Salutations

aerion targaryen had not wanted a martell bride, that was the simple truth of it.

when the match had first been proposed, he had regarded it as what it was, another arrangement crafted by older, wiser people who believed they knew what was best for the realm.

best for him.

he remembered standing beside a window overlooking blackwater bay when the news had been delivered. "a princess of dorne?" he had said flatly.

his father had given him a look. "a beautiful princess of dorne."

"i do not particularly care." and at the time, he had meant it, or at least he had thought he did.

then he met you and, unfortunately for aerion, everything became much more difficult, because you were beautiful, not merely beautiful in the way courtiers described ladies to secure favor, you were genuinely, devastatingly beautiful.

you were kind.

gods, he hated how much he liked that. your confidence, your sweetness, your fire…

the trouble began when they were forced to spend time together, before marriage there had been dinners, walks, appearances and conversations neither of you could reasonably escape.

at first aerion had expected them to be tedious, instead he discovered that you were clever. you challenged him, argued with him and even laughed at him. the first time you laughed directly at one of his dramatic declarations, he had stared at you in complete disbelief. "how dare you laugh."

"because you sound absurd!!”

aerion's jaw tightened at your insolence, but something in him stirred at the sight of your unapologetic smile. no one- no one- dared speak to a targaryen so, let alone laugh at their pronouncements.

"you find me absurd?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"i find your declaration that 'all lesser houses should bow before the might of dragons' rather theatrical for a supper conversation," you replied, taking a sip of wine. "especially when the only dragon present is the one carved into your knife handle."

he stared at you, speechless for a moment. the courtiers nearby had gone silent, their eyes darting between you both like spectators at a tourney.

"you walk a dangerous line, princess," aerion finally managed, though he couldn't keep the faint hint of amusement from his voice.

“and i must admit, your family's reputation precedes you." you said with a shrug.

a flicker of his old arrogance returned. "as it should."

"as it should," you agreed, much to his surprise. "but reputations are often exaggerated. i prefer to judge people by their actions rather than their bloodlines."

"and what have my actions told you so far?"

"that you enjoy being admired," you said thoughtfully. "that you're accustomed to getting what you want. and that beneath all that targaryen pride, there's a man who doesn't particularly enjoy being laughed at."

he leaned forward, "and what else have you discovered?"

"that you're lonely," you said simply.

his immediate instinct was to deny it, to push back with some cutting remark about dornish impertinence, but the truth of your statement left him momentarily defenseless. "i have a family," he said finally. "a dynasty."

"a family is not the same as companionship," you replied, your voice softer now. "a dynasty is a burden. a companion is a choice."

the evening ended with an unspoken understanding between you. as you parted ways, aerion found himself watching you retreat, the sway of your dark hair against your vibrant silks, the confidence in your stride. he had come to this marriage expecting to endure it, to fulfill his duty and nothing more.

now, for the first time, he wondered if duty might not be such a burden after all.

then came marriage and forced proximity finished what attraction had started because now you were everywhere.

at breakfast.

at supper.

reading by the window.

laughing with your ladies.

sleeping beside him….

the chambers that had once belonged solely to aerion suddenly felt empty whenever you left them. you had somehow become part of every routine, and months later, the transformation was complete. aerion adored you. there was no point denying it anymore, the servants knew, everyone with eyes knew, he followed you around the red keep whenever possible.

if you entered a room, somehow aerion appeared shortly afterward, if you mentioned liking something once, it mysteriously arrived days later.

flowers. spices. books. rare dornish wines.

anything.

everything.

the greatest shock, however, was how gentle he became with you…true, aerion targaryen would never be soft, but he was gentle. his hand always found the small of your back, he noticed when you were tired, when you were cold, when court became too much. it was as though he had developed an awareness of you that bordered on obsession.

yours and his first major argument had been simmering for days. you wanted to visit your family in dorne for the harvest festival- a reasonable request, in your estimation. aerion, however, saw it differently.

"you are my wife," he'd stated, his voice dangerously quiet. "your place is here. with me."

"and i am your wife, not your prisoner," you'd retorted, "i have not seen my siblings in nearly a year. my mother sent a raven specifically requesting my presence."

that night in your chambers, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. you stood by the hearth, arms crossed, while he paced before you like a caged dragon.

"it is not safe," he insisted. "the roads are perilous this time of year. and i do not trust dornish hospitality toward a targaryen princess."

"my family would never harm me," you said, exasperated. "this is not about safety. this is about control."

he stopped pacing and faced you, his eyes blazing. "i have given you everything- books, wines, silks from across the narrow sea. is that not enough? must you always test the limits of my generosity?"

"generosity?" you laughed without humor. "you give me trinkets while denying me the one thing i truly want- a connection to my home, my family. these gifts are chains, aerion. beautiful, expensive chains."

“you will not go and that is final.”

the finality in his tone was absolute, a royal command that brooked no argument. he stood before you, not as the gentle man who brought you rare wines, but as the targaryen prince who expected obedience.

for a long moment, you said nothing. you simply looked at him.

"very well, husband," you said, your voice dangerously soft. you turned away from him and walked to the window, gazing out at the darkened gardens of the red keep. "as you have commanded me."

a flicker of triumph crossed his face, quickly replaced by confusion. this was too easy. he had expected tears, pleading, another sharp retort. he had not expected this quiet, hollow acceptance.

"good," he said, his voice gruff. "it is for your own protection."

you didn't turn around. "of course. everything is for my own good. i am a fragile thing, after all. a targaryen princess who must be kept in a gilded cage, lest i break."

the sarcasm in your tone was a subtle poison. he took a step toward you. "that is not what i meant."

"isn't it?" you finally turned, your face a mask of serene indifference that was more cutting than any glare could have been. "you do not trust me. you do not trust my family. you do not trust my judgment. you only trust your own will."

you walked past him toward the adjoining dressing chamber.

"where are you going?" he demanded, his voice tight.

"to bed," you replied without looking back. "alone. i find i am not in the mood for company tonight."

you disappeared behind the screen, leaving him standing alone in the grand chamber. the silence that fell was heavier than any shouted words.

he stood there for a long time, the silence in the chambers growing heavier with each passing moment. the victory felt sour, hollow. he had won the argument, but in doing so, he had lost something far more valuable. the rooms, once filled with your vibrant presence, now felt cavernous and cold. the fire crackled, but it offered no warmth.

an hour passed.

the moon climbed higher in the sky, casting silver shadows across the rugs. he could not sleep. he could not think. all he could do was feel the vast, empty space you had left beside him. he was a dragon prince, heir to a dynasty, and he was being tormented by the absence of his wife.

finally, with a low growl of frustration, he pushed himself away from the chair and strode toward the dressing chamber. he didn't bother to knock. he threw the door open with enough force to make it slam against the stone wall.

you were curled up on your side in the smaller, simpler bed, facing away from the door. the room was dark, save for a single candle burning low on a table. you didn't startle at the intrusion. you didn't even move. you had been expecting him.

"get up," his voice was a low command, rough with exhaustion and anger.

you remained still, your breathing even. "i am comfortable here."

"i did not ask for your comfort. i gave you an order," he said, taking a menacing step into the room. "you will not sleep in here like a scorned servant. you are my wife. you will sleep in my bed."

slowly, you rolled over to face him. your face was illuminated by the flickering candlelight, serene and utterly devoid of the passion he so often provoked in you. "i am obeying your command, husband. you commanded i not go to dorne. you commanded i stay here. i am staying here. is this not what you wanted?"

his jaw tightened. "you know what i meant. do not play these games with me."

"i am not playing a game," you said, your voice quiet but clear. "you made it clear that my will, my desires, my home- they mean nothing. you have decided what is best for me. so i have decided what is best for me tonight. and that is to sleep alone."

the calmness of your response was infuriating he had not expected this quiet, unassailable wall of indifference. it was a rejection far more profound than any shouted insult could ever be.

he crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not bruising. "i will not be made a fool in my own home. you will come with me now."

you allowed him to pull you to a sitting position, your body pliant, but your eyes remained locked on his, filled with a chilling resolve. "drag me if you must, husband," you said softly. "force me back to the bed you wish to share. but know this. you can command my body to be there, but you cannot command my heart to follow."

his grip on your arm loosened. he looked down at you, at the woman he adored, who was now looking at him with the weary resignation of a prisoner.

he stood there, torn between the urge to throw you over his shoulder and carry you back to bed or leave you be.

"it was not my intent to make you angry with me." he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.

it was a pathetic attempt at an apology. he wasn't truly sorry about the slight, just sorry that you were upset, and you knew it.

"i am not in the mood for your excuses, aerion," you replied.

the thought of sleeping apart- of a night without your warmth, your scent, your skin pressed against his- was unbearable.

"please," he breathed, reaching out to gently take your hand. he pressed his lips to your knuckles, kissing them with a reverence that made his usual arrogance seem distant.

the targaryen pride that usually demanded submission from others suddenly bent its spine for you. he released your hand and dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor of the chambers, the silence of the castle amplifying the sound.

he reached for the hem of your sleeping gown, his hands shaking slightly as he worked the silk upward, exposing your legs to the golden glow of the firelight. aerion didn't waste a moment, he pressed his lips to the inside of your knee, his mouth hot and eager against your skin.

he worked his way down slowly, kissing his way along your calf, his tongue darting out to trace the path, his breathing growing heavier. he reached your ankle and gently kissed your bare foot.

"lay back, my darling," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing the boyish panic for a more settled, desperate need.

you obeyed, sinking into the softness of the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. "you are not to make love to me tonight," you reminded him, your voice breathless as he settled between your spread thighs.

he froze, his mouth hovering just above your skin, his breath warm against your inner thigh. the command was a stone wall thrown up in the middle of his desperate supplication. for a moment, the arrogant prince warred with the pleading man. he had come here to conquer this silence, to erase the distance with the one language he knew you both spoke fluently. to be denied it now, when he was on his knees, was a humiliation he hadn't anticipated.

he lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours in the dim light. they were dark with a mixture of frustration and a raw, aching need. "you would punish me so?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "you would have me worship you and then be denied?"

"i would have you understand," you replied, your voice steady despite the tremor in your limbs. "you cannot buy my forgiveness with pleasure. you cannot command my affection with your hands or your mouth. you denied me my will. tonight, you will be denied yours."

he stared at you, and you saw the moment he understood. this was not just about sleeping arrangements. this was about power, about respect, about the very foundation of the strange, fierce love you had built. he had tried to wield his authority like a sword, and you had just turned it back on him, showing him its edge.

slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head again.

for a long moment, he remained perfectly still, his forehead pressed against your thigh, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. then, slowly, as if testing the boundaries of his new submission, he turned his head. his lips, soft and reverent, brushed against your inner thigh, a question asked without words.

when you did not pull away, he grew bolder. his kisses became open-mouthed, his tongue tracing lazy circles against your skin, tasting the salt of you. he was worshiping, just as he had promised, but with a new, desperate humility. his hands, which had been clenched at his sides, came up to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there, a silent plea for permission.

"let me," he breathed against your skin, his voice thick with a need that went far beyond the physical. "let me show you."

you remained silent, your body still, but you did not stop him. that was all the encouragement he needed. he shifted, settling more comfortably between your thighs, his shoulders pushing them wider. the firelight gilded the white-silver of his hair as he lowered his head, and then his mouth was on you.

there was nothing hesitant about it.

it was a hungry and desperate.

aerion targaryen, the proud prince, was a man starved, and you were his feast. his tongue flattened against your folds, a broad, firm stroke that made your back arch off the bed. a soft gasp escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't contain. he heard it, and a low groan rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive flesh.

"gods, you taste like honeyed syrup," he slurred, his words muffled against your cunt. he was messy, unrefined, his usual aristocratic grace completely abandoned. he ate you like a man dying of thirst, his tongue delving inside you, fucking you with it before moving up to circle your clit with a devastating precision.

he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked, hard. your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the strands, holding him to you. he took it as encouragement, his enthusiasm redoubling. he alternated between sucking and flicking his tongue rapidly against you, one of his hands moving from your hip to slide two fingers inside you.

"is this for me?" he growled, pumping his fingers in and out of your slick heat, his mouth never ceasing its assault. "this sweet, perfect cunt? all for me, my love?"

you could only whimper in response, your hips rocking against his face, chasing the pleasure he was so expertly giving.

he was a mess, his face slick with your arousal, his chin dripping. he looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust and adoration, and the sight of him- your proud husband on his knees, his face buried in your cunt, worshiping you with his entire being- sent a bolt of pure ecstasy through you.

"that's it, my darling," he coaxed, his voice a husky whisper. "let me taste you. give me your forgiveness, pretty girl."

he curled his fingers inside you, finding that spot that made your vision white out, and sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking with a relentless, rhythmic pressure.

“please? please?…” he continued to beg, his voice sounding whinier and whinier. "sleep with me in bed, come back to me..."

the tension that had been coiling in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. you cried out his name, your body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head as you came.

he stayed with you through it all, his tongue lapping gently, his fingers stilling inside you as you shuddered through the aftershocks. when you finally went limp against the sheets, he gently withdrew his fingers and placed one last, lingering kiss on your swollen, sensitive flesh.

he crawled up your body, not to lie beside you, but to hover over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. he didn't try to kiss your lips. instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling slightly. he was still hard, a testament to his own desire, but he made no move to seek his own release.

"i am asking for forgiveness" he whispered, his voice raw and hoarse, “i am regretful, my love.” it was different from his earlier attempt. this was not an excuse. it was a true apology of a sort, stripped of all pride, offered in the aftermath of his complete surrender. "not for making you angry. for taking your will."

he lifted his head, his face still glistening with your essence, his dark eyes searching yours. "i will spend the rest of my nights proving my respect to you, if you will let me."

aerion looked at you as though you had hung the stars over king's landing with your own hands and perhaps, in his mind, you had.

his violet-blue eyes meet yours, and you watch the lump in his throat work as he swallows. he nods once, the movement sure. confident.

“i’m a prince,” aerion affirms, leaning back with his hands flat to the mattress either side, exposing more of his chest and abdomen to you. his legs spread wider too. “and i’ve taken you as my bride, so there has to be a bedding ceremony.”

“a bedding ceremony?” you can’t help but smile. you fidget with the satin drawstring on your pyjama bottoms.

aerion looks you up and down, decidedly ignoring the smile spread across your pretty face. “a prince and a princess have to produce an heir, obviously.”

“obviously,” you repeat, fingers pulling apart the loose bow on the front of your pyjamas. aerion’s eyes flit down to the movement, quick like a falcon’s. and his gaze is predatory when you loop your thumbs into the waistband. you continue, “and where exactly did you get this idea? i mean, i understand bounty hunter and his target, and ceo and secretary, but this is new.”

aerion rolls his eyes. “it’s just—whatever. we don’t have to do it. you’re being—”

you pull your thumbs away from the elasticated waistband and let it snap back against your hips. “no, i want to. i really want to, aerion.”

he smiles, all wicked and vulpine in the low light of the room. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, then gesture towards your closet and ensuite. “should i… put on a dress?”

“maybe another time,” he tells you quietly, then gets to his feet. the mattress groans as he pushes himself from it and closes the distance between the two of you. his fingers quickly find the hem of your pyjama shirt. “you ready?”

you cock your head, challenging the boldness in his gaze. you simply raise your arms and allow him to pull your shirt from your body, your tits spilling free. you hear him groan under his breath when you make quick work of shoving your shorts down too, leaving you completely bare before him.

you kick the shorts away, fingers gently unravelling the towel around his waist. he watches you quietly, pupils swelling. you toss the towel aside, feeling the goosebumps ripple across the flesh of his abdomen as your hands trail from his hips, over the lines of his stomach.

you smile at him, teasing, fingers cupping the slight curve beneath his pectoral muscles. “and… action.”

there’s a flicker of a smile on your boyfriend’s face before it vanishes, replaced by a pure, unbridled need that sends your heartbeat straight between your thighs. his hands shift, one finding the small of your back and the other the side of your head, pulling you firmly into him.

you gasp out, hands flat against his chest. pushed against him, you feel the hardening of his cock against your bare skin, the heat of him near branding as his thumb moves to hook around your chin and pin your head in place.

“my pretty dove,” aerion mutters, eyes scanning your face. there’s a heat in his gaze that sparks embers in the ashes of your womb, and you find that it rises quickly through the base of your stomach. he coos, “look at you. bare for me—bare for your prince.”

you release a soft sound, something like a whimper that trips over the tip of your tongue. you feather your fingers across his chest—in the way you know he likes—and you delight in the purr that escapes him as your hands slide across his shoulders.

“for you,” you say in a whisper, pressing yourself closer and shifting your hips. his cock grinds up against you, flushed and hot. one hand remains on his shoulder, but the other traces down. across the lines of his abdomen, the neat line of white-blond hair, then through the patch at the base of his cock. your fingers ghost across the root of him. “please, my prince, i need—”

“i’ve waited so long,” aerion interrupts, the hand on the small of your back vanishing, only to reappear around your wrist. he pulls your hand away from his cock, slowly leading you towards the bed. “so long to have you. and now you’re here with me. where you belong.”

aerion guides you down onto the bed, and you shuffle back until your head finds pillows. you relax into them, and he chuckles, his own hand wrapping around the base of his cock. the head blushes deeply with trapped blood, the slit wet and pearling with pre-cum as he climbs up onto the mattress, resting on his knees.

“i am to be king one day, you know,” he tells you then, and you watch with your heart clattering against your ribs as he lowers himself between your spread legs. he lies on his stomach, hands finding the fat of your thighs as he continues. “everything will be mine. this country, this land, this castle—” he leans forward then, placing a gentle kiss to your clit. “—this pussy. you.”

you squirm, fisting the sheets. heat blossoms molten in your veins, flushing hot through your core as he presses another tender kiss to your clit, before trailing a line of small kisses down through your folds. you arch, mewling softly, the pleasure sending a series of electric shocks straight to the base of your spine.

“and because i’ll be king, i’ll need an heir,” he mutters, lips moving against your core. he spreads them wide, tongue unfurling like a serpent’s, and he drags it through your folds until he can swipe it flat across your hole. he hums, pleased, when your thighs clench either side of his head and a breathy moan of his name falls from your mouth. “but first, this pretty girl has been waiting for her prince long enough, hasn’t she?”

his tongue presses deep, bullying past the tight ring of muscle and splitting you apart. you’re slick and silken and warm against him, his face burying deeper between your legs as he grips the flesh of your thighs. you moan, the sound reaching the ceiling, as aerion takes you apart with his mouth. the sounds are loud and wet too, and you notice—but don’t address—the way his ears burn red as he works below you.

he parts from your pussy for a moment, staring up at you with glistening eyes. “fuck, she’s noisy, isn’t she? pretty baby’s wet and fussy—she’ll take me so well, i just know it.”

then, he’s sliding back in, his mouth hot against you. you moan loudly, a lilting and slightly breathy “my prince, please” as he fucks his tongue into you. he acknowledges you with a squeeze of his fingers against your thighs, but his movements don’t relent, and as he slowly grinds his hips against the mattress and the bunching sheets, he curls and flicks his tongue inside you.

you swelter where you lay stretched for him. your chest heaves, rising and falling in rapid succession as his nose ruts against the swollen pearl of your clit. the warmth kindled low in your belly fans through your womb, and there’s a steel-hot pressure building at the base of your spine. it makes you cant your hips, grinding your cunt deeper against his face.

“my pretty girl,” aerion murmurs directly into your cunt, and despite the throb of your heartbeat and the low buzz of pleasure in your blood, you know he’s not talking to you in that moment. his eyes are transfixed on your pussy, and he whispers to it between ruts of his tongue inside you. “being so good for me—” licking in, out, then a kiss to your folds, “—being so good for your prince—” a board stripe, up, then back down, “—m’gonna stuff you so full, pretty baby, i promise.”

he moves his tongue back inside you, curling and thrusting with as much tactility as his fingers would. it has you writhing into the sheets, pressure thick in the base of your spine, and you can feel the heat in your womb drawing hotter and hotter. molten.

“my prince,” you gasp out, something contracting low in your belly. your thighs pull tight, starting to spasm either side of his head. you whine, “please, i need—i’m so close.”

aerion says nothing, just continues to lick you towards your release. but his hand does snake inwards from your thigh, and you feel the firm press of a thumb on your clit. the added pressure tears a yowl from your throat, and you bear down into the contact as your body shakes, sweat building along your spine. you call his name, and his title, again and again, before the pressure in your back gives way and you tumble into your orgasm with twitching limbs and another loud moan of his name.

aerion takes you through it, rubbing his name across your puffy clit as he draws the slick from your pussy with long, serpentine curls of his tongue. a few beats pass, your heart knocking against your sternum, before the prince detaches from you, a string of slick and saliva connecting his mouth to your pussy. it snaps when he licks his lips, his lower face wet, and he stares up at you with glazed eyes and pink cheeks.

“oh, she’s so ready for me,” aerion mutters, eyes finding your cunt one last time and pressing a tender kiss over your hole.

he kisses your folds, then your clit, then up and over your mound. he follows the curve of your lower belly, over your navel, and soon you’re moaning softly as he trails surprisingly gentle kisses over your sternum and between the valley of your breasts. he takes time to take nips at the skin on either one though, but he quickly slides his wet face into the column of your throat so he can kiss up and around your neck. when he finds the junction of your jaw, he licks over your pulse point.

his cock rests hot and heavy against your thigh, and as you blink away the haze of your first orgasm, you feel the heat of another, a promise, collecting inside you again.

“the first cock you’ll ever have, and it’s mine,” aerion utters, nosing your pulse and inhaling deeply, as if committing your smell to memory. he groans, and his cock jumps where it sits against the plush of your thigh. “fuck, sweet girl, y’r gonna take it like an absolute dream, aren’t you?”

you nod, delirious and far to high-strung across your pleasure to form a proper sentence. blood sits hot in your core as the prince shifts his hips, sliding the head of his cock through your folds. it’s messy as he ruts blindly, groaning into your neck as he wets his cock with small, jerking movements that make the mattress shake.

he spends a moment like this, panting and whining with his body pressing you into the bed. you wonder then, as heat traps between you and the ache in your pelvis festers bruise-like beneath the weight of your pulse, if this is the prince, or if it’s your boyfriend.

“my prince,” you call to him, hand finding his shoulder and trailing down his back. his skin is slightly clammy with sweat and remnants of his shower. “please, aerion.”

coaxed by your soft calls, aerion picks himself out of your neck and sits back on his haunches. he settles there, between your parted legs, and takes one hand around his cock to guide it up and down through your slick folds. you suck in a breath, and he taps the tip heavily against your puffy clit, a cunning smile splitting across his handsome face. his features appear softer in the golden lamplight.

“easy, sweet girl, easy,” he coos, his other hand finding the back of your knee. he drags one leg up, angling it against his body as he bends slightly. his cock notches, swallowed by the soft clutch of your pussy. he grins wide when you moan, speaking through a groan of his own. “oh, look at her. so ready to take her prince, isn’t she?”

the way he pushes in, with a shallow furrow in his brow and a slight parting of his lips, is less than ceremonious. it’s a deep, rolling thrust that slides his cock into you in one movement—it’s more of the aerion you know, than the prince you’ve met—and the feeling of him bottoming out has you choking on a sob.

but still, the prince settles. he holds one of your legs against him, practically hooking it over his shoulder. the width of him stretches you apart, and you flutter around him, pussy wet and thrumming with your pulse. heat sits stagnant in your belly as his cock plugs you full, his balls resting snug against the curve of your arse.

“here it is, that’s my good girl,” aerion mutters as his eyes flick from where you struggle to look at him, to where his cock splits your cunt apart. his fingers skim over your folds, feeling around where you take him. the sensation makes you mewl, and he shushes you, hand finding your other leg next. “i know, i know.”

“deep,” you say simply, gasping when he gets both of your legs near his shoulders and bends even more. you feel some air leave your lungs as he presses your legs back towards you. “y’so deep—m’so full.”

aerion pulls out, then shunts back in. it’s a breathtaking movement that sends you reeling: you arch, spine curling, sheets bunching beneath you as he pries you open on the thick of his cock. he thrusts again, and again still, and he grunts with each rolling stroke of his cock near the plug of your cervix.

“i know, i know,” the prince repeats, practically folding you in half as he fucks you. your pussy drools around him, eliciting a wet string of plap-plap-plap as he moves into a solid, rhythmic pace. “you feel your prince right up in your tummy, baby? is that right? never felt that before, huh?”

you nod, nails pressing little red indents into his shoulders as he thrusts into you. your head tips and you moan out his name, tits bouncing, tummy squished as he folds you. he pants loudly, sweat glistening high on his forehead. it catches like glitter in the ichor of the lamplight, and if you were to blur your eyes enough, it may have appeared like a crown.

“taking me so well,” he praises you, eyes threatening to close as he already begins to lose himself. your cunt clenches tight around him, and the little whimpers that fall from your mouth have his cock jerking inside you. he groans, “holy fuck, baby, you’re so good.”

that sounded like aerion.

you loop him back into the fantasy, drawing him even closer, sucking him in even deeper—both physically and mentally. one hand trails over the nape of his neck, then you thread your fingers through the short hair at the back of his head. you tug lightly, but focus on scratching the tips of your nails across his scalp.

“my prince,” you whine out, the syllables stretched poorly across a wanton moan. the pressure in your lower back has returned, and the promise of another orgasm has materialised, growing hot in your stomach. you whisper to him, “let me give you an heir.”

he groans. it’s loud and almost pained as it fights it’s way from the depths of his chest. his body presses tighter to yours, pinning your legs, the angle driving him even deeper into you. you moan loudly, something clenching in the base of your belly, as his cock pulls you apart.

“i’ll give it to you,” aerion grits out, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he holds back from spilling right then and there. his balls twitch heavy against your arse, and the tension in his pelvis bleeds like ink into the marrow of his bones. “i’ll come—i’ll spill inside you, pretty dove. i’ll fill this pretty pussy so good, i promise.”

you whine, urging his head down. and he relents briefly, sliding his mouth to yours and licking a couple of sweet-tasting whimpers from your tongue and teeth. when he pulls back, he huffs, rutting his hips against yours even faster now. the stretch of his cock pulls the pressure inside you apart, tearing it from your limbs, until it coagulates deep in the pit of your womb and you succumb to the heat.

you come with a gush around him, the feeling drawing a loud, pornographic moan from you. “aerion” slips out into the evening silence of your room, and you clutch him tightly as your body shakes and quivers. your pussy flutters tightly around the thick of his cock too, slick dribbling out with each desperate thrust.

a thin white ring builds around the base of his cock as he fucks you through it, the sounds of your cunt taking him—schlick-schlick-schlick—making his ears burn hot and his balls tug tight against your arse. composure evades him, evaporating into the golden-hued shadows, as his own orgasm builds, and builds, and builds.

“you’re going to give me an heir,” the prince groans, rambling mostly. “i’m gonna fill you—fill this pussy, fuck you nice and full, yeah? i want—i want you round with my child, baby. i—fuck, just—just need to breed this pretty little—”

he doesn’t last long, sentence sliced by the point of his pleasure. it’s sharp, taking him brutally while he moans out your name. it’s wanton and desperate as he buries himself into you, a sword into a scabbard, and comes. you mewl softly, still trembling, when he spills right up against the plug of your womb, your legs still bent against your stomach as he leans into you. his cock twitches as he empties inside you, and a small whimper of your name falls from his lips, feeling your pussy milk him dry.

you both pant like you’ve run non-stop. sweat clings to you both, and you’re tacky with it as he extracts your legs from his chest and gently lowers them either side of him. his cock is still buried inside you, plugging in his cum, as he gently shifts so you can both lie comfortably against the mussed sheets. he buries his face between the swell of your tits and you stroke his hair tenderly, heartbeats syncing.

“and…scene,” you whisper, playful but tired. you draw circles across the back of his head when he grunts into your chest, too pleasure-lax to be amused. you smile. “are you okay, my prince?”

he doesn’t want to admit how much he enjoyed that. he also doesn’t want to show you how red his face is, burning from the fact he liked it so much.

so instead, he grunts and mouths at your sternum. you smile, taking that for your answer.

———

He did not care about subtlety. He never had.

He was waiting for you at the altar in crimson and gold.

The colors of his house, but also the colors of himself, the Brightflame, they called him, and he looked it. His doublet was crimson silk embroidered with gold thread in patterns of fire, his cloak the deep red of dragon's blood, his eyes vivid violet against the warm tones of his dress.

The ceremony passed in a blur of words, lights and the weight of a hundred eyes upon you. You remembered speaking your vows, your voice steady even when your hands trembled. You remembered the brush of Aerion's fingers against yours, the way his eyes never left your face. You remembered the septon's voice, sonorous and slow, and the moment of silence that followed the final blessing, as though the whole sept was holding its breath.

Then Aerion kissed you, a deep, long kiss instead of the chaste, ceremonial kiss that protocol demanded, enough to make the assembled lords and ladies murmur and chuckle and, in your uncle's case, let out a bark of approving laughter.

When he pulled back, his mouth curved into that familiar, insufferable smile, and he murmured against your lips, "Wife."

"Husband," you replied, and the word felt strange and new but not unwelcome.

The feast came after.

But first, there was the gift.

He presented it outside, in full view overlooking the Blackwater, in front of the assembled guests, with theatrical flourish that was entirely characteristic of him. A ship, he announced, newly built and newly blessed, waiting in the harbor to carry you wherever you wished to go.

"Her name is the Storm's Eye," he said, and his voice was quieter now, meant only for you despite the crowd. "Do you know why?"

You shook your head.

"Because it is always calm in the eye of the storm." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that still surprised you. "You carry the storm in your blood. I have seen it. But you deserve a place of calm as well. A place where the winds do not touch you."

You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat. "You named a ship after a metaphor."

"I named a ship after my wife." He said it simply, as though it were obvious. "The metaphor was incidental."

The ship was beautiful, from what you could see of her in the harbor below, sleek and well-made, with a crew already aboard and sails the deep gold of a sunset. The Storm's Eye. Your ship. Yours and his, to take you across the Narrow Sea and beyond, to the Summer Isles and wherever else you wished to go.

You did not know what to say. So you kissed him instead, right there in the courtyard, and the crowd cheered.

The feast began at dusk.

The great hall of the Red Keep had been transformed, the long tables draped in cloth of gold, the torches burning bright in their sconces, the air thick with the smell of roasted meats, spiced wine and fresh flowers. Musicians played, their melodies weaving through the noise of conversation and laughter. You sat at the high table between Aerion and your uncle, and for the first hour you barely had a moment to catch your breath: toast after toast, well-wisher after well-wisher, lords and ladies approaching to offer their congratulations and their carefully worded flatteries.

Aerion drank with them all. He was in high spirits, his laughter coming easily, his hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing whenever a particular lord droned on too long. You ate what you could, smiled until your cheeks ached, and tried to memorize the feeling of it all: the warmth, the noise, the strange suspended joy of the day.

Then the dancing began.

Aerion claimed the first dance, as was his right. Then the second. Then the third.

"You will wear yourself out," you told him, half-laughing as he spun you through the steps of a lively reel.

"I am inexhaustible," he replied, entirely serious. "And I intend to dance with my wife as much as I please."

He was a good dancer, which should not have surprised you. He moved with the same careless grace he brought to everything else, leading you through the steps with a confidence that made it easy to follow. When the music slowed, he pulled you closer than was strictly proper, his hand resting low on your back, his breath warm against your temple.

"You are staring at me," you murmured.

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

"Is there?"

"Staring is vulgar. Admiration is a husband's duty." He tilted his head, his eyes tracing over your face with an attention that made your skin heat. "I am merely fulfilling my obligations."

You laughed, he grinned, and for a moment you forgot the crowd, the noise, the weight of the day. There was only the music and his hand in yours and the strange, unfolding realization that this was your life now: this man, this dance, this improbable, inexplicable joy.

The toasts and shouts mellowed as the evening wore on. The older lords retreated to their wine, the younger ones to their flirtations, and the dancing continued in a more subdued fashion. The musicians shifted to slower tunes, melodies that spoke of love, longing and the bittersweet passage of time.

You were standing at the edge of the hall, catching your breath after a particularly energetic dance with your uncle, when Valarr approached.

He was dressed simply, in the red and black of his house, his dark hair neatly combed, his expression composed. He looked tired, you thought. Or perhaps that was only your imagination, projecting onto him the weariness you yourself had been carrying beneath the joy of the day.

"May I have this dance?" he asked gently.

You glanced at Aerion, who was deep in conversation with Daella and Rhae at the high table. He did not see you. Or if he did, he gave no sign.

"Yes," you said. "You may."

Valarr led you to the floor just as the musicians began a new song. It was achingly slow. His hand settled at your waist with the lightest of touches. Your hand rested on his shoulder. You began to move.

Neither of you spoke. This was familiar. This was a thing you had done a hundred times before, in this very hall, to songs not so different from this one. Valarr had always danced with you at feasts, even when you were young and clumsy and likely to step on his feet. He had never complained. He had only smiled, that quiet smile that was meant just for you, and guided you through the steps with a patience that had made you feel safe.

You remembered the first time.

You had been twelve years old, awkward in your first proper gown, terrified of making a fool of yourself in front of the court. He had found you hiding behind a pillar, trying to make yourself small, and he had taken your hand without a word and led you onto the floor.

"Follow me," he had said. "I will not let you fall."

You had followed, and he had not let you fall.

You remembered the time he had taught you the steps. You had practiced together in the library after lessons, moving between the bookshelves, counting the beats under your breath while he hummed the melody. When you had finally mastered it, he had bowed to you with exaggerated formality and declared you the finest dancer in the Seven Kingdoms.

"The finest dancer in the library, at least," you had corrected.

"The finest dancer anywhere," he had insisted, and his eyes had been bright with laughter.

You remembered the feast to celebrate his sixteenth nameday, when he had been expected to dance with every noble daughter in attendance and had instead spent half the evening dancing with you. The lords had grumbled. The ladies had whispered. He had not seemed to notice, or care.

"You are neglecting your duties," you had said, glancing at the line of disappointed partners waiting at the edge of the floor.

"I am dancing with my friend," he had replied. "That is not neglect."

That had been the last gesture of rebellion against his duties. The last floundering against the weight of the Crown.

You remembered the winter feast, the one where the fires had burned low and the hall had grown cold, and he had given you his cloak without a second thought and insisted he was not cold at all, even though his hands had been shaking when he took yours for the next dance.

"You are a terrible liar," you had told him.

"I am an excellent liar," he had corrected. "You are simply too perceptive."

You remembered a thousand small moments, a thousand kindnesses, a thousand times when his presence had been the only thing that made the Red Keep feel like home. The books he had shared with you. The speeches he had rehearsed in front of you. The way he had leaned into you when his mother died, silent, shaking, trusting you to hold him steady.

You remembered the kiss. The only one. The one he had given you to satisfy your curiosity and soothe your fears. You remembered the bracelet on his wrist, the one you had woven with your own hands and he still wore even now, even as he danced with you on your wedding day.

The music swelled, something mournful and sweet, and Valarr's hand tightened on yours.

"You dance well," he said quietly. "You always have."

"You taught me well," you replied.

He shook his head. "You never needed teaching. You only needed someone to remind you that you already knew."

You moved together through the steps, and it was effortless. You did not stumble. You did not miss a beat. You had learned this dance long ago, the two of you, and your bodies remembered it even now, even after everything.

"I am glad," he said after a moment, and his voice was very soft, very careful. "That you will see the world. The Summer Isles. Essos. All the places you used to read about in those books I brought you."

"You brought me far too many books," you said, and your voice nearly broke on the words.

"There is no such thing as too many books." He smiled, but it was fragile, easily shattered. "I want you to see it all. The markets of Lys. The temples of Volantis. The beaches of the Summer Isles, where the sand is white and the water is clear as glass. You used to talk about it, do you remember? You would sit by the window and point at the ships in the harbor and say, 'One day I will sail away on one of those.'"

"And you would say, 'Then I will wave to you from the shore.'"

"Yes." He swallowed. "That is what I would say."

The music was winding down. You could feel it in the slowing rhythm, the way the melody curled in on itself like a flower closing its petals at dusk. You did not want it to end. You wanted to stay here, in this moment, suspended between past and future, between what could have been and what was.

"You will be happy," Valarr decided.

"I will try," you promised.

"No." He stopped moving. The music continued around you, the other dancers swirled past in a blur of color and light. His hand was still at your waist. His eyes were dark. "You will be happy. You will be happy because you are strong, because you are brave, and because you have a heart that does not know how to give less than everything. And he..." He glanced toward the high table, where Aerion was watching you now with an unreadable expression. "He will give you the world. I know he will. He would be a fool not to."

"Valarr…"

"I am saying farewell," he murmured to you. "For now. Not forever. I could not bear forever. But for now." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, so brief and light you almost did not feel it. "Go. Live. See the world. And when you return, I will be here. As I have always been. As your friend."

Your eyes burned. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall, not here, not now, not in front of the whole court.

"Thank you," you whispered. "For all of it. For looking out for me. For being the best friend I could've asked for. I would not have survived this place without you."

"You would have," he said. "You are a Baratheon. Surviving is what you do." He released your hand, stepping back. "But I am glad I was there."

The music ended. The other dancers began to drift back toward the tables, their laughter and conversation filling the silence that the melody had left behind. Valarr bowed to you, a formal bow, the bow of a prince to a princess, correct and proper and utterly, devastatingly wrong.

"Until we meet again," he said.

"Until then," you replied.

He walked away.

You stood alone on the dance floor for a moment, the echoes of the music still ringing in your ears. Your chest ached with a grief that felt both old and new, a wound that had been healing and reopening in cycles for as long as you could remember. You had loved him. You would always love him, in some small way. But that love was no longer the center of your world. It was a memory now. A beautiful, painful, precious memory.

You turned.

Aerion was watching you from the high table. His expression was curious, awaiting.

You walked back to him. You climbed the steps to the high table and took your seat beside your husband. His hand found yours beneath the table. You held on tight.

"You danced with him," Aerion said.

"Yes."

"Are you all right?"

You considered the question. Were you all right? You had married a man you had not expected to marry. You had said farewell to the man you had once thought you would spend your life with. You were leaving behind everything you had known and stepping into a future that was vast and uncertain and full of possibilities you could not yet imagine.

"I think," you said slowly, "that I will be."

Aerion nodded, as though that were exactly the answer he had expected.

"Good," he said. "Because I did not buy you a ship only for you to spend the voyage weeping into your pillow."

You laughed. A startled, genuine laugh that surprised you both. "That is remarkably unsympathetic."

"I am a remarkably unsympathetic man." He leaned closer, his mouth brushing your ear. "But I am also a patient one. And I will be here. When you are ready. When the grief has faded and the memories have softened and you are able to look at me without seeing him."

You pulled back, studying his face. He was serious now, the playfulness gone, his violet eyes steady on yours.

"I do not see him," you shook your head. "When I look at you. I only see you."

Surprise flickered on his face, or perhaps relief, or something deeper that he would never put into words. Then he smiled, that slow, insufferable smile that you had come to know so well.

"In that case," he said, rising and offering you his hand, "I believe we have a wedding night to attend to. And I have been very patient."

You took his hand. You let him lead you from the hall, past the cheering guests and the raised goblets and your uncle's booming laughter, past the musicians who struck up a final, triumphant chord, past the doors that closed behind you and shut out the noise of the celebration.

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

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The words hung in the air. You felt your heartbeat stutter in your chest. You had known, of course, that you would marry him eventually. You had been betrothed since childhood, promised to each other before you even understood what that promise meant. But you had assumed the wedding would come after the war, after Rhaenyra sat the Iron Throne, after the realm was secured and there was time for celebrations and pageantry.

Rhaenyra seemed to have been thinking along the same lines. "Jace," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "I had hoped to see you wed in the Great Sept. After I take the throne. The realm should celebrate the marriage of its future king. It should be a symbol of our victory, a declaration that our house endures and prospers."

"The realm is at war, Mother." Jace's voice was calm, measured, but there was an undercurrent of steel in it that had not been there before his brush with death. "And it will not stop being at war the moment you take King's Landing. Aegon will flee, or he will be captured, but his supporters will not simply lay down their arms. Aemond is still out there with Vhagar. Daeron is in Oldtown with Tessarion. The Hightowers will not surrender while they still have dragons and armies. This war could drag on for months. Years."

He stepped forward, still holding your wrist, pulling you gently with him. "I am your heir. My claim to the Iron Throne must be unassailable. There are already those who whisper about my...parentage." He said the word carefully, without flinching, but you saw the flicker of old pain in his eyes. "Marrying a trueborn Targaryen princess strengthens my position. It silences the whispers. It shows the realm that the blood of Old Valyria runs true in our line."

"He has a point," Daemon said, and there was a note of amusement in his voice. "A strong match, publicly acknowledged, secures the succession and quiets the rumors. The boy is thinking like a king."

Jace shot Daemon a look that was equal parts gratitude and wariness. He knew, as you did, that Daemon's support was never given without calculation. But he pressed on.

"We have been betrothed for years," he continued, turning back to his mother. "Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows we are promised. There is no political advantage to waiting. And if something were to happen to me..."

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Rhaenyra cut in, her voice sharp with maternal ferocity. "You will be safe on Dragonstone."

"Wars are unpredictable," Jace said, and his tone was gentle now, gentler than it had been. "You know that better than anyone. I am not asking for a grand ceremony. I am not asking for tourneys and feasts and a kingdom's worth of guests. I am asking to be wed here, on Dragonstone, in the tradition of our ancestors. A Valyrian ceremony."

Rhaenyra hesitated. You could see her wavering, the queen and the mother warring within her. She looked at you then, her violet eyes searching your face. "What do you say to this?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but Jace's hand tightened on your wrist again, and you felt the heat of his skin against yours, the faint tremor of urgency that ran through him. He wanted this. He wanted this desperately, and you understood, with a sudden, crystalline clarity, that this was not just about politics. This was about him. About the darkness he had been through. About the fire that now burned behind his eyes and the need that drove him to hold you closer, kiss you harder, keep you near him every possible moment. He had come back changed, and part of that change was a hunger that had not existed before. A hunger for you.

"I want to marry him," you said, and your voice was steady despite the pounding of your heart. "I do not need a sept or a crowd or the approval of the realm. I only need him."

Rhaenyra's expression softened. She looked at you for a long moment, and then at Jace, and something in her face shifted. Resignation, perhaps. Or acceptance. Or simply the recognition that her son, the boy she had raised and protected and nearly lost, was no longer a boy at all.

"Very well," she said. "We will hold the ceremony tomorrow evening. It will be small, but it will be done properly. You deserve that much."

Jace exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to release some of the tension from his shoulders. "Thank you, Mother."

Daemon, who had been watching the exchange with the detached interest of a man observing a particularly entertaining game of cyvasse, chose that moment to inquire mockingly:

"You're very eager to get this done quickly, Jacaerys. One might almost think you were in a hurry." He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable. "Is there a reason for this urgency? Have you gotten my daughter with child?"

Leave it to Daemon Targaryen to pour oil onto a fire dwindling away. You felt heat flood your cheeks from embarrassment and indignation. "Father!"

Jace's composure cracked for just a moment, a flush rising to his own cheeks. "No," he said firmly. "We have not...I have not dishonored her. I would never..."

"Jace has been the soul of propriety," you interrupted, your voice rising. "Nothing more. We have not lain together. I am not with child."

Daemon held up his hands, a gesture of mock surrender, but his eyes were still calculating. "I meant no offense, daughter. A father is entitled to ask such questions, especially when his daughter's betrothed is so... insistent."

"I am insistent," Jace said, and his voice had steadied again, cooled to a hard and controlled tone, "because I have already lost too much time. I was dead, or near enough. I lay in that bed while the maesters whispered about how they could not save me. And all I could think about, all I could dream about in the darkness, was her. What I would never have. What I would never be able to give her." He looked at Daemon directly, meeting those violet eyes without flinching. "I am not going to wait any longer. Not for politics. Not for propriety. Not for anything. I am going to marry her, and I am going to do it now, while I still can. Is that a sufficient answer for the King Consort?"

Silence swallowed the hall. Daemon looked at Jace for a long moment, then the mockery faded, replaced by respect, or recognition, or simply the acknowledgment of a fellow predator.

"Very well," he said, and turned back to Rhaenyra. "Let them marry. The boy makes a fair point. And it will give the people on Dragonstone something to celebrate before we fly to war."

The ceremony took place three days later, on the cliffs of Dragonstone as the sun sank toward the sea.

It was a small affair by royal standards. There was no time for feasts or tournaments, no time to summon lords from across the realm. But somehow, the intimacy of it made it more powerful. The witnesses were few: Rhaenyra, Daemon, Baela, Corlys Velaryon, and a handful of household knights and servants who had served Dragonstone for generations. The dragons stirred restlessly in the distance, their cries echoing off the volcanic cliffs, as if even they knew something momentous was happening.

Your hair had been braided in the traditional Valyrian style, interwoven with ribbons of gold and black. Baela had helped you dress into the traditional Valyrian attire.

Jace was waiting for you there. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. Like the fire that burned behind his eyes had found its focus. He looked at you like you were his salvation.

Daemon performed the ceremony. It was an old Valyrian rite, the words spoken in the liquid syllables of a language that had been ancient when Aegon the Conqueror was born. The binding of blood. The joining of fire. The creation of a union that could not be broken by anything less than death.

When the time came, Daemon drew a small dragonglass blade and made a shallow cut on your palm, then on Jace's. You pressed your hands together, blood mingling, and the contact sent a jolt through you like lightning striking stone. Jace's eyes met yours, and you saw the recognition in them. He felt it too. Something more than ritual. Something more than words.

We ask the Lord to shine his light. you thought, remembering the words you had spoken over his dying body.

But you had not needed a lord. You had needed only your own will, and your own blood, and your own desperate love.

"With fire and blood, it is done," Daemon intoned in the Common Tongue. "You are one. Let no man tear asunder what the flames have joined."

Jace leaned forward and kissed you, and despite the witnesses, despite the solemnity of the moment, it was not a chaste kiss. His mouth was warm and insistent, his hand tightening on yours, and when he pulled back, his eyes were blazing.

"You are mine now," he said, so quietly that only you could hear. "No one can take you from me. Not the Greens. Not the gods. Not death itself."

There was no bedding ceremony. Rhaenyra had made that clear from the start: there would be no bawdy crowd, no drunken lords carrying you to the marriage bed, no crude jests and leering looks. This was not a political match made for the entertainment of the court. This was a union of dragon's blood, and it would be consummated with dignity.

Instead, there was a feast in the great hall, with roasted boar and fresh bread and wine from the cellars that had been laid down during the reign of the old King. Jace ate little but drank several cups of wine, his hand never leaving yours. He spoke to the others who had gathered to celebrate, answered Rhaenyra's toasts and Daemon's pointed observations with perfect courtesy, but his attention was always on you. His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table. Whenever you caught his eye, he smiled, and that smile was full of promises that made your stomach tighten and your skin flush with heat.

When the feast was over and the toasts were finished and the last of the wine had been drunk, Jace rose from his seat and offered you his hand.

"Come," he said simply.

You took his hand and let him lead you from the hall, up the winding stairs, to the chambers that had been prepared for you.

The room was warm, a fire already burning in the hearth, candles flickering. The bed was large and draped in crimson silk, the pillows plump and inviting. Someone had scattered dried flower petals across the coverlet, rose and lavender, their scent sweet and heady in the warm air.

Jace closed the door behind you and slid the bolt into place. The sound of it was loud in the quiet room, final and irrevocable.

"I have wanted this," he said, his voice low and rough, "for longer than I can remember. I have dreamed of this. In the darkness, when I was...gone...I dreamed of you. Of this. Of finally having you in my arms with nothing between us."

You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. There was hunger there, raw and undisguised, a fire that burned so hot it was almost frightening. But it was more than hunger. It was need. A desperate, consuming need that went beyond desire and closer to worship.

"I am yours," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I have always been yours."

He took your face in his hands. His palms were warm, his fingers threading through your hair, and when he kissed you it was not gentle. It was fierce, demanding, his mouth slanting over yours with an urgency. His tongue swept against your lower lip, seeking entrance, and you opened for him willingly, letting him taste you, letting him take what he needed.

His hands moved from your face to your shoulders, to the lacings of your gown. He was surprisingly deft, his fingers making quick work of the knots and ties that Baela had so carefully arranged. The fabric slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you in your shift. The firelight shone through the thin fabric, outlining your body in shades of gold and amber.

Jace stepped back, his eyes traveling over you with an intensity that made you shiver. "Beautiful," he murmured. "You are so beautiful. I do not deserve you."

"You do," you said. "You deserve everything."

He shook his head slowly. "I should have died. I should have drowned or bled out or been eaten by the creatures of the deep. But you would not let me go. You brought me back. You gave me this second chance." He stepped forward again, his hands settling on your hips, his thumbs tracing the curve of your hipbones through the thin fabric. "Everything I am now, everything I do from this moment forward, is because of you. Do you understand that? I am yours more than you are mine. You own me. Body and soul. Whatever is left of my soul."

"There is nothing wrong with your soul," you protested, but even as you said it, you remembered the old texts, the warnings, the whispers about those who came back changed. Fire wights, the red priests called them. Creatures of flame, animated by something older and darker than mere life.

Jace smiled, and in the firelight, his eyes seemed to flicker with an inner flame. "I hope you are right," he said. "But it does not matter. Wrong or right, I am yours. And tonight, I am going to show you how much that means to me."

He kissed you again, his hands slid the shift from your shoulders. It joined the gown on the floor, and then you were bare before him, your skin glowing in the candlelight.

"Lie down," he said, and his voice was thick with desire. "Lie down and let me worship you."

You obeyed, climbing onto the bed and settling against the pillows. The silk was cool against your heated skin, a pleasant contrast to the warmth of the fire and the heat of his gaze. He undressed with the same grace he had shown in unlacing your gown, his tunic and breeches falling away to reveal the body you had glimpsed during his recovery, when the maesters had changed his bandages and you had looked away out of modesty. Now you let yourself look.

He was leaner than he had been before, the weeks of bedrest having stripped away some of the muscle he had built in the training yard. But he was still beautiful, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his skin marked here and there with scars: the new ones from the arrows, still pink and healing at an unnatural speed, and older ones from years of swordsmanship and dragon-riding. The scar on his neck was the most prominent, a silver-pink line that traced the path the arrowhead had taken when the maesters finally cut it free.

He climbed onto the bed beside you. His hands found you again, stroking down your sides, over your hips, along your thighs. His touch was gentle at first, exploratory, learning the shape of you. But there was an undercurrent of urgency in it, a barely leashed desire that made his fingers tremble against your skin.

"I have received," he said wryly, "a great deal of unsolicited advice on how to proceed tonight."

You could not help the laugh that escaped you. "From whom?"

"Daemon, primarily." Jace's expression was somewhere between amused and pained. "He was very...thorough. I suspect he enjoyed it far more than I did. He kept saying that I should prepare you first, that I should take my time, that I should not simply impale you like a boar on a spit."

You covered your face with your hands, mortified and amused in equal measure. "I am going to kill him."

Jace laughed, a genuine, warm sound that reminded you of the boy he had been before the war. "Please do not. I think he meant well, in his own peculiar way." He leaned down and kissed your collarbone, his lips trailing a path of fire along your skin. "And he was not wrong. I do not want to hurt you. I want this to be good for you."

His mouth mapped every inch of your body, his lips and tongue and teeth finding all the places that made you gasp and arch and moan. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the curve of your breasts, the soft skin of your inner wrists. He spent long, torturous minutes learning the shape of you, the sounds you made when he found a particularly sensitive spot, the way your breath hitched when his hand slid between your thighs.

He was patient, far more patient than you had expected given the hunger in his eyes. His fingers explored you with careful precision, stroking and circling and pressing until you were trembling beneath him, your hands fisted in the silk sheets, your body arching toward his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

"Please," you gasped, and you did not even know what you were asking for. "Please, Jace, I need..."

"I know what you need," he murmured against your skin. "I know. Let me take care of you."

His fingers continued their gentle assault, coaxing you higher and higher until you shattered beneath him, your cry swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through your release. When you finally stilled, trembling and breathless, he pulled back to look at your face.

"There," he said, and his voice was rough with restrained desire. "Now you are ready."

He positioned himself above you, his body a warm weight pressing you into the mattress. You could feel him, hard and insistent against your thigh, felt the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.

"This may hurt," he said, and his voice was tight with the effort of holding himself back. "Only for a moment. I will try to be gentle."

You reached up and cupped his face in your hands. "I trust you."

He pushed forward, slowly, carefully, and you felt the pressure build and build until there was a sharp, bright flash of pain. You gasped, your fingers tightening on his jaw, and he froze immediately, his eyes searching your face.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, I'm...it's fine. Don't stop."

He moved again, sinking deeper, and the pain began to fade, replaced by a strange, stretching fullness that was not unpleasant. He was trembling above you, his muscles rigid with the effort of holding back, and you realized how much he wanted this, how much he was restraining himself for your sake.

When he was fully seated inside you, he paused, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and his eyes were closed, his expression one of almost religious intensity.

"I can feel your heartbeat," he whispered. "I can feel it. Here. Inside you. The blood you gave me. The life you gave me. It's like...it's like coming home."

He began to move, slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as your body adjusted to him. The pain faded entirely, replaced by a growing pleasure that built and coiled in your belly like a spring being wound too tight. His name fell from your lips again and again, a litany, a prayer, and he answered each one with a kiss, a touch, a murmured endearment.

And then he pulled back, and he looked down at the place where your bodies were joined, and he stopped moving.

"Jace?" Your voice was hazy with pleasure, confused by the sudden stillness. "What is it?"

He did not answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the small smear of blood on his length when he withdrew slightly, the evidence of your maidenhead, bright red against his skin. You felt your face flush with embarrassment, you had known there might be blood, the septas had warned you, but the expression on Jace's face was not one of concern or distaste.

It was fascination. Deep, reverent, hungry fascination.

"Your blood," he said, and his voice was strange, distant, as if he were speaking from very far away. "It was your blood that brought me back. Your blood that you spilled. Your blood that pulled me out of the darkness."

His hand moved down, his fingers brushing against your inner thigh, and when he lifted them, they were stained with a faint smear of red. He looked at it for a long moment, and then he lifted his fingers to his lips and tasted it.

You should have been disturbed. You should have been frightened. But all you felt was a strange, dark thrill, a shiver of something that was equal parts desire and recognition.

"My sorceress," Jace breathed. "My beautiful, brave, miraculous sorceress. You marked yourself for me. You bled for me. And now I will spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy of that sacrifice."

He bent his head and kissed your mound, right at the top of your slit, where the blood had dripped. His tongue darted out, tasting, and you gasped at the unexpected sensation. Then he was sliding back inside you, filling you again, and this time there was no restraint, no careful gentleness. This time there was only fire.

He moved with a ferocity that stole your breath, each thrust deeper and harder than the last, his body driving into yours obsessively. He found a spot inside you that made white-hot pleasure spark behind your eyes, and he angled his hips to hit it again and again, his cock bullying that same sweet spot until your moans broke into sobs and your fingers clawed at his back.

"Yes," he crooned against your ear. "Yes, let go. Let me hear you. Let me feel you. You are mine, my love, my wife, my sorceress. You brought me back from the darkness, and now I am going to fill you with life."

Tears were streaming down your face, not from pain but from the overwhelming intensity of it all: the pleasure, the love, the strange, dark magic that hummed between you like a living thing. You clung to him, your body meeting his thrust for thrust, your moans dissolving into wordless cries.

"Please," you sobbed, and you did not know if you were begging for mercy or for more. "Please, Jace, please..."

"Come for me," he commanded. "Come for me, and I will give you what you want. I will give you everything. Come for me now."

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding that sensitive nub at the apex of your sex, and the combination of his touch and his thrusts and his voice was too much...You shattered. Your vision went dark, pleasure crashing through you in waves so intense they were almost painful. You cried out, his name or a prayer or both, and he followed you over the edge a moment later, his body going rigid above you as he spent himself inside you with a groan that sounded like a sob.

You lay tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. His face was buried in your neck, his lips pressed against the pulse point beneath your jaw, and you could feel his heartbeat thundering against your chest.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft again, the blazing fire banked to a warm glow. He brushed the tears from your cheeks with gentle fingers, his touch a stark contrast to the fierce passion of moments before.

"I love you," he said simply. "More than the crown. More than the throne. More than anything in this world or the next."

"I love you too," you whispered. "Always. Whatever happens."

He smiled that slightly odd smile of his, slightly off, but still so warm and loving. "Then we will have an heir," he said, his hand sliding down to rest on your belly. "If the gods are willing. A child of fire and blood, born of our union. A child who will carry our legacy into the future."

Part 3: pending... Sneak peak/Chapter 3 summary: There is a search for Rhaena and Sheepstealer. Even having experienced firsthand how deadly a wild dragon can be, having witnessed they can be claimed, Jace gets a mad idea to try to bond with other wild dragons residing near Dragonmont on Dragonstone. While Rhaenyra, Daemon and the dragonseeds fly to take King's Landing, the couple left behind on Dragonstone cut their honeymoon short, sneak off, and encounter Cannibal and Greyghost.

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.

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

The box sat on Aerion's nightstand for weeks, collecting dust just as the thought did in his mind. A stupid prank from his drunken brother, one he wouldn't entertain. Busying himself with work, running the length of his street for an hour each morning and evening, driving until his gas ran on empty. Trying not to let you consume his every waking moment.

But you insisted on it anyway.

You had been friends since you interned at his father's company, only for a summer just to get some experience and a glowing recommendation. Aerion, to his core, was naturally standoffish, so he hadn't warmed to you until you were forcibly locked in his office with him to help stay up to date on reports. One of the boring tasks that Aerion fought defiantly.

It was that afternoon, he finally warmed to you. Though it was more akin to ice melting. He remained silent, gone were the scoffing and pompous commentary. Then, he began to laugh at your jokes. And that afternoon had been the catalyst to a strange friendship.

A friendship of unspoken words, lingering glances when the other was unaware, living life in show for each other. You played the part of friend well; hiding every ounce of yearning in your chest behind your poker face. He was none the wiser to your ache for him; the way he brought you a coffee every morning on his way toward his office, the way he praised you for everything you did to help him, the silent car rides he would give you home.

You would confide in Valarr, another intern you met, who you had found out was Aerion's cousin. Great. No escaping this man. But Valarr didn't much care for his cousin, wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire. So your secrets were undeniably safe with him.

It had been months of yearning of Aerion, veiled with friendly teasing comments and an appropriate distance. Telling Valarr how you wished Aerion would just reject you, so you could move on. But he continued as if your friendship was completely pure, as if he were naive to the way your hands would be less than an inch from each other when you would share his desk for a task. Even when you had left the company after an extended internship, hoping to latch onto someone else at your new job. But your mind refused to unlatch from the pale haired brat you found a friend in.

"I bought you a gift." Valarr had his hands tucked behind his back when he met you at the cafe. You kept touch with him, meeting him for lunch whenever you could. And even today, to celebrate his promotion.

"For me?" You cheered, standing from your seat to embrace him. "You're the man of honor today!"

"Humor me for just a moment. Close your eyes." He took his hands from behind his back, placing the box into your outstretched hands. Your eyes peeled open to see a triangular box, a ONE WISH WILLOW.

"What the fuck is this?" You frowned.

"I was looking for a gift for my dad's birthday and saw that in a crystal shop." He explained, taking a sip of the piping hot beverage you had ordered for him minutes before he arrived.

"You were looking for a gift for your dad in a crystal shop?" Your face scrunched more intensely at your strange friend, the small box still sat in your hands.

"Besides the point." Valarr deadpanned. "It's a One Wish Willow."

"And what does this Willow do?"

"You wish for something and snap it. And your wish comes true." Valarr spoke so casually, as if this were as common knowledge as brushing your teeth or tying your shoes.

"You're hilarious." You gave him a wooden stare, dismissing the small box into your purse. "`What do I wish for? A new best friend?"

"I was thinking you could finally wish for my wretched cousin to cease his existence." Valarr suggested. "Or for him to love you as intensely as you do him."

"Hey!" You exclaimed.

"What? Your love makes me sick." A half-truth. He loved seeing you happy, but not where Aerion was involved. He would snap a Willow of his own to wish you would forget your puppy love for his cousin.

"The only wish I'll be making it for you to be quiet."

Perhaps your neutrality with Aerion didn't just sink into his stomach, or fade into nothingness. Perhaps it mutated in his mind, sending him into a vastness of insanity. The constant, unusual fear of saying something stupid, cheering himself up with watching your social media intently, unwilling to let go of the hold he had on you. He had been driven to insanity over you. That very feeling had him sat in the corner of the backyard, in his designated smoking spot that his father had ordered him to use, because the smoke "keeps lingering in the house".

He held the triangular box in his hand, observing the dated red-and-white design, vexed at himself for even considering resorting to this foolishness.

He studied the box between drags, letting the cigarette sit between his lips as he read the words.

Need help? Call today! 1-323-747-7118

He could wish for his infatuation for you to cease, then he could live his life more peacefully, more for himself and less in show for you. He could wish for you to move out of town, forcing himself to get over you and live your lives separately. But Aerion was a selfish man, he knew it. He wouldn't do anything that didn't serve him.

REMOVE FROM THE BOX AND JUST MAKE A WISH!

SPARK THE MIDDLE AND BREAK IT IN HALF.

WHAT ARE YOU WISHING FOR?

"I wish," he sighed deeply, tapping his foot to find the wording.

It were as if something in his mind had snapped, the sound of a twig snapping echoed in his mind. His emotion felt dialled, it had never burned so violently in his stomach, it had never sounded like a deafening ring as much as it did in this moment.

This was where insanity had taken him, wishing for you to love him as he did you, wishing the one girl who was so passive with him to truly, deeply love him. And so, he spoke his wish aloud. For you to love him, to match his desire. Before snapping the willow, a clean break in the middle as it sat in each hand.

"So stupid." He scoffed, discarding the trinket onto the lawn beside him, stubbing the butt of his cigarette out between the fragments. He hoped to wake in the morning and have this useless feeling in the pit of his stomach to be gone, for you to be gone—

His phone chimed, the screen like a stun grenade in the darkness of the garden.

You: Hey, you.

Aerion's mouth dried. This was stupid coincidence, right?

Aerion: Hey.

Was that too blunt? Did he look uninterested? Had he ruined his wish already?

Aerion: What are you doing up so late?

You: Can't sleep.

Aerion: Me neither.

He watched the typing bubble appear and disappear over and over, impatiently waiting for your reply. He lit another cigarette through pure stress, inhaling it as his phone balanced on his knee.

You: Want to go for a drive?

"How have we not done this sooner?" You sighed, settling comfortably into his fully reclined passenger seat, your view of the city below and all its little gleaming lights.

"Busy, I guess." He shrugged. "We live different lives now."

The words felt like a lie as he spoke them. If you wanted to make the time, the two of you would have. But you had become professional and skirting around your feelings, pretending the blossoming in your chest was simply not there.

"That makes me sad." You sighed, looking over at him as his head was already turned to face yours. "I missed you."

Aerion could feel his mind buzz with anxiety, the hankering for another cigarette had his hands balled tightly at his side. "I missed you."

The world looked darker around you. Each different hue now warmer, redder, than it should be. As if a vessel had burst in your eye, the blood coating your vision until all you could see was Aerion. The man who looked no different than when you worked with him a year ago. Hair still unnaturally white, eyes still sunken and jaw still tense. A cigarette dangling from his lip at any given chance.

You had always admired the small details of his face, but only tonight had you truly seen them. It felt like the wires in your brain had been tangled, heightening any sort of feelings you already harboured. His eyes looked darker, smile wider, you could hear the blood passing through his veins, you could hear his heart pumping rapidly.

Your Willow had worked.

Aerion watched you intently; he noticed your tinged cheeks as you smiled at him, he noticed the way you were intensely staring into him, he noticed how you fiddled with the rings on your finger sheepishly. He wouldn't even admit it inside the privacy of his own mind, he would not give Daeron the satisfaction of saying this stupid Willow had worked.

"Want me to drive you home?" Aerion offered. "You look tired."

"No." You answered quickly, reaching a hand out to settle on his chest. "I like it here. With you."

Aerion placed his hand over yours, where his heart was buried beneath, calling out to your flesh above it. "Then you can come home with me."

You nodded. Your mind wasn't your own tonight, you knew better than to go home with a guy you hadn't seen in a year. But it was Aerion, your heart was encased in tattoos of his name, memories of words he'd spoken to you. He felt like home.

Laying beside him in his bed felt feverish. His sheets felt coarse against your bare legs, his hands were weighted as they rest on your hip. You were looking straight at him and all you could make out were the glints in his eyes. His features kissed by shadow and darkness, just white holes where his pupils were.

"You're freezing." He noted. "Do you want some more blankets?"

"No," you whispered, unable to take your eyes from his, "I'm okay."

"I can make you warm. Come a little closer."

You shuffled your legs into his, feeling that hue of warmth return. Aerion's features had brightened, no longer the scary monster in the closet, but the man you loved. The man you pined for day after day, now beside you in a bubble of quiet, intimate vulnerability.

"This might be crazy to admit," he breathed, no longer did he feel a rush of anxiety when you listened to him, no longer did he fear he would mess up the words he spoke, "but I love you. I have loved you, for a while."

Your heart had ceased its rhythm for a moment, Aerion's words the sole focus in those few seconds. "And I, you."

Your days were taken by Aerion, as his were taken by you. You would wake and sleep together, kiss the other goodbye on your way to work, meet for lunch and stay just a few minutes over. He consumed your thoughts, your autonomy, your heart, body, and soul. You were the object of Aerion's desires, there hadn't been a thought that didn't involve you. His mind was held captive by your memory, work on the back burner as he remembered your laughter at his stupid joke.

His father would click in his face, send him reminder emails, all to remind him there was in fact a world outside of you. But it didn't exist to him; he lived in a world without you for years, spent his days and nights in agony wishing for you to be his. And now he had you, he found purpose, he got as he wanted, he would not let his gratitude falter.

Valarr would watch you in concern over coffee, talking as if from another planet entirely. As if you had met the perfect man, and not the parasite his cousin had become.

"Do you not think this is all a bit... sudden?" Valarr frowned, tapping at the sides of his ceramic mug. The sound rang in your ears, taking you from the story you were just telling him of.

"What?"

"You guys seem very in love." Valarr stated.

"We are."

"It's nearly been a month."

You scoffed. "Love doesn't know time, Valarr."

He cared deeply for you, watched you sing and cry and lose your breath with laughter. But he hadn't seen you so in love before. Not to this extent, where you felt antsy without him. Where each moment spent apart felt like a waste of time.

"Just be careful, please." Valarr intoned. "You know my thoughts on Aerion, and I don't think this is healthy."

"And who are you to decide that?" You laughed, gathering your things from the booth beside you. "Call me when you've learnt my love life isn't your business."

And of course, you ran straight to Aerion. Told him all of Valarr's comments, how he felt about your love, how he stuck his nose where it didn't belong. You sat on his lap as he soothed your tearful words, hand dragging up and down your back to calm you.

"He doesn't understand." Aerion whispered. "The poor boy hasn't felt a love like this, he won't understand until he does."

"I just want to be with you, I feel safe with you." You wept onto his shoulder, your salty tears dampening his shirt. "Don't want to leave."

"Then don't. Stay here, leave that wretched job of yours. I earn enough to make you happy, to keep you here with me." His words carried such weight, despite being unaware of the poison laced within them. He was whispering incantations into your ears, to burrow into the folds of your brain, to darken that hue of warmth you saw.

You felt most like yourself with Aerion. Going on walks, watching movies, baking, grocery shopping, visiting him on his lunch break at his office building. You felt both hands leave the wheel when he kissed you goodbye, but the car maintained its speed. It hadn't slowed down when your hands left the wheel, if anything it gathered speed. Your vision blurred, your heart threatened the break the ribcage that guarded it. You felt on the verge of collapse until Aerion would return home, his hands would settle on your cheeks, and all would be right in the world.

Those feelings of derangement would only flare when Aerion was gone, or an obstacle presented itself. And the newest obstacle had been the secretary, disturbing your private lunch break with Aerion.

"Sorry," she peered through the door with a wide grin, a stack of folders in her arm, "your father told me to give you these."

"Just leave them on that shelf." Aerion instructed, his eyes tearing from you for a moment to gesture to the shelf. "Thanks."

Gratitude. For her. Thanking her for the disruption to your conversation. The world paled until the door clicked shut again, and Aerion's hand sat on your knee.

"As you were saying, sweetheart?"

Locking her in her office felt the most reasonable response, hearing her fists slam against the windows as you walked with Aerion to his car once the office building had shut. It felt good, you moved the obstacle. It was necessary.

But it had failed.

Aerion had been called to release her, as he lived the closest. And your blood bubbled beneath your skin.

"No." You spoke. "I haven't seen you all day."

"I know, sweetheart." Aerion always jumped to comfort you, to soothe your every worry as you did him. "But you locked her in, it's been long enough. I'm sure she's learnt her lesson."

Tears burned at your waterline. Aerion was siding with her, choosing her.

"She disturbed us, she can't get away with that. Who knows what else she'll try next?" You fretted, advancing towards him. Your hands rested on his chest, his hands atop yours. A position you assumed when obstructions appeared.

"Feel that?" He whispered. His heart slammed against your palms, a living, breathing reminder of your wishes. Merged into one, spurring him on. "That's for you."

Your heart was clawing its way out of your body, searching blindly for his own. His hands felt safe, secure, as they pulled you closer to him. There was nothing except him in this moment, just the charge of your skin against his.

"I need you." His teeth nipped at the skin of your jaw, grunts falling from his lips. "I want to crawl inside you."

You whimpered, letting him paw at your shirt. The material was nothing short of an inconvenience, he would tear it from you if it wasn't your favourite shirt. But he felt controlled, he saw himself outside of his own body. Biting at your neck, drawing blood and letting it stray down your skin.

"Aerion," you cried, compressed between him and the living room rug.

"What do you want, sweetheart?" He cooed, bunching your skirt up to your hips.

"I need you... please." You breathed into his mouth, your blood marred his lips so deliciously. His smirk shaped his teeth as fangs, you willed him to drink you in more, to consume you.

He burrowed into you, cradling your back as you arched off the floor. You squeezed around him, pulling him into you further, to keep the connection between you both. He set a firm pace into you, breathing his desire into you, as if being inside you simply wasn't enough.

as the mid-day began to settle in, just teetering on the edge of sunset, you found yourself tucked away in one of the much quieter rooms of the palace, a leather-backed book placed absentmindedly in your lap. you were not fully registering nor reading the words on the page, per se, just letting the words and vivid imagery cloud your head as the afternoon warmth began to shine in through the stained glass window just beside you. 

a content, almost sleepy sigh came from you, and just as you were beginning to drift off to that of a catnap, a soft yet urgent knock on the library doors awoke you back into reality. 

“my lady? may i come in?” 

the words of your handmaiden were never rushed, as nothing at the castle ever was. time was so valuable, and it seemed a person was granted so little of it. 

“you may.” you did not look up immediately, gentle hands closing the reading and mentally noting to return to those pages later–the sound of a small creak as the door opened. although, there was something different about her mannerisms today. almost as if there had been some sort of shift in the air. 

her hands were folded neatly in front of her, lingering just longer than usual in her spot a few feet away from you, as if she was trying to find the correct words to speak. 

that alone made you look up, paying her the respect of your gaze, noticing the rather serious expression on your face. 

“have you been searching for me?” you asked lightly, eyebrows gently furrowed as you tried to place the mood of the conversation. your handmaidens were usually always cheery and you hoped they had not grown afraid to speak with you about serious matters.

just as the silence hung in the air for a beat longer, she began to speak; “your father requests your presence, my lady.” 

your fingers gently curled around the edge of that now seemingly uninteresting book laid in your lap, attention sharpening at the nature of her words. what on earth was so urgent? “..does he?” 

another pause followed your speech, looking over to the side with a small sigh, thoughts beginning to race within your head. 

“he says it is rather important, your highness.” 

that was new, because “important” things did not reach you here. at least, not in the way the reached the rest of the world; you’ve grown accustomed to rather dull days. 

then, you stood up slowly, smoothing out the silken fabric to your gown, which was more of a habitual gesture than something attempting to fix your appearance. 

“i suppose i shall not keep the king waiting,” you said, a small smile on your face, trying to almost ease whatever sort of tension that was in the air. beginning to tress outside of the room, you passed her, flashing her a quick smile, hoping to falsely convey that you were not nervous by any means. 

she watched you for half a second longer than normal, as if she already was aware of what was to come. and, if it had caused the castle to shift even the slightest bit; perhaps that meant good news. something was about to change. 

as you began to tress throughout what seemed like endless hallways, you noticed things that had simply never been there before. and, those things were not hard to miss in the slightest, given these walls are the only thing you had grown to remember without fault. 

looking to your right, you paused in your tracks to take a quick glance outside of a large window in the foyer, and to your surprise.. there seemed to be what looked like dozens of castle servants handling banners, trimming rosebushes, tending to things that had been long overgrown. 

you silently reminded yourself what you had even been meaning to do in the first place, picking up the fabric to your gown, footsteps much quicker now–almost like a small run, which was uncharacteristic for you. especially in these halls. 

finally drawing upon the large door to your fathers chambers, your hands were softly placed palm-flat against the carved wood, pushing it open with an almost child-like curiosity. before you spoke, you stepped one foot into his quarters, beginning to speak as you closed the door behind you. 

“father? you wished to see me,” you softly began, gaze down at the ground for a moment as you smoothed out your dress, before your head tilted up to see your father across the room. his hands were clasped behind his back, curtains drawn fully open to let the sunlight in, which was so strange. any other time he would have had those curtains drawn closed tightly, collecting dust and waiting for the next time to be used. 

it seemed he was watching the same thing you had been so perplexed about on your way here, paying close attention to the servants who were currently at work, which was quite earnestly the first time they had tended to any vines that tressed up the cobblestone walls or paid any attention to the flora and fauna in years. 

he seemed rather calm, but almost too collected. as if he were trying to contain his nerves. a heavy sigh came from his lungs, head dipping to look at the ground for a split second, before he halfway-turned his body to look at you, even though he had avoided making any eye contact at first.

you made soft yet cautious footsteps towards him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, as if touch alone could somehow change the lamentable mood he was currently in. “what troubles you, father?” you said softly, head slightly tilted as you looked up at him with an almost worried expression. 

“my daughter,” he started, his voice taking upon a tone of what seemed like he was reminiscing on something. “you deserve much more than the isolation of these walls.” he continued, emphasis on those last few words that left his mouth. you gave him a small nod, communicating understanding of his words. 

“we cannot remain something of a legend forever,” he started, only the slightest bit of shakiness in his voice. a tone that only you would even begin to understand. “it is time the gates opened again.” 

for a moment, you were dumbfounded. the gates? open? ..for all of westeros? such a thing was almost unheard of. your eyes narrowed for a moment, looking over at the busy servants just outside, and then returning your gaze to your dear father. 

“now is not the time to jest, father..” something in you began to play it off as some strange joke, but not because you did not believe him. it was simply because it was the only rational way to react after spending years alone, taking the same pathways, reading the same novels repeatedly. 

“jest?” a warm, deep laugh came from his chest, almost husky due to his age. “dear child, the invitations have already begun to be drafted.” his words caught you off guard–there really was to be a gathering. a grand one. “this is a need for visibility. our alliances have weakened, and we must regain our house reputation.”

the thought of it was simply unfathomable. you began to imagine platters upon platters filled with exotic foods, chandeliers coming out of the dungeon, and the old ballroom you loved so dearly to become restored. 

you began to become overjoyed, an unmistakable smile crossing your face, an almost excited laugh coming from you. “oh, it shall be simply grand!” you exclaimed, suddenly lunging slightly forward to watch antique glassware and blossomed flowers being transported throughout the castle. your father began to speak, opening his mouth, yet your curious mind had already started racing. 

“will there be music? oh, and dancing?” it sounds almost captivating, but alas, he knew you needed to realize you were not exactly familiar with what you were rushing to step into. “and what of the guests; who shall be attending? how many people?” 

he gently paused your excitement with a soft tone, reminding you that this was only the preparation. “my dearest, you must be patient. i shall not bore you with any details.” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “the seamstresses and dressmakers will be arriving shortly. there will be no further questioning.”

a small, defeated sigh came from you, but the smile on your face could fool your father any day of your true emotions. “yes, father.. i understand.” you said gently, recollecting your thoughts and dimming your excitement. yet, that was only for a moment. 

you began to realize he was not forcing change upon you. he was allowing you to accept it, and by the nature of your response, he knew he had made the right decision. 

it was only a moment longer before you quickly gave your father a tight embrace, incredibly grateful for the opportunity he has granted you with, even if it was for reasons other than simply allowing you to experience what life has withheld from you. “thank you, father. i shall be on my best behaviour, i’m sure of it.” you let go after a moment, flashing him a quick smile, before being on your way out of his chambers. 

as you made your way towards the foyer, you were careful to pick your dress up, pacing down a flight of marble stairs–caucious not to slip. on your path down the stairs, you passed multiple servants and handmaidens, all busied with some sort of task that entailed decorating the palace to its entirety. 

after making a turn towards the entrance of your private quarters, a group of at least five women were already sorting through fabrics and threads, a quarter of the expanse of your rather large room occupied by seamstresses. “ah, there she is. your majesty, come forth, will you?” 

one of the older women motioned with a hand for you to come closer, taking a step back to allow you to stand in front of a large, multi-framed mirror that covered almost the entirety of the wall. you flashed her a quick smile, allowing her to take whatever measurements she needed from you. “did you have any ideas in mind, my lady?” she said to you, granting you creative liberty to some extent.

you took a moment to think, unsure of what you would be expected or even want to wear to such an event where royals were expected to attend. 

“perhaps.. white. a beautiful, pure white gown.” you said softly, looking at yourself in the mirror in front of you in attempts to take into account your features. although, the answer was subtly shocking to the older woman. “white, your majesty? won’t you want to reserve that for your day of wed?” 

you shook your head slightly, a smile crossing your face. “well, i do not assume i shall be married soon, or ever, for that matter. especially not in these.. circumstances.” your thought process was simple; it would most certainly not be easy for any man of high status to marry a princess who has never made any court appearances or even been seen by outsiders. 

your remark had gained the interest of two younger seamstresses who were currently pinning fabric together, beginning to form the underskirt to your gown near the back of the room, “i beg to differ, i heard lords from the capital are attending,” one of them started, her tone rather matter-of-fact, assuming you’d be potentially courted by many suitors. 

a small laugh came from the other. “i heard this is to be the largest gathering since the tourney at ashford meadow,” she said with a grin, seemingly feeding on quick court-gossip. this earned a shock from the other seamstress, beginning to sew ornate stones onto a section of fabric. “one of the dragon princes are attending.. the house targaryen rarely travels west.”

that remark in particular had caught you off guard. you simply had to know more.

“the dragon prince?” you questioned, looking over at them over your shoulder. you had only heard brief mention of any house relating to dragons from your father, when you would eavesdrop on meeting as a little girl. the same dressmaker who had been adding little crystals to the gown came closer, holding up fabrics next to you, seeing what would look best.

“you’ll know him when you see him. snow-white hair.. like that of an old valyrian painting.” she whispered, making this prince sound more like a rumour than a royal. you hadn’t thought that the realm was nearly this complicated. she began to speak once more; “he is–”

the older seamstress gave them a scorning look, reminding them that it was not by any means in good taste to gossip about seemingly one of the most influential house names. “girls. i shall remind you we did not come here to speak in poor taste.” after that warning, the room went quiet aside from the sound of pins occasionally dropping, or the sound of heavy fabric.

softly, you turn back to the mirror, not a sound leaving your mouth, silently thinking to yourself. what was such a matter with this family name, and why on earth were they so important? it seemed you would have to wait for the day to come. 

attempting to break the silence, you speak softly, an innocent question leaving your mouth.

“..what silhouettes are they wearing this season?”

and so, over the course of weeks, the castle changed in ways you could not even begin to fathom prior to the engagement. the change was not all at once, or loud, or gaudy.. it began to change in pieces. 

you had been awake for hours, currently sat at your vanity, simply awaiting the unveiling of the dress you waited weeks for. the conversation you had with those two nosy seamstresses still never failed to cloud your mind, with all the talk of high-ranking lords and ladies, making you much more nervous than excited for a court appearance after many years in solitude. 

the hour was growing late, and the sun had set hours ago, the castle now illuminated with golden candelabras and blown glass lanterns. it was something you only could have imagined in a painted memory. below you, you could hear the faint clanking of metal trays and silverware, paced footsteps moving with an unfamiliar purpose. 

you had been awake since dawn, simply listening to the sounds coming from outside your door. 

a soft knock came upon your door, waking you out of a sort of subconscious daydream. “your evening gown is finished, my lady.”

excitement began to take over the feelings of nervousness, turning slightly towards your door. years of wearing the same light, simply tailored gowns had made you look forward to the arrival of such a grand dress.

you stood slowly as the door opened to many familiar faces–then another, and another. not just your usual handmaidens that always greeted you in the morning time, but others too. the women carried what seemed like never-ending fabrics, boxes tied with ribbon, and a small tray of what looked like pale feathers. 

the dress was not unveiled all at once; first came the fabric. “oh, it is divine.. they’ve outdone themselves.” you said, as your fingers brushed along the satin fabric. “careful,” one of the handmaidens said, earning a soft laugh from you. was it improper to touch the dress you were soon to be wearing?

“is it fragile?” you said, with a slight smile. 

“no, your majesty. just important.”

and with that, they helped you dress slowly, as they always did, but today there was a difference in their movements. there was more attention and much more precision. as if every aspect mattered in a way it hadn’t before, like you were not simply getting dressed, but prepared. 

the fabric settled over you, the gown having an undeniable weight to it. the laces of the corset-style waist were tightened and tied with care, little white plumes intricately placed upon the bodice. 

just as you were beginning to take a longing look at yourself in the mirror, a servant rushed in, pausing at the doorframe. 

“my lady, you must make haste. guests are beginning to arrive.”

you could already hear the strum of violins and the chatter of royal guests downstairs. before leaving the quiet familiarity of your room, you take one last look, allowing yourself to smooth out the silk fabric of your dress and adjust the boned bodice holding the structure together. 

and with that, pushing aside any nervousness or uncertainty, you begin to make hurried footsteps to the ballroom. along your path, you passed many servants carrying refreshments and trays, the heightened smell of rosebuds wafting throughout the halls, and the sound of music getting increasingly easier to hear as you get closer and closer.

before entering what seemed like something out of a storybook, you turned your quick footsteps into slower, more purposeful ones. there was booming laughter and glasses clinking, just behind massive wooden doors; to which were already propped open. 

stepping inside the warmly-lit gathering, your presence does not go unnoticed. 

the volume of some nearby conversations begin to falter, some heads turning to feast upon what exactly the reach had been keeping locked away for so long. out of the corner of your eye, you see another nudge the lord beside him, though you decide to ignore it. many women smiled at you, though, some filled with envy. 

you gravitated towards the end of the room, taking hold of a stem of wine, swishing it within the glass before taking a quick sip. for someone who had such a lavish party in their honour, you didn’t quite see any familiar faces. 

your footsteps were slow, simply listening to conversations happening near you.. talk of alliances, how horrible the last tourney was, an arranged marriage. all things very common for court. while your eyes drifted over the grand floral arrangements, something caught your eye. silver hair. and not the old, aging kind of silver. pure white. 

suddenly a thought from weeks before rang into your ears, almost as if you began to remember something crucial, when that seamstress had mentioned “snow-white hair.” your memories began to fall into place, taking a long and good look at the figure across the room. if your eyes were not deceiving you, he looked around to be twenty years old. perhaps the dragon prince was not all myth. 

and perhaps you had been looking a bit too long, which granted you a cock of his eyebrow, narrowing his eyes as if looking you over. setting his wine down on the table next to him, within a blink of the eye he was beginning to move. 

you turned around, in attempts to walk around the crowd rather than through it–your father right behind you. “she looks just like her mother.” he was standing with a few other lords; all in jewel tones of red, yellow, and green. one of them began to whisper to the other next to him, another speaking; “ah, here she is. she’s been hiding from us all night.”

his remark gained boastful laughter from the men with him, all smiles, to which you cannot place were genuine or if they had ulterior motives. you silently cursed him within your head, given you had completely lost track of a certain white-haired prince. 

“why, yes… yes. i do suppose i’ve been in hiding.” you said with a forced smile, eyes darting around as you endlessly searched a crowd full of individuals for one. and yet, it was as if he had vanished within thin air. how hard was it to misplace someone so striking? 

your father began to speak again. about what, you had no idea. your mind was certainly elsewhere. without taking a second thought to think of what he was speaking of, you agreed by nodding your head. 

after a moment, you excused yourself–there were much bigger things at hand here. “excuse me.” you said, beginning to pace your way through the crowd, pardoning yourself for being in someone's way more times than you could count. 

soon enough, you found yourself on the other side of the room. standing just quite in front of the “elusive” figure you’d been trying to track down all night. 

your first mistake was thinking he would make attempts to introduce himself first. he simply.. leaned against the wall, eyebrows furrowed as he studied you, deciding if you were worthwhile.

he seemed beautiful and charismatic, yet there was most certainly something off, shown within the way he exuded a harsh sort of stillness while the gala around him was soft and warm.

breaking the silence, you began to speak–before he got to it first.

“you’re not what i expected,” he said, his tone rather matter-of-fact, taking a small sip of wine whilst his eyes never let up from your complexion. 

your hands remained folded together in front of you, resting on the fabric of your gown. whatever did he mean by that?

“and what is it that you were supposed to expect?” you added, your head slightly lifting to actually make attempts to make eye contact, your question coming off as charming. 

“someone timid.” he said, before allowing a beat of silence, looking down into his glass filled with crimson liquid. “though you interest me in conversation.”

your eyes narrowed for a moment, beginning to experience a feeling you couldn’t quite place. perhaps a bit of excitement was misplaced as nervousness. 

“..would you rather me hadn’t, your grace?” you replied, a bit of playfulness in your tone, clearly, you weren’t intimidated. 

there was a long pause, before he spoke once more.

“no.” the prince quipped back, rather quickly, like he knew what he wanted to say before you were finished with your sentence. like he didn’t have to think about it. 

alas, you wanted to know more, the result of the conversation was not quite satisfactory. 

you began to speak, though it was hard to ignore you were being almost studied with every movement of your mouth. “may i ask you something?” 

“you already have,” he said, gaining a very subtle roll of your eyes at him. were all princes so persistently irksome? 

he noticed your little face of irritation, almost smiling to himself. “another question, then. go on.” it seemed he strictly carried the conversation, not the other way around. 

you tilted your head to the side, your gaze looking off in a different direction as you spoke. “have you always enjoyed making strangers uncomfortable, my lord?” after those last few words, you returned your focus of sight onto his face. 

undoubtedly, there was an unmistakable smirk painted upon his pale complexion. the tiniest smirk, like he somehow found it humorous.

he didn’t look away when he spoke, not even for a moment, like the act of watching you was part of the conversation itself.

“you speak as though discomfort is always an insult,” he said at last, voice low enough that it barely had to compete with the noise behind him. “it is not.”

your fingers had begun to adjust the fabric of your gown, finding something else to occupy your racing mind with. you allowed the moment of silence to stretch just long enough so it felt more intentional.. and less like you were at a loss for words.

“then.. what is it?” you asked him. his eyes briefly flickered down your hands, watching the movement of gentle fingers, as if he was mentally noting something that other people would ignore. 

“testimony,” he started, his tone stating his words rather simply. “of truth. or, lack of it.” 

his words made you pause. whatever was he hinting at? your expression shifted, quite obviously, before you could begin to control it. a hint of a laugh came from you, followed by an exhale. because, honestly, how else were you supposed to react?

“so.. you go around looking for truths to collect?” you said, your tone was rather light in the way that was careful, “how very devoted of you.” 

at your remark, something changed within his expression. it wasn’t anything of warmth or amusement, at least in any familiar sense.. it was more like recognition. like what you said had very closely met the mark than you intended it to. 

“only the ones worth listening to.” he began, that same unchanging tone of his in those words. your gaze had stayed on him much longer than etiquette would have most likely advised you, as well as the fact that you did not exactly know where boundaries sat in a conversation like this. 

“and what makes mine listening to, my lord?” you asked, a small smile on your face as the corners of your mouth curled up. and, for the first time, he looked away from you. 

it wasn’t a retreat for the conversation by far, much more like a deliberate pause. he looked down into his goblet of wine, as if the answers he was searching for would be found within the reflection of the red liquid. it was almost as if the conversation had ended in being strictly theoretical. 

then, without lifting his head, he spoke. “you assume the question was meant to flatter you.” with a movement of his jaw, his tongue flicked within the inside of his mouth, as if tasting the remnants of the blood-red wine left upon his gums. strangely enough, the mannerism akin to a reptile. 

it was so faint, that if you were not watching closely enough, it would have gone unnoticed. unfortunately, you were. and it did not feel like an entirely human gesture. your mind traced back to prior conversations, remembering how the dressmaker had referred to him as the “dragon prince.” it was true that his peculiar movements did strike you as dragon-like. 

“i found the remark to be quite flattering,” you said, your words coming easily. it was curious in a way that betrayed any thought wondering if curiosity was permitted. 

for a moment, he did not respond. it was as if the question had not offended him or caught him off guard in any way, it was simply as if what you had said was able to redirect his thoughts on the conversation–and, undoubtedly, you as well. 

his gaze lifted once more, studying you with a different sort of interest. he was not simply registering your emotions, or picking apart what you were replying, there was a quiet interest in the way he was taking in every feature about you.

now, that should have made you uncomfortable. but, it made you far less sensible, making you much more curious in return. 

your smile shifted slightly, no longer just polite, but with an air of self-assurance, given the fact you had potentially caught his eye. “you are looking at me as though i’ve said something interesting,” you said.

though, it was not quite a question. he did not look away from you once, yet, his eyes had become focused on each individual feature, like he was trying to piece something together. 

“you have.” he replied, his words simple yet immediate. there was no hesitation laced within his words, which only heightened your curiosity. 

you exhaled through your nose, a faint laugh forming without any bit of resistance. “that is not something i hear often,” you admitted, tilting your head slightly as your gaze now stayed firmly on him. “usually i am told the opposite.”

there was a very small pause from him at your words. “the opposite,” he repeated, unsure of what may be his motives at this rate. 

you lightly nodded, once, as though your admission was something unremarkable. “that i am.. expected to be quieter,” you said, trying to briefly find the correct phrasing, though now tone suggested you were not particularly concerned with perfecting your speech. “less noticeable, perhaps.”

you watched him carefully as you spoke; but not out of fear of his reply or the nature of what he may be thinking. (thought, the potential of his thoughts did interest you.) it was merely because he had begun to react in ways that other noble suitors would not. if he could even be considered a “suitor.”

he absorbed your notion as if it mattered. “and do you try to be?” he questioned, yet the words had landed differently than any previous statement, it was directly giving you a choice as to how you planned to answer. 

‘well, no,” you said, rather honestly. “i think i simply have not had much reason to be otherwise.” your words fell more freely after you spoke, shoulders shrugging for a moment, a breath leaving your lungs that you were not exactly aware you were holding in. 

that gained you silence from him. though, short-lived silence.

not exactly the bad kind, but his attention had shifted much closer to you, even though neither of you had moved any closer–or any further, for that matter. “you’d be mistaken.” he said, gaining a quick quip of your brow. 

“would i?” you questioned, words coming out more inquisitive than you intended. 

he held your gaze, eyes narrowed by a hair, as if he was studying your features once more. beginning to take a quick sip of his wine, those eyes of his hadn’t left you for a moment. 

“you are noticeable regardless,” he said. it should have sounded flat, but it was anything but. his words sounded definitive, like he already had made a decision about you long before you were aware of what it entailed. 

for a moment, you did not respond. but out of hesitation or anything trivial, but because his admission made you suddenly aware of yourself in a way you had not been before. because there was a simple fact; he was looking at you like you were distinct. 

your gaze matched his own more steadily, head tilted slightly to the side, beginning to feel your curiosity shift into something much more deliberate. “that could mean many things, my lord.” you replied.

“it does.” he agreed, his attention not shifting within the slightest. 

you kept your posture rather composed, yet something within you had shifted, beginning to realize that this was becoming something much more than casual banter. your fingers had started to adjust faintly against your gown. 

“you were not meant to be seen often,” he said, as if continuing a thought he had already deemed true. “or you would not react like this.”

you blinked a few times, almost as if batting your eyes–minus the flirtatiousness. you were not used to a man, or a prince for that matter, reading you so well. 

his eyes lowered; but not to your fidgeting hands. he began to focus on the change of your expression, almost silently triumphant in his head that he had managed to have any sort of upper hand over the conversation.

very subtly, he took a step forward. it was not yet invading any personal space, but it was rather close to being deemed intimate. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter;

“who keeps you hidden?” 

your lips parted, almost at a loss for words. “my father," you said at last, though the words felt strange to say out loud. "he believed it.. safer."

the prince regarded your response for a moment, at first, saying nothing. his features conveyed something of no surprise. “i thought as much.” 

he paused for a moment, granting a beat of silence, which could have been for emphasis on his statement. his eyes narrowed for a split second, thoughtfully tracing the inner ridge of his teeth with his tongue. 

“it is a shame.” he stated, the nature of his words catching you off-guard. you were not sure how to react. 

your brows gently knitted together, deciding to dig a hint deeper, your inquisitiveness rather apparent. “..what is?” 

for what felt like the first time during the conversation since you’ve begun to speak.. he did not have an immediate answer. uncharacteristically, he began to search for the correct words, though it seemed several possibilities had crossed his mind before one seemed worthy of being spoken.

“that something so..” he began, head tilting just slightly to the side, almost as if he was studying you intently. “remarkable..” 

there was another short pause before he spoke again.

“..has been hidden behind stone walls for so long.”