released what has already been known now. You reek of anger when you have already bathed, now that I can notice more now,” you jested, chuckling and caressing his hands now, guiding him, doing your best to release that carried tension of his as you palmed his tensed hand with two of yours.

“Stop calling me that… that’s not my name.” He turned his head away, glancing at whatever could distract him more, at some random candle shelf near the cooling windows, having a flush of red coursing through him as his body heat rose, so so painfully noticeable. “And stop… s-stop treating me as some pet of yours, know your place, woman…” he shot, tensed shoulders drooping down without his permission, as he melted into your arms like a sad, mean little kitten, damned by his troubles, believing he was the one wronged – and not those who he thought opposed him.

“Come now, my dragon, before it gets even later,” you guided him through the long path of your chambers as you turned away from him with one of your hands still holding onto his, guiding him and moving away from the misplaced chairs of your table. You had squeezed his hand tighter as well, grounding him like a rider to her dragon, bonding in that way of yours, simply cooling him off from the ingrained fire that he obtained from the Targaryens’ dragon blood.

You glanced back with that ethereal look you always carried, studying the way his eyes had completely shut off to a dazed look, mindlessly following your lead as he moved through the paths of the room’s common room, entranced from your silkened wine-like voice as you calmed for him, allured, tempered, from your smooth-like grace… numbing his brain, his rage, dumbing him down to only you. To only focus on you.

“Hmm,” you hummed, halting him as you reached the entrance of your curtain-draped bed posts, filling his space with only you once more as you blurred his vision with your intoxicating cat-like moves, turning around to face him, slightly turning your head to the side as you stared at him, lips curving – borderlining of a smirk – a grin like you know you got him wrapped around your finger now – and running your fingers, making your way through his arms, to his biceps… then to his chest. “Come rest your weariness, explain to me more in the morrow. For now, quiet down your labyrinth of aversion, hm?

“I-” His mind short-circuits, you guide him through the transparent curtains of your bed, moving them away as you purposely droop your eyes into that seductive, sleepy look of yours, drifting and practically crawling your way onto your dragon-carved bed, stretching your arms to his as you carefully pulled him to sit down, facing anywhere but you as you caressed his shoulders, and like a cat – draped your arms over them, embracing him as your mouth placed dangerously close to his ear.

​Trading steel, dealing with old lords, and that unresting uncle of yours? I differ, you see; it is quite humid now here, since summer is shy away from arriving. You irritate yourself easily, my love; it is hot, and you seem to burn even more as your temper rises. Here,” you stopped, spotting Aerion’s unusual quietness, deeply observing him as he just deafened… furrowed eyebrows ceasing, eyes dilating… His eyes had darkened, that once pale lavender field of his gone to a shade of deep midnight, making you wonder if it’s the lighting in the room…or if he’s struck by something. “Aerion? Hello, my prince, what has troubled you?” You shook him slightly, slipping your hands onto his bare chest, turning his cheeks towards the side as you smoothly hovered over his frame, grabbing him and pulling him closer to your face as your breath fanned over him, worryingly tapping his face as he seemed tranced from your intoxicating, sensational love.

“W-what, oh right, yes,” he finally responded, shaking off his head as if his mind just turned off for what seemed of a century, arms, hands, hastily flinging to cover yours as he pulled you closer onto his back, holding your embrace over him as he guided your hand to grasp his face, to stroke his otherworldly features as he nuzzled towards your warmth. “Sorry, I–fuck…” he muttered, breathing in your scent from your looming braid, your soft hands, losing himself into your hug as he took a moment to breathe, hunching his back, bowing it as your other hand sneaked its way through his silver-raimented hair. You pressed the soft silks of your nightgown further to his back, hands coursing through his hair, gentle touches placed on his face, filling your hold with only him. You hadn’t the thought that he was a bit less angry, so you acted. Almost immediately, readying to completely rid his mind of ponderous hatred over such trivial things.

“You seem quiet for a prince so stern” you kissed him, softly pecking at the sides of his forehead, shifting your body to snake your way to the empty spot on the edge of where he sat, grabbing down the tussle of his silver-mooned hair, making him lean down as he turned his body to you, meeting your lips as his stature had grown weakened, body practically faltering as he shut his eyes, grabbing your waist and tightening his grip as he moved you onto his lap, relishing in your little pecks.

You nipped at his skin with your teeth as you smothered him with trails of your gentle and rough kisses, leaving marks, staying – deepening your kisses longer, inhaling him as your grip tightened – lips parting as you pulled back each time with his pulled skin in your mouth, shutting your eyes as tight as you could as you embraced him harder. Longer. He sat there still, not daring to move an inch, to break off the intoxicating traces of your soft-plump lips, soft as the kindness of your hearts, softer than anything he has ever touched.

He faltered back, stumbling you both as you leveraged his broad shoulders to move back forward, fighting the guiding of your waist as you kept on kissing him, biting him, covering him – smothering your saliva as you thoughtlessly followed, placing your feet down to the cold floor as he leaned with you, right as Aerion moved up from your waist to the nape of your neck, to your head smooshed with his.

​“Mmmph…” Aerion whined, whimpered, steering your kisses to his lips, slowly sliding off the silky surface of your bed as he pushed your face and lips harder onto his, forcing you to bend your back as you both fought your way into your lust-driven mouth. The room was filled with the intent of lust, love, and the shushing of incessant chatter, you fluttered your eyes shut as hard as you can as you pried his legs open, your knees pushing him back further onto the bed as you kissed animalistically, carnivorous for touches, deepening every touch and kiss, deeper than the impossible, as Aerion guided you with him as his elbows hit the surface.

​“Mmm, my wife,” Aerion huffed, pulling away from the kiss as his head dropped to the bed, heaving and heaving as you hovered over him, gown tickling him, strands of hair cascading over his face – everything was sinfully evocative.

​“Y-yes, my love?” You wiped the drool off the corner of your mouth, eyes blown wide as you stared at him lovingly, breathlessly chuckling as your hands darted towards his cheeks, thumbs running back and forth near his nose, index and others palming the faints of his ears. You rested your full weight on him, practically lying on top of him as he wrapped his arms over your body, flipping you over and on top of your back, laughing – for the first time (or so it seemed) – with a feeling so foreign, yet so familiar. The moment was intimate, private, and yours. It was non-sexually sexual, playfully intimate, something that was deemed as rare in your marriage with him.

​“I… I love you.” He uttered out, hands caressing your hips, to your waist, loving the way your gown’s silks feel against his calloused palms, savoring every drop of your honey-dew attention. It was as though every little temper he had had, every complaint of his relatives, had dissipated. Everything seemed so surreal, so soft… a “softness” that softened him, the prince of temperamental malice. As Aerion said those three words, you just stared at him, pupils shaped as hearts, loving on him with your hands running through his hair, outlining his jawline, and with your soft lips leaving lasting kisses on his cheeks.

​“I love you too, my dragon.” You whispered, guiding your hand towards his chest to push him up as you adjusted your elbows to sit up, crinkling your gown as Aerion’s whole body shifted for you to be comfortable. You looked down onto the wine-red sheets where you both lay, sighing out a content sigh, then turning your gaze back onto his. Repositioning your face next to his, side by side, your cheek and lips had slowly grazed his, softly pecking before embracing one more. Between that kiss, you pulled your head back slightly, “Avy jorrāelan, ñuha zaldrīzes.”

​And nobody can deny it — not even the omissions of malice, not even those who try their hardest to condemn you with spite. You were everything one could ask for, one who was envied for, like a diamond eternally polished, shining, where even Satan seemed to be at your whim, where even the angels could say not to fear, but to relish the intensity of your benevolence. And Aerion hated it. Hates the fact that you’re the total opposite of his curated temper, that you are the constant reminder of what a royal, a human in general, should be.

​Instead of having everyone in a chokehold with fear, you had them with Cupid. Instead of being inflamed with hate, with tragedy that drove madness in those — what caused Aerion the need to weaponize, to fuel his hatred — you are incalescent with love. Love, love, love, a word that seemed synonymous with your name. And Aerion seemed to be haunted by that word, everything dealing with that stupid genre, angering him even more as the thought of you would boldly dagger at his labyrinth of a mind. Not even creep up, but appear, with the scorching light that seemed to reach the depths of his abyss, then adorned you with theirs.

​“Oh, how they are just the sweetest,” the elders would say, “What a beauty they are,” the people of the court would whisper. You were just perfect, one who defied the laws of scientific perfection. You were eloquent, graceful, and ethereal.

You carried yourself with love and shone it back to others, you helped those in need, and you smothered those with a slice of your generosity. And the thing is, you never once did anything with pity. With the need that correlated with how you felt bad for anyone. Because it was nonexistent to you, rather than that, it was just… second nature, like something you were born with — like sin.

It’s what Aerion had noticed about you, something he tries to deny about what you are. You felt the need to be kind was like breathing, viewing, and preaching that it should be a mindless act, a second nature, not only for you, but for everyone.

​Like said, with your grace and beauty, what he hates the most… is how you never once feared his volatile temper. Something that made him, him. A fact everyone speaks of,  a word synonymous with his identity. And oh, how he hates that truth. The lines blurring between genuine kindness and the saccharine rot had driven him to insanity, an “absurdity” that went deeper than his. You were just… there, oscillating between the corruption of the court, the tales of his tendency, and still, it was like a reciprocation to you, a blindness you willingly chose to continue. A place where it needn't be a fix, a beating for goodness, but a warm, embracing hug.

Just a light in the darkness, someone who saw the goodness behind the thorns of wrath.

​No matter what Aerion did, no matter the words he refined to ruin the pureness of you, to ruin your good, it never worked. It only reflected,  like an arrow, and instead, shot at him. Not a scratch, not even some pesky kindness that never seemed as pity, but a straight-through shot. A wound that cut him deeper, that drove the lunacy of his undeserved hatred towards you. Every day, and every nightfall, he was battered by your defense of goodness, bruised and bloody by your innocence.

​You always studied him whenever he decided to be mean to you — which was every day — and he could see it in the way where you always drifted off to think of anything but his stupidity. Not to fix whenever he'd jab at you, but to… no, not to understand, but to see. To look in the lenses of perspectiveness, to drown in the layers of his past, of the why — all for it to grow you a pair of gills, to not drown, but to swim in the trench of his ruin.

​It was never an act to be nice because of his past, to put up with his anger of the realm and the gods. Well, you do put up with it. Just not as a way to answer to his every demand, to get over with his constant yells like the King's guards or his family, for that matter, but as a whisper, as a gentle nudge to calm down. You’ve bewitched him, vexed him, tamed him like a dragon, silently commanding him with your innocence of altruism.

Every move you made towards him was a silent, magnetic pull for him to deafen, to gently rock with his internal fire. Whenever he had jested with anger, or tormented the servants when they had made a mistake, you would always be there, like a silent predator. Already assessing the scene, maybe even accidentally stumbling upon one of his heated moments, and they would know. Know that when you're put against Aerion — again — you'd always find a way to win. At first, it was incessant to him.

Annoying, a bothersome that he could usually fix easily with a bit of fire. But you were the contradiction, the water that had set his fire out; nothing was deemed to work. No words, no acts, no shoving you down the Royal halls, nothing had made you budge. It only fueled your need, no, want, to drive him insane with your replies. If words, if looks, if nonstop smothered love could kill — Aerion would already be six feet under.

But so, what's as strange as a mysterious person like you could ever torture the notorious prince — is that… Aerion actually likes it. No matter the accusations and the denial of what could possibly be an endearment for your one-sided rivalry, it's as though Aerion morrow by morrow had gravitated, leaned even more, for your witty good. You were exasperating, but fun. Someone who never feared him.

Your persona had gotten a hold on him, dancing around in his little mind, whether it was genuine or not. Most times when he'd really get a look at you, he'd feel the sudden need to torment you once more, to feel annoyed by your very presence, all for it to push you to being even nicer, smarter.

That's how enigmatically “annoying” you were to him. You had sparked the driving force for him to finally deem you as some “stupid fake.” But, it was… enlightening. Your beauty hadn't helped at all with this mind game you've played on him.

​Now, with the fight between his principalities, instead of proclaiming his “hatred” towards you, calling you all sorts of wretched stylizations, he claims that you’re a witch. That “No man nor woman could melt any person into the palm of their hands — without a spell.” He deduces that you, specifically, had cast a spell upon him that made him the strangely, mindlessly devoted prince that he was, although he minded it very much so. He loathes the fact that your magnanimity has some sort of… power over him.

That in the dead of nightfall, he constantly fights the battle between his temperamental-inflamed ego and these foreign feelings you just so happened to barge in with.

He hates, seriously — he does. Like a mantra, he repeats every day, to ground himself from either burning you alive or acknowledging that you’re driving him to lunacy, to smother you with his hate-filled kisses to death. You are a witch, he scowls with disgust, bolstering his belief of your sorcery, committing the archaic practice, and rotting his mind saccharine. This is treason against the house of Targaryen, but you aren’t phased, never were, and never will.

You know that he truly doesn’t believe it, and he knows that as well. That’s why you keep on doing it, barging your way into that dusty old cob-webbed-filled space in his capricious mind. He finds it repulsive to even spend a sliver of his time fixating on you, Gods — you’ve really done a number on him.

​Since the moment you first met, when you and Valarr were only a child of five, with you–missing teeth and the raging chaos of a troublemaker, and he, already taught to conduct with a posture as sharp as Valyrian steel, and to be proud of the bruises formed by swords–not by clumsiness or the carelessness of yours, Valarr was simply destined to be a prince, to have knowledge and decorum far more advanced than his peers. He was the mirror of his father, the embodiment of what a perfect king should be—a fact you hated every aspect of it; hated the idea of being perfect in every way, even in private. You never understood why anyone should put a strain or hold on their youth simply from a “title.” To handpick the perfect facade for people who didn’t seem to care, to seem superior among humans.

But you, you were just…different from the rest. You had self-independence and utilized that fiery, rebellious urge to go against what a noble should and shouldn’t be. You’ve always hated the way the septas, your parents, or anyone, for that matter, correct you on what’s proper. It was all exasperating. Seeing the other children laugh and have fun, getting messy, laughing as the dirt had smeared onto them without a care in the world. By the time you were seven, you even dragged others with your belief at such a young age, causing trouble among the halls of your castle and the Red Keep, “plaguing” the children’s minds with your sayings. You were only a mere child, far more knowledgeable in freedom, rather than the intelligence of Valarr.

But with him, you understood his role in the endless wheel of lasting dynasties; understood why he was more careful, to be cautious of how he spent his time.

You were aware of why he had to do everything he did—even at such an early age. You could just see it in him, see the glimpse of an empty princely pride, see his melancholy being the successor to a kingdom of seven. You can see it in his eyes, that gloomy, silver-struck look whenever he was taxed after a day of learning the principles of ruling; it had hurt to see him so…solemn, at such an age. It softened your heart, softened your harshness when it came to these things, and your persistence of driving your sayings into others' minds.

You were careful with him, approached him with gentle measures, like approaching a lamb, getting him to be more comfortable in your presence. You knew you shouldn’t be overbearing, too confident in barging into another's life; he was still rigid after all, still immersed in his father’s path.

Though Valarr was instilled to find time in books and swords rather than the panting of running, and the rasps you’d have after yelling your little mind off whenever playing with others didn’t go your way. Whenever he would finally be with you, to spare you that time, you begged him for–you would play with him like a child. You would teach him how to actually laugh, showing him fun games like Monsters-and-maidens or Hide-the-treasure–something so foreign to him–running around the gardens where nobody could see.

​You’d even get him to break off that awkward princely accent he’d use, jesting at him whenever it was unbearable. During those times, you'd finally get him to let go and live the life of a boy who hasn’t grown yet. Not as a prince–one born into a dynasty–but as a child, even if it was for an hour before nightfall, even if it was for a minute.

​“Valarr!” You giggled, peachy cheeks stretching as your grin widened, doing your best to kick him off of you as you plummeted to the floor. Valarr had “attacked” you during a reenactment of the rebellion, chasing you around the gardens of the red keep as he grabbed a wooden sword from the training stands, cackling out a–

​“Yield, you Blackfyre bastard!” As he loomed over you with a toothy smirk, panting from your determination of tiring him from a day's worth of fun, instead of the torture he had to endure during training, something his father forced him to attend.

​Valarr never thought he could experience such joy in life, indulging in whatever the little lords and ladies would do to be free. In the end, he was just a boy after all. A child fostered with proper etiquette. When the night would still and the thoughts of his grow deafening, he’d often seek to be unrestrained, to find the joy in the dirt that he seems to notice, always clinging onto you.

​The Targaryen name was and forever will be a heavy burden that he has to strengthen himself just to carry, born to rule and sit on the iron throne. But when he’s free, free with you–it’s like everything correlating with obligations is lifted. Where the air was easier to breathe, where the truth seemed to be lighter to share.

But the distinction between you and Valarr's life was…“unfair” to him. It would anger Valarr quite often, not at you–no, but the difference between his own choices and yours. Why are they able to have fun, and not me? He'd often wonder, struggling between his jealousy and emotions. He’d find himself envious of how easygoing you were, just carefree, and just as you hated his life of politics, he hated your way of being untroubled, too.

He couldn’t ascertain why, although he was of a higher ranking, he was still pent up in the court yards, library, and council. The very difference had made him feel caged, trapped, like a dragon in the Dragonpit. It was unfair, really. I’m a prince, couldn’t I order to be free for once? He’d seethe, damning his title, his role—he never believed he truly was of royalty, nor power. He couldn’t even order to just walk alone for seven’s sake. And with you, always mentioning your journeys, adventures—it all fueled his pent-up envy even more.

​But you’re everything to him, even as a babe and now, even if the jealousy had coursed through him sometimes. He could never deny it; you shared his loneliness and were the pillar for his genuine happiness when the responsibilities hardened. Some way, somehow, you were everything he needed, wanted.

You were the comfort he was deprived of whenever he needed to lift off his stress, the warmth that was gone after his mother’s passing, hugging him, staying with him, making sure he was alright. You were maddening and invigorating, you, having a temper as mean as a child, but the softness reserved for him always prevailed. It was always like that for you two, Valarr being the poise whilst you were his freedom, a dynamic that harmonized so well.

​

Now, times are different. The years of laughter and innocence were fading as duty seemingly separated you both. When you were ten, you had to leave after your stay in Kings Landing to accompany your father as he carried out his tasks as one of the council members. You and Valarr had to part, writing vows in a rush before departing for the ship. He was such a baby, you thought, trying to be an example of strength for him–even though you were falling apart too.

Valarr was heartbroken, his happiness, that raw and genuine smile of his, it all left with you that day, and you knew. You just knew the dark days of his would come, that he’d probably vow to never find another like you—again. Yes, it was narcissistic to think, to believe that you were the sole reason for his peace of mind, but it was just the truth. A truth where Valarr didn't know how to become happy, didn't know how to find peace, because he didn't have to.

Because you found it for him instead, bringing him the joy that seemed to leave whenever he was isolated. You were, are, the peace and happiness for him.

“Please. Please, don’t…Don’t go.” He begged, his tears were scalding him as he prayed and prayed for you not to go. Snot was dripping from him as he wailed, clutching your hands tight–as if that would get you to stay. His sobs were louder than the yelling of your name to hurry you; his heart was beating faster after every mention of it, your name gradually getting louder as the impatience was striking in your father's voice. Valarr knew he would never experience the euphoria you brought out in him again; he knew he would be left with the memories of them, to cry in his sleep as he dreamt of it. However, what Valarr didn’t know was if he would ever get to see you again, if he would ever get to hear your bossy commands and laughter. All he knew was that you would be gone. Away from him, as he would be away from you.  

​“Valarr,” You sobbed, hugging him as tightly as you could–trying to engrave his embrace forever. It seemed as if you both were forced by the gods to be as star-crossed lovers, forced to part ways by your father and his job of serving the Targaryen name. It was all cruel and unfair. The promises of being together forever had felt empty now. You were crying as you kept hugging him, shushing his cries. You grabbed his head to wipe his tears away, harshly swiping them off as you tried your best to comfort him. It had hurt you to see him sad, to see him cry, all because of you. You knew Valarr was taught to never cry; instead, taught to “man up” and be a warrior. But he still did anyway, still longed for your shared laughter once more, and he still held you like you were the last precious thing he had, sobbing in your warmth, grabbing you tighter as he felt you pull away, pulling away forever.

You were his dove, as he was your swan.

​The free and the graceful.

​

Life is ambiguous; nothing could ever go anyone’s way. Not even his way. Even if he was a prince, a prince foretold to be the king, even if he was born with power. Life didn’t bend like a mortal did to a dragon, although Valarr wished for this one time that it would; nothing would have ever changed. He was only a child of ten after all, still a ruler in the making, still a boy whose say in things was restricted.

​

As time passed by, you slowly started to “forget” about Valarr. After years of separation, he was just a memory, tucked away in the back of your mind and only remembered when things remind you of him. The letters between you slowly started to discontinue; there was no news, updates, any gossip, or things that felt like they were needed to share. You didn’t mind that he stopped replying to your letters, as you thought he didn’t mind needing to be informed about your whereabouts.

After your first stay in the free cities, you stopped really thinking about him, wondering about him as you did often when you first voyaged across the sea, reliving that precious smile of his, adorned with his crescent-shaped dimples. You were grown now, more mature, adolescent. The busyness that came when dealing with trades and deals had encroached on you, as Valarr’s counciling and training to become fit for a king had as well. The years spent without him had turned your feelings and that special bond you shared into nothing but a passing. A fond time, forgotten.

No more of that chaotic process between the two of you when you and he both had begged your fathers to send the letters written for each other. No more of those messy handwritings turned precise, watching him grow, seeing how he grew sharper. Older, behind those letters. Maybe he stopped thinking of you as you did with him. Maybe he found another, someone who got him to feel free again. You struggled between those emotions, struggled between love and platonic love, whether you really loved him or just felt sad for him.

Maybe he did stop thinking about you.

​

However, it wasn't the same for him; he never did stop, never stopped drifting his mind to you. Never was, and never will. Only the letters did, when the septa had forbade any contact between the two of you. Saying that When the time comes, a new lover will come into your life, my prince. One who makes you feel different, one who can strengthen your family and you. The septa thought it would get him to finally stop moping about you, but it didn’t.

Valarr thought about you, morrow and nightfall, had thought about you in every waking moment whenever he realized again that you weren't here. You haunted him in his reverie, your laughter–constantly oscillating in his mind. He never stopped writing letters to you, even if they wouldn’t be sent. He didn't take your leave lightly; it may not have seemed as much openly after he perfected his image, but when he was alone…a loneliness he always used to share with you…The memories of you, the sight of you, had always struck him like an arrow to the heart. He forced himself to carry that weight of his misery, the emptiness that came after your leaving that day.

Even till this day, when he had already become of five and ten now, he still would dream of you, yearn for your silly adventures and your smile. Would dream of what you looked like now, if your features had changed, if you still had the softness of yours when you were little. It was all depressing, having to carry the burden and stress with politics, and with you prancing around in his psyche. Usually, whenever thoughts and those who frustrated him got to him, he’d have you to talk it out with. To spill everything that heaved in his chest, that stung his mind. But you aren’t there anymore, leaving him to face his struggles alone.

​Valarr loved you–loves you. And even if he had to marry another, he still would. You would always have a place in his heart, to be that rowdy figure in his life–that showed him what life could’ve been without the name of a broken dynasty, even if it was just for a day.

The Cytherean Scrolls: Pretty much a telling of what should be in this fic I'm working on! I'm a bit scared to proofread this because IK im going to be dying of embarrassment so just put my head on the spikes NEOWWW.

PS: If ya got this far, lmk! Let's be moots!!!Perhaps you reached the end because you liked the fic! Also,

Ashamed, really. Still, the go-to girl whenever he got drunk, lonely, and solemn. Just a moping, forever blue drunkard who whined and drank in the melancholy of his dreams–visions. You and him, the catalyst of each other’s lives, the ballad of the only good thing you both had going, the literature of the broken healing the shattered. Your relationship with him was a rough, on-and-off relationship, an ambiguous, tentative, even— “what are we?” situation that was promised a sweet ending, yet, broken with bitterness. The go-to girl, always and forever, was what you are were, for him. something you tried so hard to fight, but never had the guts to completely break off. It's hard to break something bad going on for you when the person you love(d) is just hurt. Lost. Confused, and forever tormented. He never deserved this; he doesn’t deserve this. Daeron never asked for a “blessing from the sevens”, never asked to navigate in a realm of cruelty, to mirror a broken family hardened by one aching loss after another. He was simply a man–just a boy, Y/n—one that knows…Knew, of comfort from his mother when his visions felt all too real.

That's why you find yourself here, now. Contemplating whether to ignore him just for this one time, to finally let go of that string that connects you to nothing and to everything, all at the same time. To balance between your peace and the right decision.

You have morals, you have the goodness that can prevail over your nature to sin, but it was such a complex crossroad, every path leading to dull corruption. I mean—Daeron isn’t even the type who could be proclaimed as undeserving, anyway. With all his shit, his struggles, his family for fuck’s sake—he’s just shattered, broken, all wounded up by everything and everyone, a self-inflicted, unwillingly destruction, an endless loop of agony, the gods could even say he’s deserving of pity. His dreams weren’t just dreams–they are nightmares, echoes of visions of what could happen and what will. His family, said to be only destroyed by itself, and a candle extinguished, forever blown out…their mother. One who knew of Daeron’s horrible curse gift, one who knew how to help him, gone. His brothers, all drowning in their own burdens, their own struggles that haunt them to the very end. And his father, present physically, absent mentally. It was the seven hells, here, in this god-forsaken realm. An encroaching, incessant, arrow to the heart. Daeron believed he was the bullseye of every painful jab a man could experience. The weight of his problems and yours, he outweighs you by a whole lot.

The deer to the hunter, the target to the archer.

Of course, no matter how much you hate him, hate his stupid stupidity, hate his way of temporary escape…you’re still going to be here. Still going to be the one who holds back his golden-white hair away, rubbing his back, gently whispering “it’s okay,” “Just like that…Here, drink some water,” while that constant stab, like a dagger with ridges for love, creeps up again.

​

Sigh.

​PleDS. pPPPLDAese. 🗨                                          

​What the fuck?

​I ha te 🗨

​Daeron. Are you fucking drunk?

​Noooop pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeedeeeeeeeeeeee’ 🗨

Drowning; fogged with alcohol–the promises of sobriety pleading for forgiveness–Daeron was wasted. Fucking out of it. The excruciating radio silence the bar carried, mingled with the air clouded by depression, regretful thoughts, and the constancy of drinking your life away. It was all a typical midnight, rotted. It wasn’t even a good numbing effect; it’s only a high, chased by those who could never experience it again. All temporary, all a replacement–a form of abuse—not even disguised as some “better” alternative to dealing with whatever bullshit one deals with. Gods, this was all so low for him. But what could he do? No matter what Daeron does, no matter what rehab he checks into, no matter what empty promise leaves his lips, the memories of his visions…his visions, of his mother, dying. That week before, some passing nightmare, he had put forth his energy to forget.

​

It always comes back.

It always serves as the suffocating rope, strangling him with every ounce of fury.

This. This is why he’d rather drink himself to an early death. The premonitions of a body gone cold. The sight of what could happen. What will happen. Mother, bless me your mercy. The stranger, act as the sword of the mother. Slay me with pity. Is what Daeron hopelessly manifests, with his all. An act of plea, a begging on his knees, sword in his own hand, tears scalding his bewitching face, type of prayer. He’s just sooo out of it. Zoned, trashed, until his senses draw him back to the bitter taste of numbness in a bottle, the only focus of a cold beer, and his phone.

​

Of course, he’s drunk.

Where are you? Daeron? Stay there.

​Kings;aa anddddd 🗨

Seen.

–And Ballads. Kings and Ballads. A bar in the streets leading to flea bottom, some niche tavern where worn-out, tired, “damn-this-realm” grey-haired believers go to drink their soul away, a very shitty place at that. But it was a second home to him. A place filled with understanding people who wouldn’t judge (it gets to a point, though). A place where he could just be despairing, fragile. An “abode” of wine, beer, and the weight of grief, finally lifted off after a day of bolstered callous. Of course, he’d be there. Why even stop to think that maybe, just maybe, he’d give this whole sober thing a try?

…”One last. Time. I’m giving him one last try.” You insisted, words of reassurance rather than a mantra. It was half past eleven, a midnight brimmed of another stormy, raging, spring rain in King’s Landing, constantly hitting your room’s window. You had set down the harsh, glaring phone, barely in the transition of actually sleeping, eyes growing heavy, finally giving up–not because of the day’s past, but because of the war you go through with your own thoughts before resting. It's funny, really. How tired and groggy you are throughout the day, how you have to strangle the thoughts of even drifting off. But as soon as you’re in your bed, a tired, weary sigh escaping you, a final “goodbye” to the past of this so-and-so shitty day, your mind just won’t shut up. Instead of sleeping everything off, waking to a beautiful morrow, your recollection of every governing regret eats you. Every embarrassing moment, every little act, triggering your anger–it all haunts you. And now? You have to deal with your half-waken half-alive self, and a man–your man–who’s drinking down the remnants of his visions.

“Fuck.” You sigh out, slowly rising from the empty promise of comfort, from your bed, acting on the decision that could either break you or give you that false sense of hope you craved for. Sitting there, zoning out for a moment, the air stilling as your mind numbs, your ear ringing for God knows why, staring at the moonlight ornamented corner of your room, you close your eyes–and just breathe, threading a hand through your hair, rubbing the gnawing desolation away…Daeron was supposed to be a warning of my mistakes. A prominent figure in the past, the epitome of a man just lost, a man who’s just no good for me. So why, why, do I always help him? Why…do you take him back into your arms, into the warmth that suddenly comes back, warming him–and that frozen heart of yours he had left you? Who knows. It's certain that you clearly don’t know; Crystal clear that you’re still the lighthouse of his storm of mercy.

“Alright,” grumbling, running a hand across your face one last time, getting up after your battle of indecisiveness. The rain grew angrier, more of little, angry, persecuting shards of ice, rather than dewdrops of the sweet season, as you grab your jacket, giving yourself another chance to back out of…this…(spoiler alert: you don’t) and make your way out of the apartment. All thoughts of at least being more presentable were now an exhale gone. You were just in a worn-out jean jacket, hair mussed up in a braid, pajamas shamefully vibrant. Any rational thinking has already left, as you made the decision to come and grab him. Every ounce of that dignity you talked of, gone in the gutter.

​

What a wicked game to play,  ♫

to make me feel this way. ♫

What a wicked thing to do, ♫

to make me dream of you. ♫

As you pull up into the side of the bar’s street, illuminated by the prancing amber lights of the vicinity of flea bottom, mellifluous melancholic tones, the background music of your troubles, you notice a particular silver-blonde drunk from the corner of your eye, sulking in the pavements of rain-soaked despair, babbling words oscillating in the winds, ceaseless sips out of his bottle. The rain had gotten worse as you inched closer, a foggy trail of its endless drops, slowly making its way on the windows of your car, windshield wipers working over time to make things more coherent–you halted, noticing him more clearly. Daeron wasn’t just sitting; he was outside (duh), lying down, threatening to roll over to the incessant rain. Right. Out. Side. Lying down like the world is about to end—the ephemeral of apathy.

“DAERON!” You scolded, hurriedly grabbing your umbrella, sprinting out of the car into the chilly atmosphere. He looked so pathetic as you rushed closer; he was pathetic. Why, just why, was he even out here in the first place? There’s no way he was that drunk to get sick?! You noted, but then again, ah, c'mon. It’s Daeron we're talking about. Of course, he’d get too melancholy for this fuckass bar, of course, kicked out for oversharing his absurd, genuine horrors of what he goes through at night, rather than drinking it down–what he has to endure in his labyrinthine of a mind.

​“H–hic–huh?” He slowly looked up at you from the ground, glimpsing, glassy, doe eyes for a pair, a window to his plagued soul, just staring at you with a curious furrow, as you loomed over him with dissapointment. Jaw slack, face slicked with that strange heat beer would give you, he mindlessly pondered whether you were just a figment of his imagination, or if you really came as you promised. Oh, how you knew, by those readable eyes. You assumed he had gotten drunk, swigging down a drink or two with his good-for-nothing friends—or cousins. But noo, he didn’t get wasted because it was for “fun”; he’s been drinking down the rain (again), trying his best to suppress his memories. Fuck. This is all fucked. You, standing there, out in the rain–umbrella in hand, bare legs chilled against the wind, just staring back at him, an orphic-like understanding, creeping up. Your face, a mind of its own, illuminating that genuine look of worry, an expression, expressing your indelible love for him. Sigh.

This, this…is why you come back. This is why you went out in the cold, bitter air…Why you and him…a shared tacit, like apricity.

He’s just a boy. A dreamer of anemoia.

“Y/nnnnn,” Daeron finally said, eyes blurry, alcohol coursing through his blood.

“ ‘s really you?” He whimpered. Fucking whimpered. Hoisting his drunken self, disarrayed hair of that once vibrant honey, bunched up in a half-done ponytail, rattling as so. You grabbed his arm as he faltered, just a silver, gently nudging him to fully stand, arm drifting down his lower back for support, as you lifted the umbrella higher to fit his stature. You didn’t have the energy or the right state of mind to answer him, just focusing on his steps as you made way to the car, saturated pavement, drowning the soles of your feet. The duality of self was pensive as you struggled both internally and outwardly, immersing oneself in what was right and wrong, what happens now, and what to do–ubiquitously. As you stumbled and faltered from his burdensome leaden, making way back to the car before the cold winds and rain could get any worse, you tenderly propelled him into the passenger’s side, maintaining that fervid battle of rushing love and vows for your own good.

“Watch it, Daeron…” You muttered, a hasted worried glance at his current state, overanalyzing every possible accident he could cause while he’s drunk. You made your bed, so lie in it, you mumbled under your breath as you got in the car, placing yourself with hushed dwales, glancing every now and then at Daeron. Your feelings–as if it was ever hidden in the first place–were present. Is present. That protective nature you carried whenever it came to him, gravitating towards “motherly” worry. He was just someone who brought out that odd maternal instinct, you know? Anyone would automatically feel…Maternal, or parental, over him, if they really got to know him…

“You came back…” He drawled. Head facing away, avoiding your eyes, he propped his head up with the callous of his knuckles. Staring at the passing, amber-immersed, enveloped streets, as you started the car. His words were fairly slurred, still coated in the aftertaste of beer, still gloomy. He was eerily mystifying as he mentioned that. No words croaked from you, sparking a question of sorts—a statement. It was true, you did come back. But hearing it from him, out of all people, it felt too…disconcerting. Too sensitive. You settled for hefty silence, instead. Throughout the whole car ride, not croaking out a single word, not one reply to his drunken confessions, stories, and whatever he could yap about as if this was casual. A normal agenda. The silence after babbling out about anything, and his voice, unbearable, was too awkward. You’d hope that any signs of soberness would finally emerge, maybe a moment of silence emitted would get him to calm down after you pleaded for him to just be quiet. But it made everything too suffocating. Not only for you, but for him, as well. The journey back was short, but being in proximity to him, it felt like an eternity. You thought Daeron would at least try to talk his way through, say something along the lines of an apology–a sorry or two, a chance to just let everything out, and forget about it the morning after. But he didn’t. He reciprocated; he mirrored your given silence. He mirrored your frustrations, made everything overwhelming, worse. The past memories of you and him, flashing through the window as building lights had blurred into a merging, glowing streak. It’s like you were both hallucinating, tracing the outlines of those crystalline smiles you once shared, rapidly blinking them away with disgust. Tears threatening to slip.

▬▬ι══════ﺤ

You both arrive, pulling into the parking lot of your apartment building. A sigh of relief seemed to escape from you both, a relief of the rain subsiding, and a hint of petrichor. From the escape of untold, admitted guilt. Just get him changed, let him chug down a few glasses of water, and wait. Wait for him to finally get sleepy, then go ahead and buy the hangover soup. That's it. Was what you kept repeating as you got him situated, softly leading him out of the car, making sure he stays underneath the umbrella as you walked–and not wandering off from the familiar building. He was heavier than he looked, dragging you both down every step of your apartment. Stop it. You kept saying, whenever he’d get handsy, curiosity, from nowhere. Maybe it was best to drop him off at his cousin’s place. Would do you a whole lot, would keep everything in order. But with his promises, reaching his father, and with the repetitive phrase of “I’ll stop drinking,” coming to mind—a typical Daeron thing–you decided it was better off dealing with him, instead. Knowing Maekar, he would go ballistic. The whole family would know of another broken vow made by him, and he’d drink even more from the chaos that would come after exposing himself. All doors led to consequences for him–it seemed. If he were with you, you both would do something that would be regretted. If he came back drunk to his kin, he’d be more depressed, ashamed. And if he were alone to fend for himself, he’d end up in a ditch. This was all a shit-show. Probably Dante's Inferno hell in your life and his, where everything was just a massive chain of events, never a glimpse of light in the darkness, you and he have to push through.

“Watch your step, Daer–”

​

“Am I ba—”  

​

“Oh shut it.” You quickly retorted,

—Heading towards the entrance of the building, shaking off the wetness of rain, you steadily ground Daeron, and head to the elevator. Your mind was racing. Jumping from one thought to another, from one regret to a past one. You prayed that this time, for this one last time, that things wouldn’t end with you and him on the ground, making up the time passed by with you two, replacing apologies with kisses, replacing the coldness of the relationship with scorching lust. It always ended like that, though. Ending with you in his arms or him in yours, legs intertwined, air filled with somber sex, anger towards the world, redirected to the burning sensation shared from you both. It would be inconvenient, anyway, though it would be too embarrassing. He was drunk, you were clear-headed, he was fumbling his steps, while you were walking with steady footing. Grabbing him, setting an example on how to actually walk properly without plummeting towards the ground. There was no way, right? You already made your choice, just help him and get him the hell out of here by sunrise. No make-up sex, no exchanged tears, sadness, nothing. Just stop overthinking it. You don’t love him anymore; this was only because of your pity. Because your love wasn’t love, it was the guilt of abandoning something–someone, that didn’t need abandonment. They needed help.

​

Ding.

▬▬ι══════ﺤ

After finally making it to your apartment, heavy breaths leaving you as you shoved him inside, you switched the lights on in the chiaroscuro room. Daeron suddenly slips and falls on the ground, stumbling on his feet as the floor started to blur.

​

“Daeron, get up,” you deadpanned, exhaustion escaping you as you crossed your arms impatiently.

​“ ‘m up…” he groaned out, rubbing his back as he arose, shaking his head like a cartoon character. That totally got him sober again, you thought. His head shook as he finally realized that he was in your living room, eyes finally centered, the familiar feeling he got struck him, whenever he grasped what was going on. He glanced everywhere, ogling the area with an ambiguous look, as if he was dazed by nothing new. You kept studying him, wondering what was so different now, why he looked as if everything was new. This wasn’t some strange place for him; he’s been here before. Countless times. Had walked and touched every inch of your apartment. Your home, our home—he’d jest. Was this some stupid, drunk antic? Did his falling to the ground make everything unfamiliar to him? Well, you didn’t care anyway. You just brushed it off, heading towards your bedroom to grab whatever pieces of clothing he didn’t bother to take back. Kind of weird, how it was still there. Not because of the fact that he just never thought to take them, but because you still had them. Didn’t throw them away when he didn’t reply to your text, never gave them away, or just dropped them off at his house. Maybe a piece of you still loved him like that. Still mourned the side of him that was picturesque. That loved you too.

​“Here. Change into this, and I’ll grab you some water. You feel like throwing up?” You handed him his clothes to change out of, eyeing him up and down as he hesitantly took them and changed right. Infront. Of you. Freak, you mentally thrashed. But it wasn’t like you didn’t enjoy it…his visage, body, it was an insatiable eye candy, one that easily allured you.

​“Thanks,’’ he replied, stretching as he wandered to grab some water instead. His mouth hung open like he was going to add anything else–but closed it .

“You can sleep in my bed, if you want. I'll be on the couch.’’ you assured, wondering what he was going to say to you before leaving. At least you were considerate. Well, everything you have just done for him was above considerate, nonetheless.

​

…

▬▬ι══════ﺤ

“I- uhm. I,’’ sigh. ‘’I’m sorry.’’ he stuttered, indigo, flickering eyes, shaking as he looked at you, longing prominent in his eyes, as he wiped his condesated palms, breath uneven from the proximity of you to after walking towards you; inching closer.

​“W-what…’’ It caught you by surprise, head slightly angled, brows widening as you realized what he just said. ‘I'm sorry?’ Is that really it? Are you fucking kidding me? Roared your mind, disbelief, anger, sadness, it all came crashing down, all barging their way into your caged heart, obsidian mind. “I'm sorry?” What the actual fuck? Please, not right now. Please. Was what you kept lashing, mind drifting off, peacing a goodbye, as you stared at him, your eyes glaring at him—reaching beyond his soul.

​“You're sorry? You’re SORRY?’’ you finally retorted. Stepping forward, eyes lowering as sharp as Valyrian steel, noses brushing as you gestured your head. Daeron didn’t know what to do. He thought it was the right thing, thought that it was the right moment—when he got sober (enough). He, too, had wanted to end this situation; he didn’t want you to keep caring for him like this, putting you on a constant wheel of love and “responsibility”. You didn’t deserve it. Didn't deserve it at all. He loved you enough to leave you, to keep you away from his constant despair of youth. He knew he was no good, but what possessed him to even think that he’d deserve a sweet girl like you?

​“You’ve got to be shitting me, Daeron Targaryen. After the constant ghosting, the late-night texts when you got too fucking drunk, all those times, missed opportunities?! To say something better, to come up with something better than ‘I'm sorry,’ you decide to do it now? Are you kidding me?!” you seethed, poking at his chest as hard as you could now, the veins in your neck prominent as your tone raged. that built-up anger finally released. You were in disbelief–relief, that he had finally admitted to it, but disappointed. Why say it now when you're drunk?! When everything had finally calmed down into a more plausible environment? Why couldn’t you just do it when you were sober, coherent, at clarity to actually remember this moment? But then again,

—Sometimes, there's a saying that when people are deep into their drinks, they tend to speak their mind. To tell the truth. And Daeron never told the truth when he was sober. Never had the guts to face it. Never had the strength within the bearer of the sword.

​“I know. But, I-i’m sober now, when you called me ba–”

​“You’re such a dick, Daeron!!” you shouted, fuming, your tears streaming down your face now, catching him off-guard.

​“Y/n– fuck, no…please,’’ he lamented, hurriedly rushing closer to you, grabbing your face, hugging you tight. He didn’t mean to break you. Didn’t mean to drag you into his shit. He loved you, fuck, he loves you. He loved—loves, you so much that he left, just so he couldn’t break you further even more. But oh, how he regretted every inch of his decision. He wished he wasn’t cursed with such a gift; he wished that he was a normal person–that dreamt of normal things, that envisioned fantasies, not premonitions. He pleaded, prayed, wished to be normal, just for once—for you. Everything fell apart, your facade of “moving on,” his careless  behaviour when he was drunk, everything came to light. Every procrastinated event, finally making its way—here.

​“Please, y/n, don’t cry… He hushed, wiping your tears away, holding you, pulling you to his chest, shushing you to the best of his abilities. It broke his heart when he heard you, witnessing your act of taking your armor off.

​“Shh…’’ —You just kept crying, tears just wouldn’t stop. You hated every moment of this. You were supposed to be stronger than this, to be hardened by every painful memory, to move on. Why, just why?! Why couldn’t you stop crying? Why can't I stop crying...

​

▬▬ι══════ﺤ

As you kept bawling, actions expressing your feelings, louder than your words, Daeron started kissing away your tears. Leaning down, eyes tearing from just the sight of you, closing them with tears prickling as well, slowly kissing your tears, his lips quiver on your cheeks, you could feel it in the silent sobs that rumbled against you, his muffled apologies vibrating against your skin. You couldn’t help but just kiss him back. You swiped away your cheeks, replacing them with your own lips. You were shaking–full on shaking as you tip-toed, meeting his soft lips, beer lingering. Daeron could feel it when he pecked at your lips at first, hesitating to take it any further, but you deepened the kiss anyway. You weren’t thinking straight, he noted. Your grief caused by him–just taking over, all of those pent-up emotions, just represented with your demanding prod. It was so messed up, making his gut wrench. He didn’t want to do this, didn't want to cause any further pain, he tried to back away, taking a step back–to give you the choice of stopping before anything else happens–but you held him there. Holding his head in place as you pressed against him even further, mind closing and just taking him in. You didn’t care. You made the decision now to let this moment blur, to pass by you like a night of drinking, a memory hard to remember like a hangover. It always ended up with sex, you and him making up. Every apology, replaced with pleasure, easing each other’s pain away temporarily. But you needed this; you missed him. And he needed it, too.

​“Y/n…’’ He finally pulled away, panting as he looked at you with reluctance, a string of saliva connecting you and him. You opened your eyes, poor things sobbed red, puffy, and glossy.

“Y/n, look, I'm sorry–’’ You interrupted him, yanking him back down to kiss him. You both devoured each other, tongue ravaging, begging for entrance, fighting his tongue like you either hated him or loved him, or both. You closed your eyes and just breathed him in, biting his lower lip, messily maneuvering around as you smeared your spit with your own. Daeron had to grab you by the waist, using you as leverage while he pushed down harder too. The kissing lasted longer than needed, your mouth and his, smeared with contrition. He gripped you hard, knuckles turning white, tongue finally escaping your grasp and trailing down to your neck. It was clear that he was still a little drunk; his tongue tasted of beer when you made out, faltering as he sucked and bit everywhere on your jaw, to your neck, and collar, slobbering all over you. You shifted your head to give him easier access, a moan escaping you unwillingly, and shame, guilt, fighting to warn you as you actually…enjoyed it. He’s drunk, you aren't... he doesn’t know what he’s doing…but you did. You couldn’t stop. You were drunk yourself, drunk off the high you were chasing. The ache you needed to relieve, grinding on him as you devoured each other like animals. You just couldn’t bring yourself to be the mature person, to tell him that this was wrong. But yet, you gripped his hair anyway, tugging on him with animalistic lust, ruining his already messed-up hair-do, nudging him to the couch as you licked a stripe on his neck, causing him to moan. He was on you like a man deprived, lips never leaving your body. He couldn’t even stop when you both had plummeted on the couch, just bruising you, marking you, leaving his apologies on you, showing his guilt through his intimacy. You could feel how hard he was, biting you a little bit harder now, thrusting into your thigh like a dog in heat.

“Daeron…baby, slow down…’’ You gasped, pulling his hair harder, trying to tug him away. He came back up, breathing heavily, looking at you like you just ruined him. His eyes, his face, his lips, he looked like he was yearning for this. Waiting for this.

He looked so…pretty.

​

“N-no… ‘m not done…’’ Heaving, panting, coming back down on you, his hands going under your shirt–pulling it up, moaning as his hands roamed your skin. Groping anything, roughly shoving you down on the couch, he just couldn’t stop; he wanted to fucking tear you apart. You didn’t want it to stop either. You stared at him with lust-filled eyes, studying him as he pulled down your pants with urgency, mumbling incoherent nonsense of sweet nothings, trailing kisses down your body as you caressed his hair, your tears left on his tongue, intermixing with his spit. Mmm…you moaned as he nipped your inner thigh, demanding entrance, clinging to the wetness of your heat, the slickness gushing out, panties transparent as your animal attraction for him. He looked up once again, looking for an answer–looking for a confirmation, scratching your thighs agonizingly with impatience. You were absent—wrecked with desire, only noticing when Daeron had whined. Daeron’s breath was directly on your core, hot and heady, frustrations prominent, he was so close—lips grazing your clothed pussy as his breath faltered, just waiting for a nod. He looked at it for a moment, drinking it in, drinking everything in, then looked up one last time. You nodded, a smirk forming as you bit your lip, opening your legs wider. The silence was overwhelming, his thoughts blurring. Then he finally pulled back your panties, practically ripping them off of you, throwing them. Everything was wet, your heat barely letting your underwear go, too sticky, just glued to your core. It was so messy, so evocative. It said everything you tried to hide, showed him your true feelings.

​"Fuck, you're wet…” he groaned out, his head thrown back as he slowly traced the outlines of your chloeric heat, slowly prodding it open, separating your pussy lips with two fingers, just staring at it—blissed out. It was embarrassing, all too sensual. You kept closing your legs, confidence rapidly dropping, your embarrassment washing over–but he kept a firm grip on your thighs, tight. Rigid. His agitation was present as he kept yanking you open, holding you down—he wanted you still, he needed you to feel this, to feel everything. After a moment of cheeky struggling, Daeron had finally latched his mouth on your pussy, tongue thrusting in with furious need, ramming it with fervent need, his mouth raging with the heat of his lust. He craved for your pussy like it was a bottle of sweet wine; it tasted heavenly–tasted of summer wine. It was addicting, entrancing him, luring him to nudge even more. To go deeper. He had inhaled everything, pushing you down—holding you down, angling his head down to go even deeper. You moaned out like a pornographic star, hands immediately on his hair, holding yourself in place as his nose nudged on your clit, his tongue sucking every nook and cranny—like he still remembered every touch that made you come undone. He delved, probed, reached the depths of your core, your walls clenching—luring him in. Daeron had kept changing paces, going fast, opening his mouth even wideeer to drink you in even more, then slowing to impale you, forcing you to take it. He craved, his mind longing for your sweet sounds, ravenousness in your pleasure. Elevating your thighs, he slides his hands under the small of your back to lift you up. Daeron was reaching his limit and going over it simultaneously, inhaling you in, making you arch, rutting into the couch ruthlessly.

​“Daeron, mmph!” you screamed out, gripping his hair like a vice, pushing your body up with your feet, and clenching your thighs—trapping him. Daeron followed your every squim like a man on a leash. You were close, so close, he could tell whenever you clenched a little too roughly. Daeron had managed to flip you up, making himself lie down on the couch, letting you ride his face. His eyes never leaving you, he admired your tantalizing beauty, observed like a man entranced, noticing how your face scrunches up, eyebrows furrowed as you felt your orgasm nearing. You were gradually getting louder now, moans turning into screams, your lips bleeding from your harsh bites to shush yourself, pleasure sooo lewd, rocking back and forth, suffocating him—sending sparks to your body as the friction became too much. Daeron didn’t seem to care–in fact, he relished it. He opened his mouth wider, digging through your hole deeper, his massive hands clutching on your thighs, bruising your soft skin. His face was furrowed in focus–attentiveness–wanting, needing this. He didn’t seem to mind dying between your legs; he just smiled, and you felt it. Oh, how you felt that crude smirk of his. He loved this. He enjoyed this. Daeron had held you up, his hands lying flat on your ass as he kept you elevated, his tongue popping out with a nasty pop, dragging down from bottom to up, sucking on your clit as his ring-adorned fingers pushed inside of you, doubling the overwhelming sensation. Your orgasm came crashing down hard, a sob rasping your hoarse voice,your grip on his hair firm. Daeron had slurped it all up, moving all over the place just so he wouldn’t miss a drop. You just kept flowing, causing him to get messy, to slobber—to slobber up every drip of your mouth-watering cream, drenching his face in your juice.

​“D-Daeron!!” you exploded, trying to get off of him, but he didn’t let you go. His arms locked in place, chasing your orgasm, going faster and faster. Again and again.

​

“Daeron, g-get o–”

​

“No. Please, just one more…” He whined, arousal high, coming from simply just eating you the fuck out.

​He didn’t stop. That promise was a lie. Daeron continued to tongue-fuck you, round after round, chasing your nth high. He was mad, mad at himself…Mad that he went months without your sweet pussy. He was deprived; he fucking lost it. One taste of your slick had him all riled up and wanting more, more, more. This man fucked you dumb, figuratively and literally. Lewd squelches where tongue meets the inside of your folds. You had to physically pry him off, legs trembling–body weak, just to pull him out, to part him away, to get him to breathe. Daeron started crying, whining like a horny teenager who just can’t get enough, his head filled with lustful thoughts and senses, conditioned to just make you feel good. To prove that he was sorry. He needed to show you, to make you feel. To let you know how sorry he was, to let him show you how he had missed you so, so much. As he unbuckled his pants, pre-cum glistening, just a mess on his underwear—your breath hitched. He cummed, literally by eating you out… You were dazed and dumb-fucked, seeing the stars. Daeron had grabbed you, tapping your cheek to see if you were still there. lying down as he manhandled you to straddle him.

“M’ sorry…’s fucking embarrassing, I know…” He apologized, ashamed of how horny he was, getting the best of himself. You couldn’t tell if he was apologising for eating you out like his life depended on it or for the fact that he cummed?!

You noticed his face, red and smeared, glistening with your orgasms. And he noticed, looking at you with a stupid, foolish grin. He looked proud; he looked as if he had accomplished a feat. He knew you were turned on even more, licking his lips, eyes droopy with devotion and lust. He caressed your cheek, as he leaned you in closer, fisting your hair and smashing your face down, devouring your lips even more–letting you, making you taste your own pleasure. He chuckled as he lined his painfully hard cock in your entrance, rubbing it back and forth as he tongue-fucked you stupid. As he pushed his tongue further down your throat, choking you practically, he had finally thrust in, giving you no time to adjust. Fuck, he was big. Like—massively big. Every vein, every inch, you had felt it as soon as he pushed in hard. Forcing himself into you like he couldn’t wait a second.

▬▬ι══════ﺤ

You fucked like it was the end of the world. A whole marathon run, lasting till’ 7’ am. Hell, you fell asleep towards the end, and Daeron still continued to fuck you.

Maybe in the end, while you and Daeron having make-up sex was probably (and was) foreshadowed, it wasn’t so bad. You both need each other—perfect, actually, for each other. You were the glimpse of light in his darkness, and he was yours.

𓆰 Eccentric words and their meaning:

Apricity: Apricity in romance describes the comforting warmth of a partner during a cold or difficult time.

Tentative: Not fully certain.

Mellifluous: A sound, voice or music, that is pleasant to listen.

Desolation: A state of complete void, emptiness.

Ephemeral: Temporary, lasting for a very short time.

Apathy: A lack of feeling, emotion, numbness.

Leaden: weight, heavy, incredibly hard to lift.

Anemoia: nostalgia (a neologism)

Ubiquitously: present, everywhere, at the same time

Petrichor: Pleasant, earthy smell produced after rain falls.

Chiaroscuro: Strong dramatic contrast between light and dark.

He expresses his love in ways of the unexplored, words tied together with precision, meanings, and raw emotions—sharp as an arrow. He would and does speak his love for you—every morrow, nightfall, and evening like a mantra. From the seven hells and heavens, to right here—in this realm. Not one, single, synonymous word of love was left untouched by him.

Call him Shakespeare in the way he makes up words for his “unexplained” feelings towards you. (He used every word he could think of AND find about love, for you…)

Acts of Service: Oh, poor boy, a man lost in the storm of puppy love, with you—the lighthouse. Not only does he speak through the existence of his love for you verbally, but oh, how he shows it too. Just as it is in the previous work of Valarr and Venus, in a human’s form, how the beauty of it all is harmonious with the five languages of love, this man synergizes the Acts of Service DOWNNNN. He is sculptured as a husband made to carry out his wife’s every need, fancy, and craving. Oh? You wanted this beautiful sapphire jewel from Tarth? Yeah, consider it done. Immediately, as he hears you even peep a word—doesn’t matter what crazy suggestion or want it is—Valarr is on that like his life DEPENDS. ON. IT. And get this–he thinks he’s sooo ‘’nonchalant’’ about it as well—(how could you be so nonchalant when you’re literally caught in broad daylight, love-dumb all over your wife?!) about this “religious” practice of his, to get you anything, and everything, that he actually thinks this is the only aspect of him that has gone unnoticed?! Gosh, this man would just randomly place that piece of sapphire you always wanted on one ‘sunny day’ and then love you like it was nothing.

“V-Valarr?!” You are puzzled, eyes expanding wide as you see the reflecting glints of that sapphire jewel you casually mentioned. It was odd—not really, but peculiar for such a beauty to land in your shared chambers…You mentioned that piece ONE TIME. Just one. Time. A passing fancy as you walked the markets of Tarth, the house of sapphire, with wine powering your foggy head. Valarr was always the type to “surprise” you with his surprisingly sharp memory, recalling things and waiting for when the time is right—catching you off guard.

“Do you like it? I got it custom-made—”

“Of course, you got it custom-made, now shut it and explain?!” You interjected, furrowed brows as vivid as a crescent.

“You…mentioned it. During our walk, remember? Maybe you don’t, but, I saw the way you ‘ogled’ it.” He took the piece and slowly made his way towards you, pulling back your hair, flashing that toothy smile of his—dimples prominent.

Yeah, admit it. You didn’t remember. Like said, it was a passing fancy, your minded dazed.

​Other: ANDDD, that’s not it, he also takes care of you like clockwork; bathing you himself, dressing you in your beautifully complex dresses, fixing your plates, drinks, massaging you after a tiring day of hanging with the ladies, AND, even learning how to BRAID your hair. All because his out-of-pocket jealousy HATES when other people touch you–even your maids. Like, c’mon…YOUR MAIDS…this man is so so soooo down bad for you, I’m surprised he’s still standing.

Receiving Gifts: Gifts, jewelry, delights of the realms, and so much more. Valarr loooves to spoil you rotten, I mean, you're his wife after all. He gets you all worked up with these eccentric pieces, and just smiles, like a big puppy who thinks life is all ‘‘sunshines n’ rainbows’’ (just picture him, smiling like Syrax, fangs and all, just out and about). He smiles because you smile–he KNOWS you aren’t just smiling because of the gift itself, but the thought and lingering love that was put into it. Every little thing he buys is for love, every thought, every ponder, every “Is she going to love this?” frantic,

It’s all rooted in the beauty of it.

Quality Time: Valarr eats that ‘‘undivided attention’’ characteristic, UP. This man is a full-time yearner, part-time prince, and a sucker for you. He’s attentive to your every emotion and gesture, every little move you do unconsciously, to express your feelings–he’s got that engraved. Your laughs, heady breaths, and those angelic features you were blessed with are all so vividly emblazoned in his mind. He knows your likes, dislikes, your favorite activities, poetry, and every, little detail about you.

Physical Touch: Just like verbally showing it, proclaiming it, and even more so, his frantic state of just needing you, applies when being close to you. His sense of touch revolves around you; he’s on you everywhere, he’s found with you in feasts, closer than ever, evening breaks of fasts, at random times when the peace of mind is just with you—he’s just there. He loves to touch your hair, caress your face when time stills, he loves when his hands are intertwined with yours, just as your limbs are on each other, locked like a chain that can’t be broken. He’s like another shadow of yours, another limb–a soul mate. And yes, of course, when I say ‘‘soulmate’’ I mean it in everything. He IS a soulmate. Your soulmate.

​And oh gosh, Valarr ‘‘proved’’ that you and he were both fated, professed “In the ancient myths of the fourteen flames, it was said that originally, humans were spherical, powerful beings, of four legs and arms, and two faces. The Gods of fire were fearful over our strength, so, they had split the original humans in half—us, y/n—cursing them with following despair and misery, in the constant state of searching for their other half, their soulmate.”

“But look,” he grabs your hand, calloused fingers by his training, toying with yours, a breathy sigh—a sign of a stupidly good line impending,

“But look, look at us. You’re here, I’m here…” He cooed in a light-hearted sing-song tone at the end.

Valarr sounded so star-struck by that very fact, he fully believed that you both were the exception to that myth, star-crossed lovers, destined, fated, written beforehand in the dawn of time.

Authors notes: Too much words, too much nonsense! I made this up in like 2 hours and I feel like I'm going to regret this so much. I tried to speed rush this for God knows why so, I AM SO SORRY IF THIS SUCKS. Just imagine me bowing down and frantically apologizing incessantly rn.

Yet, as his softened amethyst and topaz pair of eyes drifted mindlessly onto you during a feast, a blessing disguised in boredom, he knew. Oh, how he knew. Valarr knew the moment his gaze fell on you that you would be the catalyst of his life. You see, this man wasn’t one to love in the name of love. Valarr was habituated to envision that most marriages were about duty, power, and alliances in his structured, rigid mind. Though, as you sat there, ornamented in the colors of his mix-matched wonders, lavender coated…with that aureate halo, exuding from you effortlessly, laughing at some ‘’idiotic’’ jest Matarys shared… Oh, how his poor mind was inflamed into nothing and reborn like a phoenix. You, you little…goddess, you. Knocking down the iron walls of his palace of a mind—a curated resemblance of his father—with ease, grace, and your stupidly–wait, no, your achingly beautiful smile, that pretty gift you grace anyone with carelessly, as if it was just some…Heavenly present you could give to anyone.

Venusboy!Valarr, who adorns you with his all, devotion running through every sense in his body–redirected towards you. This man is a full-time yearner and a prince off the side. A ‘’deprived’’ carnivore whose greed asks for more, for your needs. A man who’s so desperately, hopelessly smitten that it aches in the depths of his stomach, gnaws in his mind, and hurts…below. His want–no, need, for your everything is so ineffable, his love language is practically every category on rotation, on repeat, like a continuous cycle depending on your every fancy. He’s Venus, a statue of an Amorist.

Venusboy!Valarr, who literally only daydreams, dreams, and thinks about you. You weren’t this constant thought in the back of his mind, disturbing—haunting him anytime he drifted into his contemplations, you WERE in his mind—you ARE, his mind. To the moon and back, from the Red Keep to Winterfell, in his conscious, subconscious, in his soul…you weren’t just haunting him, you were marching into his mind, bold and confident, carrying a saccharine plague he willingly volunteers to get sick from. He was ill, ill because of you. The lovesick disease you just had,

—You were like poison.

An enticing…scent, so sweet–a taste, bite, so deadly.

It was the only thing keeping him going. He was immune and permeable, ubiquitously.

Venusboy!Valarr, whose love language is of every aspect, rotated constantly like clockwork. He believed in beauty; he was like Venus as a boy. He was athirst for you, body and all, sets off the beauty in you, sees you in a way of curated supernal. This man drank you in like the summer wine, boasting with odes, ballads, and poems. He was as poetic as it could get–higher than Shakespeare. He would force Matarys and little Aemon, inducing philosophical rants regarding you, proclaiming how your beauty, inwardly and outwardly, was ‘’of the higher planes,’’ a concept that was perfect, scientifically perfect–no, BEYOND perfect, beyond the laws of what could be real and is real. Goes deeper than the depths of the Dornish sea, goes deeper than any knowledge of any maesters, and lingers.

Venusboy!Valarr, whose wicked sense of humor, painfully beautiful, other-worldly beauty of both the silver-adorned and gold-clad dynasty, and his body, mind, soul, touch, fingers, all focused on you. He explored the depths of your silk-embellished vines of flowers, explored the taste of you. Arousal, so accurate. Love, so…precise. He was reduced to a man fully devoted to you. (god forbid a husband just wants to put your needs before anyone else?!). His emotions, actions, and decisions, all centered on you. It’s as if you conditioned him to be your personal servant, softening the dragon’s fire, reducing it to warmth, and a man who worships you more than he had ever worshipped the old gods and the new, all at the same time. This man was the epitome, embodiment, quintessential, and ultimate of a yearner. His love for you was insatiable and satiable, rough and soft, all just acted upon the name of his love. (This man would totally kiss the floors of the Red Keep where you walked)

Venusboy!Valarr, who would openly, verbally express and convey his love for you, as if every hour shared between you was just a private, intimate moment, a world, a day, just revolving around you both. It was so grand and overboard, to the point where your ladies and the lords of the court would seethe with jealousy. The ladies would oftentimes whisper with envy and care about how ‘’you’re practically smothered with Valarr’s love.’’ The lords would complain constantly among themselves about how their very wives would always incessantly “nag” them about treating them just as much as how Valarr would treat you. It was such a hot topic that sparked debates and gossip; the echoes of their gossip had reached the very streets of Kings Landing. Seven hells, there was no need for any gossip anyway, when he would already show his devotion to you in the common’s eye. It’s like…Valarr was the staple of affection; your whole relationship was just screaming, “treating your wife as an angel sent from the seven gods themselves.” It wasn’t even verbally proclaimed, but hell, it was most definitely stated in the way he would look at you.

Venusboy!Valarr, who would follow you around, grabbing the laces and silks of your dress, roaming his fingers, looming like a ghost, exactly like that one scene in Pride and prejudice, where Bingley had followed Jane Bennet around like a lost puppy, totally entranced by her.

Venusboy!Valarr, who describes you as a gift sent from the seven heavens to bless this earth with your beauty and grace. He would ramble like a mantra how “You were as if every god, angel, and dragon had given you a divine gift themselves of every heavenly quality a goddess could acquire.” Valarr would yap about how you had every quality of just pure seraphic and beauty, would speak of how you were ethereally elysian, how your laugh was the symphonies of his dreams, how your face, body, and mind were architectured by the gods—every feature and function of you just curated with attentiveness and care. You were the sun’s lively, cheerful human version, radiating off the golden vibrations, the moon’s mystifying siren, alluring him to his “doom”, and the universe’s spoiled, spoiled daughter. You were just everything a man, woman, or organism would desire. And everything, Valarr thirsted for.

Authors notes: Aerion version will be in the works, more versions will be promised (all just "evocative" sensual ways to describe the AKOTSK men as down bad for reader) and an extended version of this will also be uploaded later at night (I think??) ALSO, should I make a oneshot version of this ++ with dialogue and Valarr yearning EVEN MORE?! 😭😭

I wanted this to be as poetic, mustering up any forms of describing my sentences, I know it may be odd for some archaic words to be implemented but I just LOVE them, Idk, I like to express myself and my writing as such.

It was a darkened feeling, something so pure– turned cold. No one could ever fathom how a sweet, summer-child like you could ever just…Just…snap. You loved like a monster, hyperbole and all. Yearned for his attention, just a glance; just a touch. Anything would suffice for your…want, of his everything, even a yell or two, just to hear his sickening (but hot asf) voice. You grew accustomed to getting everything you've ever wanted…what you couldn’t comprehend, though, as if it was ever incomprehensible–was that the only time you'd ever gotten everything you desired–was when you were a fair child. Now, you rule with anger, insanity, or just cruelty. Seethes with hatred. Your mind, clouded with the sins of desire, conditioned to be vexed by the idea of Aerion belonging to another. I mean, in the end of everything, you did get what you wanted—Aerion. But the price of your actions had to come. A price you willingly took.

It was all so…morbid. So dark.

​You were so dark.

​And as he was yours (you relished in that thought, in an innocent way), clouding the reality of your corrupted ache, you were his. And that, alone, was the driving force to your sickening madness (maybe even the fuelling of Aerion's already inflamed malice as well), the monstrous creature to your love, the devotion, dragging you in like a kraken, drowning you in the depths of the weighted madness he curated. How deep was your love? Aerion often tested, do you really love me, or are you just another stupid, viper of a princess, hm? He’d snap back, his ill-minded attempt seeping into your thoughts. It was all twisted into things unimaginable to you. “Fuck off,” would often turn into a “Love me,” instead, in your mind.

​But c’mon, he was your man—your husband, the one you ripped your heart out to.

​Your mind was corrupted, ruins of a once beautiful kingdom; of love and gracefulness, now brimmed with… a depravity, of…desire. All say that you should’ve never meddled with that insolent prick, the wildfire, the cruel prince– the Brightflame. Yet, you thought none of it. Seven hells, you were just a kind, understanding, sweet, sweet girl, one who chose to see the goodness in others; one who possessed a love far greater than those. But your love…was far too generous for your own good. You had opened your arms, a warming invitation for a conniving, selfish beast. And Aerion took advantage of it, of course—your love. He tackled it with force, with hatred (or so he thought) in his heart, bruising your love and beating it till it turned black and blue. Your heart went cold, stained and all. The crowned prince of savagery, murdering the realm’s delight. Killed her. Figuratively, and maybe…even literally.

“Poor her…” all would murmur. “What had happened…” they would say in fear. The princess, the realm’s heart, died. And she died by the hand of a man who was foreign to “love”, happily. Now, a new, renewed princess was reborn. “The reflection of the abyss– a mirror to his madness.” was what you were stylized as such. You were just a young girl, who clung to the darkness that clings to him. “Ugh.” Aerion would snarl, something you were so used to by now. “Fuck off.” He would yell– not even utter, but yell. Something you would obey, a phrasing all too familiar for you to just say “Okay.” Something you were used to. But even when the heaviest of the rain drowns the prettiest of flowers, you still skip merrily in the halls of the dragon’s keep, at his whims, prancing around, wearing the fucking bruises he caused, like it’s something worth winning. You sing lively, hate the maidens with jealousy, and care with blindness. He can’t even grasp why you would ever want to be with him.

​At least Aerion was self-aware about his horrendous ways.

​Aerion had first thought that you were just doing this out of your heart, to fix him. To turn him back to the glad child he once was. Which he was right about that first half– doing this out of your love, your heart. But the rest, gods…No. You desired to be with him. To. Be. With. Him. To harmonize with him. Hell, it’s as if you were more mad than him?! You craved; you hungered; you would even burn to be with him. You didn’t want warmth, nor the warm summer air that could follow around him– no. No. You wanted fire. The fire that burnt within him, and the fire that charred you– the fucking fire he proclaims as “the dragon’s blood coursing through me.”

You needed that madness—not a first—no, but once you fell into his sick, twisted, little mind games and honey-covered words that could mean just about anything, that’s when you had turned. You didn’t even seem to care anymore; it’s as if the brightest star in the sky could also be dimmed. You would gather those to rejoice– literally. You would hum praises, worship him as if he were a god, and devote yourself to give and give, again and again– just for a mere grunt in return. Aerion didn’t even care. You were just a fun little thing to ruin. Well, not really to ruin, but to impair. He found it endearing that the idea of messing with girls, toying with their soft hearts, and vanishing without a word. That’s why his ego and belief had lured him to you. You were the sweetest, most innocent thing one could ever stumble upon, and easily influenced.

Your downfall, your hidden secret, something you yourself would’ve never guessed. So once you became fixated by his two-faced persona, it wasn’t all surprising to him…Until you made it your life’s mission to be with him.

This was all a fucked up thing, something Aerion should’ve stopped the moment you showed those signs of a hopelessly devoted, foolish girl. Hell, what happened to you that got you so messed up anyway? What the fuck? You were like a lost puppy for him—and a wretched dragon to others. You used to be as graceful as the still waters of Blackwater Bay, as sweet and nice as his mother was too. Maybe you never experienced love before; maybe you were inexperienced with everything synonymous with it. Who knows, for all we know, you’re just as fucked up as he is, but in a way where someone could actually fix you. Someone who could ground you, turn you back into that same little glad child you once were.

But in the end, the future hides between the blurry lines of what could be done, and what should’ve been done. You could open your eyes once more, see how horrible this is. See a different path to actually being with Aerion—where you don’t have to fall into the madness he’s in. Or, you should’ve just never pursued this silly little fancy in the first place. Either way, young love isn’t always about sunshine and rainbows. It's immature (in some aspects). Like your decisions.

And actions.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻𓆩☫𓆪

Authors notes: If you got it this far, then dang lmk because whaaaaaat

Hope you liked the brain dump... Let me know if my idea of crazy girl reader instead of crazy psycho Aerion is...acceptable.

She's really giving lamb in slaughter/lamb led to slaughter type vibes or Stockholm syndrome (idk why I thought about that)

But stay with me now, I envision reader as someone who will be saved, maybe it might be Aerion who warns her about all this, or it might be someone else. I just want to create this aspect of how mentally fcked up love can get, especially when it's directed towards someone who doesn't even deserve it. (In this case, Aerion really doesn't, but maybe he will, maybe he'll have to change himself for her to be back as the sweet, loving girl she once was.)

Aerion wasn’t the type to verbally express his love for you. It was too...much, for him. Too overwhelming, like a dagger straight through his carefully, articulated, malice. He was quiet–mysterious, even–with how he conveyed it. It's peculiar, yes, (deep down, maybe you do like the fact that he's only soft for you) in a sense of where it doesn’t even HAVE to be laced with love, that it could just be a curated demeanor for the royal image of the Targaryens. To at least–with a silver of effort– try to seem as though you both exchange “I love you’s” as duty. But no, you see, he DOES love you, he loves you in a way where his love goes deeper than the waters of Blackwater bay, in a way where he would say, “My love is ineffable, I’d rather act upon it than adorn you incessantly as a constant reminder. Know that I love you because I show it. Not speak of it.” So yes, he does express it in his odd, aerion-type way. Only to you, though. Always for you.

​Seven hells, it may not seem as such in the folk’s eyes, or in the eyes of the other dragons lurking in Summerhall, but he does. Oh, how he does. So instead, what he does to truly unveil this love he has hidden from his family (his family, out of all people), hidden only for you, are through memories.

Reminiscing, intimate, private, and soft…memories.

In nature of how he could remember gestures you do habitually–whenever you got nervous–or how he could remember your favorite pastries–a piece of jewelry you had been interested in (only a want reserved for your acknowledgement) and the little motions you do, unknowingly, whenever you’re melancholy, ecstatic, pondering about something, and more. He acts through actions, as if he’s the embodiment of “actions speak louder than words.” He would ofttimes squeeze your hands to ground you whenever you felt overstimulated, would check on you no matter the hour (literally interrupting his royal duties whenever a maid rushes to inform him regarding some silly little thing you did to grab his attention) and most of all–he’s just there. Most of your experiences and memories with him that joy you, revolve around the fact that he’s just…there. He would circle around you whenever you'd brush your hair a ridiculous amount of times, he’d acknowledge your silly little requests and asks, and even carry out tasks a servant should do himself. Aerion would break your thinly veiled boundaries and just…exist with you. It’s crazy, because he would never utter such a word, but whenever the both of you are just… alone, when the night stills, the moon’s light prances around you both, illuminating his silver-golden hair–mingling with the cackling hearth, with you settled on him in the tangled sheets, your little inhales, exhales, and sighs just filling his ears... Then that's, when he would speak it into “existence” (as if it was never there in the first place).

Aerion would speak to you with that carried, soft, raspy voice, reserved only for you, gently caressing your hair, even nudging his head a little, to be closer than he already is to what he would always state, your “heavenly-scented hair.” He’d whisper gently, his voice carrying through the quietness of your shared chambers…and finally say, “I love you.”

​They way he broke down his own obsidian wall, (literally broke it down only for you. BROKE. IT. DOWN.) make it cherishable, show that warm, vulnerable, "Was a glad child once," side, quickly pecking a kiss to your forehead after as well, leaning towards the little fractions of your giggles as he flustered, maybe even repeating his words again–practically as an ode now–whenever you’d reply with “I love you, too, my dragon.”

​Was above all…is, above all, a memory you could reminisce about, with him.

·˚ ༘𓆰𓆪 Hey...hey...how y'all doing..

Nah I'm js playing BUT GUYS FIRST FRICKING FIC EVER!!! I know it's probably trash but AT LEAST it's proof that I didn't use ai...

Anyways, yes, english is my first language--not my second--so dayum my bad for the bad grammar 😟

I wanted to get into writing and express the silly little scenarios that I dream about and writing had pop up in my mind when I conceptualized how so here we are...

Also, I'm very, VERY, new to writing and trying to sound as poetic as... I don't know? So PLEASE, give a girl some tips 🫡🫡

Also some tips on how to make these fudge ahh dividers on tumblr 😭