#dark!aerionxreader

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Your father often told you stories of his friendship with the Targaryen prince.

Prince Maekar, the extra spare, the fourth son of King Daeron II, the prince who would most likely never inherit the throne.

Because of his birth circumstances, Prince Maekar was not required to remain in the Red Keep the way his older brothers were. He was given free reign on where to receive education, and entertainment. He often wandered outside of King’s Landing during summers.

The Prince became especially fond of Duskendale.

Your father, Robert Darklyn II, was born the same year as Prince Maekar. More so, he was born the same month, as well as the exact same week. During Maekar’s summer trips to Duskerdale, your father was placed along with him as his companion. Their friendship grew stronger every year.

“A brother through everything but blood,” is how your father described him.

During your childhood, Maekar continued to visit House Darklyn each summer. You would see him often, though you did not speak to him. Your mother was very diligent in keeping you and your siblings away.

“He is a prince,” she would say to you, “He has no time for entertaining an unruly child such as yourself.” Your mother would say these things with a laugh, but you did not think they were a joke. She did find you unruly. Out of all your siblings, you were the one scolded the most often.

“Sometimes, it is better to listen than to speak,” she would tell you, over and over. But it is a lesson you were slow to learn.

Maekar brought his sons to visit Duskendale very few times. Around the age of eleven, your mother tried to merge the families together in the dining hall for their visit. But your father decided your siblings were too disruptive, so you did not communicate with the princes any further.

When Maekar’s wife, Lady Dyanna, began declining in health, he requested your father’s presence at the castle, desperate for the company of the only man he knew he could trust. He spent several months as a guest at the Red Keep. You and the rest of your family would visit him for two days at a time every three weeks.

You did not care to keep royal company. Your mother let you wander outside if you had a guard with you, saying it was easier to keep you out of trouble if you were out of the castle.

As a girl, you enjoyed fishing. Most afternoons in Duskendale you spent near the water. During your trips to the Red Keep, you found yourself often seeking out the lakeside.

“It is not good for a girl your age to still be interested in these activities,” your mother would tsk. “It is high time you began learning embroidery.”

But sitting by the lakeside kept you quiet and out of the way, so when the family visited the Red Keep, they would allow you to do so.

Most days, however, you didn’t even try catching fish. You just wanted to linger by the water instead of by the royals. They made you wary. Especially the boys.

You did not like Maekar’s son.

Daeron Targaryen was the eldest of all the children. He made you feel unwell when he was around. His eyes tended to...linger. Though, he was quick in his looks, and part of you would always convince yourself you imagined it.

Until once, during a feast held to celebrate the birth of Rhae Targaryen, Daeron sought you out in a way that could not be ignored.

You had been standing behind your family’s table when he found you. You had neither seen, nor heard him. It felt like he had appeared out of nowhere.

“You are the only one of your family members to not be dancing.”

His voice started you, causing your shoulders to flinch. He laughed at it.

You smelt alcohol on him. He was only five and ten, four years your senior, yet he smelled like an old drunkard.

“I am not good at dancing,” you said to him, hoping that would send him off.

“Perhaps you should give it a try with me.”

You felt put under pressure. You were shy to answer, “Thank you, Prince Daeron, but perhaps another time.”

You felt wary when he didn’t make any move to leave.

“I insist.”

Your stomach dropped.

…Could he do that? Could he insist?

“I feel unfit for dancing at the moment,” you say, slow and unsure. “But thank you.” You shuffle back a step.

His hand falls on your shoulder, “I will help you.”

You pull yourself from his touch. “I must repeat my refusal, Prince Daeron.” You step back again. “Perhaps one of my sisters-”

His hand reaches out and latches onto you. A sharp gasp leaves your lips.

“Allow me just until the end of this song.” He pulled on you. “Try it with me.”

You panic, trying to push his hand off, “Wait-”

He yanks you, his drunkenness causing him to use more strength then he intended, making you stumble forward. “You will have fun, I promise.” A laugh. “I’m sure you will enjoy it.”

You try to pull away, but it only results in another yank. This time, you stumble so hard you almost fall. “Prince Daeron!”

“They are playing music from Darklyn, haven’t you noticed-?”

“Let go of her this instant,” a voice spits.

You are quickly released.

A hand darts out and grabs Daeron from the back of his collar, tearing him away from you.

“Dismiss yourself from the hall,” came the swift and stern voice of Prince Maekar, whose fist shook his son by the back of the shirt. “Take yourself to your chambers. Now.”

“Father, I was only hoping for a bit of fun-”

“Remove yourself immediately before you embarrass me any further.”

“No one is even looking this way-”

“Which I am lucky for. I would hate for more whispers of my drunken son being overly abrasive to our guests. Go wallow over dreams in your private chambers.”

Daeron ripped himself from his father’s hold. His face was tinted red from embarrassment. His eyes fell to you, then back to Prince Maekar.

“Worry not, father. I am done here anyway. Your guests are very...” His eyes fell on you coldly. “…unentertaining. I will take my leave.”

Daeron exits the hall. As he does, you feel he is too close. You take a step to the side, barely missing a brush of his shoulder.

“Lady (Y/N).” Prince Maekar’s voice is still stern. “Go find your mother. Do not loiter alone.”

“I did not mean to loiter, Prince Maekar,” you are quick to say. “My-My father said to remain at our table, so that is where I have stayed.”

He exhaled loudly, like he was annoyed. You were not sure if the annoyance was at you, or his son. “Regardless, it is time to find your mother.”

Your eyes fell to the floor. You give an obedient nod. “Yes, Prince Maekar.”

You hurry to find your mother, but you feel too embarrassed to explain what happened.

At the end of the night, Maekar called a meeting with your parents and explained things himself.

After that day, you were kept at home with your young siblings when your family went to the Red Keep during the summer.

********************************************

There is a specific sound your husband makes when he is displeased with something his father has told him.

It is a low grunt, mixed with a scoff.

You hear this noise at breakfast the next morning, as food is being served around the table, and wine is already overflowing for the men.

“Daeron has been spotted,” Prince Maekar announces to the family.

Aerion was audibly disappointed.

Valarr frowns, leaning forward. “Spotted where?”

“At a tavern. It was a brief sighting from a guard. They claim the moment Daeron saw them, he took off, and they were unable to catch him.”

Baelor asks, “What of Aegon?”

“No sight of him yet.”

Aerion let out a low hum, bringing his third cup of wine up to his lips. “Perhaps Daeron killed the little rat and that is why he’s hiding.”

It is hard, but you manage to control your face from physically reacting to his words.

Maekar glares. “You will hold your tongue from making any further comments.”

“Apologies father, I am only trying to soften the blow for when Aegon’s body is found.”

You have never seen someone rile up another person the way Aerion riles up his father.

Or, perhaps you have. Perhaps this is what it looks like when people say you push Aerion to the point of striking you.

The maids whisper of your ‘uncontrollably tongue’. Just this morning, when Aerion ordered them into the tent to apply your makeup and hide any lingering bruising, you heard them gossip about you beneath their breath. “She enjoys his rage,” you heard one say. “She does not care who pays for it.”

You hate them, you realized just today. You hate the serving girls. They pull your hair too hard when braiding, they yank the brush too hard when brushing, they pull your corset too tight because they are angry with you.

They take their anger out on you, yet they do not dare harm a single hair on Aerion’s head.

Aerion, the one who sliced one of their faces open. He is not punished for it, you are punished for it, even though you have remained merciful to them. You do not make sounds when they hurt you, because you know Aerion would react badly to it. You let them mistreat you without complaint, because you know he would strike them if you made a complaint. You have protected them, yet they still lie about you, spreading rumors that you are as sadistic as your husband.

Even here, in the breakfast hall, you notice the way the cupbearer refuses to meet your eye as she pours more water into your glass, yet she smiles at the Princes when she fills theirs. You wonder what lies Madam Pricher has fed her.

“The entire kingdom holds its breath for the safe return of Aegon,” Valarr says to his uncle. “I am sure if anyone finds him to be in trouble, they will give him shelter and food.”

“Yes, because Ashford is so respectful towards royalty,” Aerion hums. He holds his glass to be filled. Another cup of wine. His fourth. You become nervous. It is his fifth glass that brings out his more horrible behaviors. “The same animals that stormed the arena.”

Valarr eyed his cousin. “Hm. If only it were Prince Aerion who went missing, they would have stormed the streets in celebration.”

A small chuckles leaves Baelar. You quickly bite the inside of your lip. You glance at Aerion for his reaction, only to see he is again staring directly at you, his eyes casing your face. You wonder what would have happened if you had smiled. You recall his earlier threats of whippings, and pulling nails off. You recall the way he held your hand to a desk, and tried to cut your finger off. Your body turns cold, and you turn your eyes to your lap.

“I will not joke about the health of my sons,” Maekar grunts. “The guard who let Daeron out of his grasp has already been reprimanded. I have all others on high alert looking for them. They’re believed to both be in the city.”

You risk looking at Aerion’s cup. He is halfway though with the wine. You realize you may have less than an hour before his mood turns drunk and violent.

“(Y/N),” Maekar calls out.

Your eyes snap his way, startled by being spoken to.

“You have been wandering the city. Have you heard any whispers about the boys?”

You cannot help but look to Aerion, as he has specifically told you not to say a word during meals.

“She has heard nothing.”

“I did not ask you,” Maekar quipped.

“Have you heard anything?” Aerion tests you. “Speak if you have.”

You imagine answering him, and being punished with a breakfast plate being smashed over your head. You keeps your mouth shut.

“There,” your husband says. “She has heard nothing.”

Valarr scoffs. “Has anyone checked to see whether or not Lady (Y/N) still had her tongue? Or has he cut it out already-?”

Baelar makes a small tsking sound, and Valarr quiets.

Aerion straightens in his seat, his eyes narrowing the slightest on Valarr. “My cousin worries for you, (Y/N),” he tells you loudly. “Aren’t you lucky, to have the future king so concerned for your wellbeing?”

You try to take yourself out of your body. You clasp your hands together, and you try to think of how nice the day is outside. How the wind keeps it from being too hot. How the flowers are all in bloom-

“Show him there is nothing to worry about,” Aerion commands you. “Stick out your tongue for him to see.”

Your face flushes hot, eyes widening at the request.

“Go on,” Aerion says again. “Put his concern to rest.”

Surely, this was only a jest. Your husband would not make you stick your tongue out like some trained animal in front of his family?

Baelar sighs. “Aerion-”

“Valarr is worried, uncle, let us relieve him.” His hand falls to your knee, and he gives it a warning squeeze. “Stick your tongue out. Now.”

Everyone stares at you, even the servants.

Humiliation makes your hands shake. His hold tightens on your knee. Slowly, you part your lips.

“I did not say open your mouth,” Aerion says. “I told you to stick your tongue out. If not, he’ll accuse me of planting a false one.”

“That is enough,” Valarr tells him.

Aerion brings his hand higher to your thigh, and you feel a pinch on your leg.

There is no getting out of this. And you suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is mundane in terms of things Aerion could demand of you to do.

So you obey him. You stick your tongue out, keeping your eyes on the wall to try to suppress some of the humiliation.

You shut your mouth quickly when Aerion begins to laugh. “Satisfied, Valarr?”

You do not look at him, but his voice is softer now. “I did not ask for that.”

Aerion pushes out his chair. There is still laughter in his voice. “Come, (Y/N). We are done here.”

You rise from your seat as fast as you can. You follow after him, face still hot with embarrassment.

When you exit the dining hall, you see Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty standing near the exit. They follow behind you and Aerion as you leave.

Your husband walks with a new strut. He chuckles. “How utterly bashful he became. He should know better by now than to make comments about things that belong to me.”

As a woman, you should have not been offended anymore by being told you ‘belonged’ to someone. Yet, it still irked you. To belong to a man was one thing, to belong to this man was your greatest shame.

A sigh leaves his lips. “At least he decided to hold his outburst until after I was done eating. It’d be a shame if he continued day after day ruining our meals.”

He ruined the meal?

Of course.

Valarr Targaryen. The future king. He was the one who ruined the meal.

You walk under a shaded archway of the castle. You are relieved to be in the cold shadow of the building. You risk wiping the sweat off your brow. Aerion remains walking with a fast pace, and he is hard to keep up with.

When you round a corner, Aerion grabs you and pulls you to a stop.

You quickly shift around, looking for any of the Ashford guards. Aerion has ledged you in a spot that has none. Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty still trail along, but they linger further back as they notice Aerion has stopped.

Your whole body tenses as Aerion brings his hand up to cup your face.

What does he want? What the fuck does he want from you?

“You know that’s what he wanted, don’t you? He wanted to see you open your mouth on command, and that’s why I gave him what he wanted.”

You swallow. You give a quick, obedient nod.

“No,” he drawls beneath his breath. “You don’t see it the way I do. You think of him as the good son. The courageous heir to the throne.” His hand moves to grip your jaw. “He is not as innocent as he pretends. Best believe the only reason he thinks of your tongue is to picture it running up and down his cock-”

You rip yourself from his grip, disgust on your features.

Ha laughs again. “Don’t be so naive to think it false.”

You physically bite your tongue so hard it hurts.

He is quiet, as if waiting for you to say something. When you do not, he presses further. “Unless you know it to be true? And perhaps you find enjoyment in it?”

You grip your skirts in fists, and you glare at him. He waits again. But you know better now. You do not speak.

But is he unrelenting. As if he wants you to speak. Because he wants to correct you.

“It seems my whorish wife gets excited at the thought of other men stroking their cocks to the thought of her.” He notices the way you flinch at the brazen words. He worsens his behavior. “Next dinner, I should give them something to really look at. I should just order you to pull up your skirts and show them your cunt-”

You shove his chest away from you, disgust drenching you.

He breaks out with laughter. His laugh, which you hate most out of anything in the world, is what finally makes you snap.

“How dare you speak to me with such crudity?” you spit at him, unable to handle the seething rage you feel.

“Crudity.” The word amuses him. “My, my, how sensitive you are for someone that enjoys whipping naked women.”

You turn away from him sharply. “Ser Thenty, I wish to be escorted to my tent-”

Aerion grips your upper arm and yanks you back to him. He is still amused. “Settle, woman.”

“You are barbaric,” you spit at him.

A laugh. “Barbaric?”

“I am your wife,” you whisper in a hiss, trying to rip your arm from him. He does not let go.

“I am aware.”

Your rage seeps through your words. “Yet you debase me so openly.” Your fists open and close on the fabric of your skirt. “Is it not bad enough to have me humiliated in front of so many spectators in the city, you must do so in front of the royal family?”

“I forgot how much my cousin’s opinion mattered to you.”

Aerion is jealous of his cousin, you remind yourself.

So you taunt him with the things he envies.

“The opinion of the future king will always matter over yours-”

Aerion hits you so hard that you fly back against the stone wall, barely catching your balance on it. Pain hinders you as you clutch your cheek.

“That is your only warning,” Aerion says to you.

Your hair falls in front of your face. You let it stay so that you do not have to see him anymore.

You make a quick attempt to get to Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher, who stand at the end of the small courtyard, watching. You manage to stumble only a few steps towards him before Aerion’s finger grip around your arm.

“Barbaric,” he repeats. “You find your own husband barbaric. Do you know how barbarians behave?”

“Let me go,” you say, your voice feeling raw as you hold back the tears forming in your eyes from the stinging slap.

“I will show you what it means to be debased so publically,” he tells you. “So that next time you will be more appreciative of the husband you have.”

He yanks you towards the willow tree.

“Stop it,” you whisper. You try to pull back, grounding your feet in the dirt. “Aerion-”

He flings your body towards the tree.

Your blood freezes as you watch his hands fall to his belt, and he unfastens the buckle.

No.

No.

He did not mean to do that here.

He would not abuse your body here. In someone else’s home. In someone else’s courtyard.

He was more than barbaric. He was a barbaric, hateful, spoiled, evil bastard.

You take a quick step back as his belt is dropped to the ground, and he begins to unbottom his britches.

“Behind the tree,” he orders you.

You do not move.

“Or not,” he says. “Who am I to care if we have more onlookers?”

“This is the Ashford’s castle-”

“It all belongs to the Targaryens.”

Your hands are shaking again, and your eyes dart to a single guard you see up ahead. “They-They will not forget this disrespect if word of it reaches them.”

You could picture the gossip now. The uncontrollable Targaryen son fucked his wife publically in an Ashford courtyard.

His whorish wife, they would call you.

Your eyes sting as you imagine what else they will say. You look back at the guard. Will he watch?

“They will survive.”

“It will reach your father,” you tell him, flinching as he steps closer.

His voice remains uncaring as he unbuckles his top coat, carelessly letting the jacket fall to the ground. “Gods, whatever will I do if my father hears?”

This could not happen. Not out in the open. Not in such a beautiful place. “No, Aerion, this-this is unacceptable-”

“I know. It’s barbaric, isn’t it?” he taunted with another short laugh.

You are desperate as you call, “Ser Thenty!”

“They will wait behind the gate of the courtyard.” Aerion shoos them away. “Go. A husband requires privacy with his wife. You will wait beyond the gate.”

They obeyed. They both stepped on the other side of the stone wall as if you were not begging for help.

“Behind the tree. Now.”

“Okay,” you whisper, taking a cautious step back. “Okay. Okay.”

He nears you. You wait for him to come closer, and the moment he steps behind the tree with you, you dart out the small opening behind it. You force your feet against the ground and try to run to Ser Thenty.

Aerion snatches you fast, gripping your hair and yanking you back behind the treetrunm.

He is laughing still like he is having the time of his life. “How pitifully slow you are.” With a firm shove, you tumble to the ground. Aerion kneels over you. “The more noise you make, the more of an audience we will have-”

“Get off of me!” you scream at him.

You writhe on the ground, using all your strength to try to get out from under him. He pins your hands down with ease, and amusement covers his expression. “You can either give me your body, (Y/N), or I will take it. And believe me, I would have much fun in taking it.”

It was all just a game to him.

Your torture was a game to this horrid excuse of a man.

Fire burns in your veins. You spit in his face.

You hear half a laugh before you feel the blow to your face.

You shut your eyes tightly, the slap causing your head to spin.

Aerion’s hand moves down your legs, which you writhe and kick with all your might. He grabs your skirt and lifts it to your waist.

Aerion frees himself from his trousers, and with abruptness, and no thought to your dryness, he shoves himself into you.

The pain of the harsh intrusion causes you to cry out.

Your brain tries to shut itself down. Your mind tries to leave this place.

Your husband makes a low groan, his hands tightening on your dress, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

You should be protected. That is what Prince Baelor promised you. He said you would have a knight that protects you.

But Ser Thenty is useless.

You have no idea as to why he is not serving his purpose, so you flood your mind with ideas as to how to make him.

You can do nothing but scream. So you scream.

You open your mouth and scream as loud as you possibly, possibly can.

It works in the smallest of ways. It catches Aerion off guard, making him pull his face back. He reaches out and grabs a broken tree branch, snapping off the top, and shoving it against your lips to force you quiet.

An idea sparks immediately. Your hands flies out to feel the ground beside you. You find a different branch, smaller, but enough to grip onto.

You recall exactly where you stabbed Aerion nights prior. So you grab the small stick, and you jam it in the exact same spot.

“Ah!” Your husband hunches back. “You fucking whore-!”

You rip the stick from your mouth, and slam the pointed end against his face. You hit his cheekbone, and you see the blood as you shove him back from you.

Flipping over, you try to crawl out from under him. He grabs you, yanking you back to him. You reach for something new, and you find grab a rock this time. You turn and slam it against his forehead. You hope it kills him.

But he only hisses in pain, his hand finding your throat, squeezing it so hard you see stars. He lifts you up by the throat, and slams you back to the ground.

Your hand flies out again feeling for anything you can teach. Your luck reappears as you feel a large, fallen branch. It is almost too heavy to lift with one hand, but you are able. You bring it up and slam it against his face. Once. Twice. Three times.

He screams louder.

One hand still pins down your shoulder, so to get it off of you, you turn your head and bite his arm as hard as you can.

Aerion rips his hand away, and you force yourself out from under him. You snatch the large branch off the ground, and you slam it down to his body. Then again, and again.

You hear him laugh. A long, elated laugh. “I am going skin you alive, you stupid whore-”

You slam the branch down against his head. You scream as you do so.

Aerion catches your wrist, yanking you down and knocking you off your feet. It does not make you stop. You grab his hand, and bite his wrist once more, as hard as you can. When he rips it away, you raise the branch as high as you could and bring it down on his head.

You want him dead. You hit him again. You want him dead. And again. You want him dead and gone and burning in hell-

“Lady (Y/N)!”

The scream was so loud that your whole body jolts, your heart sinking to your stomach.

“Get off of him now!”

You flinch so violently the tree branch drops from your hands. You fly to your feet and whip around.

Ser Donnel of Duskendale stands with a face red with anger. “Get away from him, you stupid girl!”

Your body quivers as you grip onto your dress, patting yourself down and making sure you are not exposed. “Ser-Ser Donnel-”

“Step away from the Prince!”

You take fast steps away from your husband.

Aerion had been right, your screaming had eventually drawn a crowd. There are more than a dozen guards near the entrance of the courtyard now, Ser Donnel’s harsh command the only thing keeping them from entering.

Your body stays tense with panic, but a different kind now. You are no longer fearing for your safety, you are fearing your punishment.

They are going to punish you for this. Oh god, they were going to hurt you for this. You wanted to burst into tears.

“H-He was-” You gulped. “He was-”

“Quiet, woman!” Ser Donnel hollers at you. He kneels in front of your husband. “Prince Aerion, do you require a maester?”

A lazy smile formed on his face. “Not as much as I require my dagger. Hand it to me so that I am able to slice that bitch’s throat open.”

“Ser Donnel,” you choke, “I was only defending myself-”

“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps at you. “I just witnessed you beating the royal prince with a tree branch. Have you any fucking idea what this will cause for you?” He grabs hold of your husband. “Allow me to assist, my prince.”

He raises Aerion into his feet. Your husband sways, before resting an arm against the tree trunk, leaning over, and puking out red wine. Ser Donnel wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“He forced me behind the tree,” you try to say rapidly. “He-Ser Donnel-He was forcing himself on me, and-” You choke on your own panic. “He would not stop, I did not know what else to do.”

There is a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. You see his anger subside the smallest amount, but his voice stays stern. “Yet it is you who will face punishment for this.”

You fall apart, breaking down right then and there.

“Quiet,” the knight orders you.

Aerion wipes his mouth, but stays resting on the tree with his eyes shut, wincing as he places a hand over his torn stitches. “Shove a fistful of dirt in her mouth to silence her.”

You wish you had the speed to grab Ser Donnel’s sword and kill Aerion with it.

Tears stream down your face. “Please, do not tell his father,” you beg the knight.

Ser Donnel places a hand on your jaw, turning your head back and forth. “Prince Aerion caused these markings?”

You did not know what your face looked like, but you assumed the slap to the face, hitting the ground, and having branches shoved into your mouth did some visible damage.

You shake from your crying. “I beg of you. I beg of you, do not tell Prince Maekar.”

“Prince Aerion, what was the cause of this?”

“My wife is excited by bloodshed-”

“He is lying!” you say to Ser Donnel. “He is a bastardly liar-!”

Ser Donnel hisses, “Hold your tongue!”

You had been trying.

All day, you had been trying your absolute hardest to hold your tongue. You stuck out your tongue on command, in front of the soon to be king.

You tried to hold your tongue but Aerion wouldn’t let you.

He escalated and escalated and escalated and you wish you had the strength to have driven that stick into his skull.

“I must take you to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar at once.”

A sob escapes your throat. “No-”

“You have been warned about this,” Ser Donnel spits beneath his breath. “What did you think would happen?”

“He will not understand,” you cry.

“You will put yourself at Prince Maekar’s feet, and you will beg for his forgiveness.” Ser Donnell snaps. He gestures for the guards to move forward. “And if he is merciful, perhaps you can save yourself from the same fate you saw after your incident with Prince Daeron.”

The incident with Prince Daeron. Your body still shudders at the memory from your maiden years.

“No,” you say again. “Please. Aerion-” You suddenly grasp onto your husband’s hand. “Aerion, do not let your father hear about this.”

Aerion drags his hand over his mouth, and he catches a drop of blood that comes from a cut just above his mouth. “And why should I defend the whore who so viciously attacked me?”

“Please,” you cry again. “I am sorry. I will never dare do something like that again. Aerion-Aerion, I-” You search your mind for anything you think might trigger some form of sympathy.

You recall how calm Aerion was in his armor tent, how tender his words became when you massaged him.

So you force yourself forward, clinging to him, burying your face in his chest. “I beg for you to forgive me.”

You dare not look at his face. You keep your face against his chest, gripping his shirt like he is your hero rather than your tormentor.

“Do not let him force me inside, my prince. Please, I am sorry.”

There is a moment where you hear nothing, and you can only imagine Aerion is exchanging words with Ser Donnell through looks alone.

“Lady (Y/N) is my lawful property,” Aerion eventually speaks. “What she does is no business of my father.”

“Prince Aerion,” Ser Donnel urges. “I must warn you, he may hear about this through gossip either way. There are guards witnessing this, and they will tell tall tales if no disciple is given to her.”

“The disciple comes from me, not my father. She is mine, not his.”

You can feel Ser Donnel’s agitation. Yet he holds back any further comment besides, “Very well.”

“Come, (Y/N),” Aerion commands, pulling you away. “Let us return to our tent.”

You cannot bear to meet Ser Donnel’s eye. Aerion holds your upper arm, and he leads you out of the courtyard.

As you pass the entryway, your blood freezes as you see Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher waiting exactly on the other side of the archway.

Standing there.

As if nothing was happening.

As if they had not so clearly heard you screaming.

They begin to follow after you, as if nothing had happened.

*******************************************

You do not return to the Red Keep until the death of Lady Dyanna.

Your entire family makes the journey as soon as your father hears the news.

Never in your life had you seen a grown man weep until the day you arrive at the castle, and Prince Maekar greets you father with tears still in his eyes.

The Prince loved his wife. And your father loved your mother. You were raised with this belief-that husbands and wives loved each other. It was a kind thought in the cruel world.

“You will be on your best, most respectful behavior,” your mother told you all before the funeral. “The Targaryens are grieving. They should be met with empathy and compassion only. Does everyone understand?”

Your siblings were obedient. You tried to be too.

Yet, when your siblings were sent out to begin their walk to the funeral cathedral, you were the one held behind.

“It is very important to your father that you remain silent today,” your mother tells you with both hands on your shoulders. “Can you do this for him?”

“I do not speak out of turn,” you tell her.

“Yes, but...a proper girl must bite her tongue even when insulted. Do you understand?”

You did not. Yet, you replied, “Yes, mother.”

“Be respectful to the princes. Even Prince Daeron-”

“Prince Daeron is the one without respect-”

“(Y/N),” she criticized. “He lost his mother. The only words you should speak are condolences.”

“…Yes, mother.”

She gave a heavy sigh. “Go and behave. I believe in you.”

The funeral was a somber event. The princes lined the front of the building as people drawled on about the will and plan of the gods.

When it was time to leave, you followed after your siblings to the front of the building. “We will offer our sorrows,” your father tells you.

You walk along with your siblings, each of them offering condolences to the princes as they passed.

Maekar’s children are there, even the babies held by wet nurses. You divert your eyes as you pass the sons, as to not make eye contact with Daeron.

You stand next to your father as he passes his friend. “She was a beautiful, kind mother, Maekar. The kingdom will miss her.”

You do not know how it tumbles from your mouth, yet it does. Maekar stands so tall, so noble like. You are so young, you are not smart or well versed in how a kingdom works.

Stupidly, you try to console him by saying, “She would have been a well loved Queen-”

Your father’s hand clamps down on your shoulder, silencing you. “Forgive her,” he says quickly. “She is ignorant to titles.”

“All is well,” Maekar dismays. “She...would have done wonders as a queen.”

You are pulled away, and your father hisses, “What were you thinking? Maekar is a fourth son, he will never take the throne, his wife would have never been queen.”

“That is not certain-”

“Go to your mother,” he demands. “You will stay by her side for the entirety of the feast.”

“Why is there a feast?” you ask him. “You said the castle is in mourning-”

“Enough. Go with Ser Donnel,” your father commands you.

Ser Donnel, one of the guards from your home in Duskendale, was now a knight of the Red Keep. He was still loyal to House Darklyn and was the escort to your father during his visits.

“Little Lady (Y/N),” Ser Donnel greets you with a short laugh. “Your father has already warned me to keep my eye out for you.”

“Take her to the feast. Ensure she does not linger with any company,” your father commands him.

You are sent away with a knight like you are a criminal at risk of escape.

******************************************

What fucking use is he?

What use is that pathetic, empty-headed, cowardly, bastard of a knight.

There is rage in your eyes as you stare at Ser Thenty from across the room.

The feast was lively tonight. The first week of jousting had officially ended, and there was a city wide celebration thrown.

Aerion forced you along for it, despite your body aching from the earlier incident.

“You had been right not to involve my father,” Aerion had told you when the two of you got back to the tent. “He would have punished you publically. I will not.”

Aerion had settled on a…martial punishment.

It was brutal, but it was bearable. And you were grateful that he did not break any of your fingers as he so often threatened to.

You got off easier then you would have had Prince Maekar gotten involved.

“You were lucky for Ser Donnel arriving,” your husband told you. “I would have walked you back to the tent stripped naked had you hit me one more time.”

No, he wouldn’t have. That was something you were learning.

Aerion could not stand the thought of someone else seeing you naked. Your body belonged to him, and he wanted it to be only for him.

He would even force Ser Thenty to face the wall when he had his way with you.

Ser Thenty, who did nothing.

He was tasked to protect you, yet he would stand by and listen to you scream.

He would have allowed Aerion to continue to rape you right there in the courtyard. He heard you screaming and crying and begging for help, yet him and Madam Pricher stood by as if nothing happened.

You were wrong. Ser Thenty was not a good knight.

He was as evil as every other man.

You hated Ser Thenty.

You hated Madam Pricher.

You hated your husband.

You hated everyone at this feast.

Everyone was dancing and laughing like it was the time of their lives, and you were practically chained to your chair and living on the mercy of a tyrant.

You had nothing to look forward to. Nothing to keep you at peace.

Just...nothing.

Depression hits you with a numbness. You did not think, you only stared ahead, no thoughts in your mind. You sat empty headed and hoped you would die in the upcoming year.

You were numb to the point that when a cupbearer filled your cup with wine, you drank it.

And you kept drinking. You kept your cup to your lips, because it kept your husband from speaking to you.

Until Aerion suddenly snaps at you, “Slow down. You will be sick tonight if you continue that quickly. And I will not have patience with a sick woman.” He takes another chug of his own wine bottle, then wipes his face with his sleeve like an uncivilized child. “Pull yourself together or everyone will think low of you.”

Your insides twist. “They already think low of me for being your wife.”

“They would think low of you for being anyone’s wife, you do a horrible job at it.”

You stare blankly at the dancers that perform in the middle of the room. Aerion seems quite taken with them, yet part of you wonders if he only watches the women because he knows it get under your skin.

Aerion’s family sits far away from you two. You understand why. You take a moment to finally get a good look at Valarr, as you have never been able to before.

He is handsome, and perhaps that is why Aerion is so worried about you speaking to him.

Though, in another life, you would have found Aerion as the most handsome man in the world. But his attractiveness was ruined when he first opened his mouth.

Your eyes dart to Ser Thenty as he circles the room, before coming to Madam Pricher, who rests against the wall behind you.

“I will return in a moment, Madam Pricher,” you hear him tell her.

“Very well. Be swift.”

You glance behind you, and you see him leaving the feast hall.

Your anger blooms once more, spiking your heart rate.

“I feel as if I will vomit,” you tell Aerion.

“Hm.”

“I must step outside for air.”

“Convenient timing,” you hear him say, a hint of irritation in his tone. But your husband is angry about everything, always, so you do not care.

The room spins when you rise to your feet. You hold yourself still for a moment to make it stop.

You walk swiftly after Ser Thenty. He goes outside. In suspected privacy, he begins to lower his pants to urinate against the tree.

“Ser Thenty!”

He flinches, and quickly tucks himself away and recomposes himself. “Lady (Y/N), where is your chaperone?”

Anger bites in your voice, frustration deleting all your hesitation. “Is it not supposed to be you?” you accuse. “Were you not the one Prince Baelor charged with maintaining my safety?”

“What?” Ser Thenty fastens his pants as quickly as he can. “You should not be out here. Return to the feast inside.”

“What purpose do you have?” you drawl, the wine draining you of all common sense you had about decency. “What is the point of you following my husband and I if he is able to do whatever he pleases? Strike me whenever he pleases? Rape me whenever he pleases-”

“Lady (Y/N),” he cuts off sharply. “We are not meant to converse alone.”

“And you are not meant to witness my torture, you are meant to prevent it!”

“I apologize,” Ser Thenty tells you. “But there is little for me to do. Aerion is a Prince of the seven kingdoms. No matter my orders, I am forbidden from harming him.”

“So I was right in my doubt of you? You cannot do anything because you are a small, cowardly man?”

His tone loses patience. “You must return inside. We cannot be caught out here without a chaperone.”

You did not care for a chaperone. The wine gripped your heart and rid you of your common sense.

Your hand shoots out and you grab Ser Thenty, gripping his arm with a tight squeeze. “Are you not ashamed of yourself for this-?”

He shoves you, hard. So hard you stumble, your anger faltering as your mind reminds you this is a man capable of harming you.

“Do not touch me,” he snaps at you. “You know what your husband will do if he sees such a thing.”

“Of course I know what he will do! You are the one who ignores his actions-!”

“You are alive, Lady (Y/N). You are alive, without any broken bones. I am completing my duty.”

“You are a liar as much as a coward!” you scream. “You sat and did nothing as I called to you!”

“I would have went to you immediately if you were in actual distress, my Lady.”

Your heart spikes with blood curdling anger. “You walked away as my husband raped me!”

“He is your Lord husband,” Ser Thenty tells you. “A man cannot rape a woman that belongs to him.”

And there it was.

There was the answer right there, all along.

You do not get protection from a knight like a man would.

Because you are a woman, meaning you belong to someone.

Why would an object be valued over their owner?

Tears sting your eyes at the frustration of this life.

“You are a craven bastard!” you cry. “And I hope you are tortured in the pits of Hell for all you have allowed to be done to me!”

Heads are turning from the guards outside. More eyes have fallen on you too.

Ser Thenty appears flustered now, less bold under the attention.

“I am going back to the feast,” he tells you. “You should try to sober yourself. You are likely to upset your husband this night.”

You suddenly bend down, pick up a rock, and throw it at the coward.

Ser Thenty ducks it, his eyes widening.

You hear the insult he whispers. “Unrestful cunt.”

He leaves you alone with only the guards that pose along the tent.

You do not want to return inside. Inside is Hell. Outside is Hell. Everything is Hell.

So instead, you drop yourself on the ground with your back against the tree.

You hide your face, and you break down.

*******************************************

You pick at the food on your plate boredly as you watch the nobles dance their way around the hall. “Has a fourth son of a king ever become king himself?” you ask.

Ser Donnel stands beside your chair. He gives a nod as his eyes scan the room for trouble. “Aye. A few times in history. Though, is it not too common.”

“Could Prince Maekar be king one day?”

“It is possible. Though, not too likely.” He glances at you with curiosity. “For what reason do you ask?”

You lean back in your chair. “My father is angry that I told Prince Maekar his wife would’ve been a good Queen-”

“He told you not to speak,” came your sister’s voice from beside you. “You always have such stupid things to say-”

“Be silent,” you snap at her. “I am talking to my knight.”

“Your knight?”

You ignore her and say to Ser Donnel, “It would have been possible for Lady Dyanna to have been queen one day. And if she had been, she would have been well loved. What I said was not incorrect, why must I always be punished for speaking?”

“Because you don’t speak properly,” your sister tells you. “Mother says that is why they will have to arrange your marriage. You will never be courted because you are loud.”

“You will never be courted because you are nosy-”

“Girls, settle,” Ser Donnel chides. “We must keep respect on a day like this.”

“How is any of this respectful?” you ask. “People are drinking and laughing. They are meant to be crying.”

Your sister huffs. “You are still so very loud with your opinions-”

“Enough of you.” You push yourself to your feet. “I will be retiring for the night.”

“Your father requests you remain here until the feast is over,” Ser Donnel tells you.

You lean back in your chair with a heavy sigh.

“Prince Daeron is dancing,” your sister comments.

You say, “Prince Daeron is drunk-”

“(Y/N),” Ser Donnel chides again.

“He is stumbling,” you say. “He has stepped on his partner’s feet several times. She looks as if she is in pain from him. Should you not put a stop to it, Ser Donnel?”

“His mother has passed. Let him grieve how he needs to.”

A frown forms. You watch Prince Daeron, unimpressed.

Finally, the song ends and the girl he danced with rips herself from his grip and flees off the dance floor.

He is not able to find another partner by the time the next dance starts. So he returns to his table and slumps down in a chair beside his brother, Prince Aerion.

Prince Aerion is different then the others. There is a glare on his face as his eyes take in the events of the room. You wonder if he finds it all disrespectful as well.

His eyes continue to cross the room. Then, without warning, his eyes dart to you.

Heat rushes to your face and you quickly look away. You wonder if he noticed you staring. You risk a glance back, and see Prince Daeron whispering something to him. Both of them look at you. You quickly stare at the table, and try to convince yourself you did not see them.

But then the horrid unthinkable happens. You hear him.

Coming from your left, you hear his voice. “Lady (Y/N).”

Your head turns. Prince Daeron stands there, drunk as always, a smile too wide for his mother’s funeral feast.

“I was hoping to have that dance with you now.”

You look at Ser Donnel first, and it is clear this has caught even the knight off guard.

“Prince Daeron,” you slowly begin, “I am…still not well at dancing-”

“I do not mind.” He holds a hand out. “Shall we?”

His eyes are glazed over from drunkenness. You risk glancing at his shoes, which look heavy, and you imagine them stepping on your feet.

“I am very sorry, Prince Daeron, but my father has ordered me to stay seated-”

“Dance with the prince,” your sister urges you. Her voice drops to a whisper. “It is his mother’s funeral. Why are you being so cruel?”

You are jolted as Daeron puts a hand on your chair, pulling it out. “Exactly. It is my mother’s funeral. You would not reject me for a dance at this time, would you?”

“I-” Before a word gets out, he grabs your arm, and pulls you up out of your chair.

“Prince Daeron,” Ser Donnel speaks, “You appear unsteady.”

“I am perfectly alright.”

“I think it would be best if you took a break.”

“Your concern is noted.” Daeron’s hand remains on your arm. His head jerks towards the dancing. “Shall we?”

You do not know what to do.

So you try to think of what your father would advise. He would surely tell you to be respectful, and not to embarrass him.

Placing your hesitation to the side, you agree, “Perhaps you can accompany me for…one dance.”

As you are taken to the dance floor, you feel a sweeping nausea that you must suppress.

Daeron is an awful dancer. He refuses to use any proper dance moves, and he refuses to let you do any either. Instead, he pulls you into him. Your body hits his with a startled gasp, and his hands fall to your waist. He sways with you, though his swaying feels more like stumbling.

Your closeness is inappropriate. Your eyes dart around, fearing your father will see it.

At least those around you look sympathetic rather than judgmental. They know you do not want this dance.

“I have not seen you in so long,” Daeron says to you.

You turn your head as you speak, the alcohol on his breath almost too strong to bear. “My father prefers traveling on his own when he visits the Red Keep.”

“No,” he mumbles. A short shake of his head. “I have not…seen you. I saw you so often before. It’s as if you are…hiding from me now.”

You do not understand him, and you do not want to.

Moments pass without anything said.

“I am very sorry about your mother,” you tell him, because you do not know what else to say. “I cannot imagine your grief right now. I will pray that you are able to get through it.”

“Yes, my mother.” A light smile. “She would have made a very good queen.”

Your shoulders slouch, and you think he is mocking you.

Until he says, “One night, I saw my father on the throne with the King’s crown on his head. He did not believe me.”

It confuses you. “You…saw him?”

“Dreamt of him.”

You do not know what to reply to that, so you say nothing.

A larger smile rises to his lips. “You know, my brother-” He pauses, and laughs. He does not continue.

The music comes to an end. You try to take a step back from him. He does not let you.

“Once more,” he says.

It would embarrass your father if anyone saw you argue with Daeron, so you stayed where you were, and allowed him one more dance.

“You are ten and three now?” he asks you.

“Yes. Ten and three.”

“Have you become a woman yet?”

The question startles you. Your face flushes hot. “P-Pardon?”

“Have you bled yet? And entered womanhood?”

Yes. You began bleeding almost a full year prior to this. But it was not his place to know. You refuse to meet his eye. “No.”

“You would not lie to your Prince, would you?”

You glance around the room to try to see if your father is watching. “We mustn’t speak of such things.” Your voice wavers with your desperation to get away from him.

“Why not?”

You feel choked with embarrassment. “It-It is improper.”

Your eyes search for Ser Donnel.

“And what of maidenhood?” he asks. “Are you still a maiden? Or have the men in Duskendale already seen to that?”

You try to rip yourself from his hold. He holds you tight.

“That is an abhorrent, s-sinful thing to ask,” you tell him. “Let me go at-at once.”

“It is a simple question.”

He grips tightens on your waist so hard it makes you shout a panicked, “Ser Donnel!”

Heads begin to turn your way.

Daeron keeps a tight hold on you. “You needn’t be embarrassed. It is only a question-”

“Let go of me,” you try again, but with no resolve. You feel hot and unable to breathe.

He pulls you against him harder. “Take it as a compliment that your beauty has stirred such scandal among royal princes.”

“Please, let me go,” you have resorted to begging. “I do not wish to dance any longer.”

“He speaks as if he already owns you, can you believe that?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yet he mocks me for my behavior. He mocks me as if I do not have the power to ruin what he wants.”

His drunken ramblings mean nothing to you. “Please, my prince, my mother will worry if she-”

Daeron leans down, and he places his lips against yours.

A hard, painful, brute of a kiss. His face slams so hard against yours that the inside of your lip is cut from your own tooth.

You are struck with panic. Instinctively, you stomp your foot down onto his, you shove his chest away, and you slap him in the face as hard as you can.

The hall falls hauntingly quiet. The band has stopped playing, all conversations cease in an instant.

You have struck the King’s grandson, and everyone has seen it.

********************************************

“What has happened, Lady (Y/N), are you hurt?”

It is Ser Donnel that approaches you.

He has heard your cries from his post at the front of the feast, and he recognized them. Hearing you crying so often in your childhood, the tears ring as familiar as your voice.

You hide your face from him.

“Lady (Y/N), please, tell me. Has someone hurt you?”

“You know who hurts me,” you whisper.

“Do you require a maester?”

The words cause you to cry harder. “I require a divorce!”

“Lady-”

“I require a jousting accident that makes me a widow!”

“You should not say these things aloud,” Ser Donnel tells you.

“I do not care who hears!” you weep. You place your face in your hands and cry harder. “I wish for a window to jump out of and end my misery!”

A somber sigh leaves the knight. His hand falls on your shoulder. “The days will get easier, my lady.”

“No, they will not!” Your tears stream down your chin. “They get worse every day that passes! My husband ripped me from my home and forced me into marriage! Then he threw me into solitude for months! Now he has decided to use every waking minute to break my soul!”

You are so swept up in your emotions that for the first time in your life, you have no room to be embarrassed. You are a horrible wreck of a crying woman and you do not care.

“I am doing nothing but awaiting my death!” you scream with hot tears leaving your eyes. “I hate that evil man! I hate him! I-I-!” You cut yourself off by choking on your own son. You bury your face further in your hands. “I wish to never see his face again!”

Ser Donnel is silent. You cry beside him as if he was a confidant. You did know if he was, if anyone was, but you appreciated that he did not force you back to Aerion.

“I will write to your father,” he eventually tells you. “I will have a letter sent this very night, letting him know that there is…concern to be raised about your treatment. I will request his immediate visit to the Red Keep. He is sure to get there by the time we return from the tourney.”

“Aerion will have me dead by then,” you sob. “He will have sliced my throat and thrown my body to the wolves-”

“He will do no such thing, Lady (Y/N).”

“You have no idea what he is capable of.” You choke on your own tears. “He wants me dead, Ser Donnel. He wants to rip me to pieces and burn me to ashes.”

“He does not.”

“He despises me.” Your words are muffled. “And he wants every person to know it.”

“Have I not told you what he wants from you?” Ser Donnel asks. “He wants an obedient woman-”

“He does not!” You finally pull your hands from your face. “He riles me! You do not believe me, but he does! He wishes for me to speak out of turn because he wants to punish me in the most despicable ways!”

“Aerion was most insistent on your wedding. He would not go through such great lengths only to have you die by his hand.”

His words cause a stir in your body. They begin to sober you. “…What great lengths?” you whisper.

Ser Donnel seems to hesitate, as if unsure if he is spilling a secret.

“Aerion claims I was chosen by him,” you say. “But-My mother said it was his father who insisted on such a marriage between houses.”

“Prince Maekar, nor your father, would have ever wanted the houses bridged through Aerion.”

“What?” You do not understand, and the confusion makes your head ache even more. “Why-Why then was the marriage permitted?” Why were you given to that monster?

Ser Donnel glances towards the knights at the entry way. He lowers his voice. “…It was not permitted. Not by Prince Maekar, not by your father. Aerion went to his grandfather, the King, for permission.”

Your blood runs cold. “…The king?”

Ser Donnel seems uncomfortable now. “I fear I have said more than I should have.”

He stands, and you quickly reach out to grab his arm. “No. No, don’t go. Why did he go to the King-?”

“I have no authority to answer such questions,” he tells you.

“My life is on the line, Ser Donnel-”

“It is not,” he insists sternly. “Lady (Y/N), if your husband meant to kill you, do you think he would have spared you from facing his father after your violent actions against him this morning?”

“My violent actions were justified-”

“I have no doubt they were. He has always been a cruel boy, and I’m sure he wants you scared, but he does not want you dead. You will live through this. But be better about it.”

“What am I to do?” you ask him with a pitiful cry in your tone. “What will make him stop?”

“Perhaps obedience is not all he wants,” Ser Donnel tells you. “He is a jealous man, as I am sure you’re aware. He wants a good wife, but perhaps most of all a wife who knows she is his. Let yourself belong to him.”

Belong to him. Belong to Aerion. Is that not death itself?

Another long sigh from Ser Donnel. “I am sorry about this marriage, (Y/N). I warned your father about this. I told him that your sisters were the ones who were wifely, that you were the more troublesome. He had said himself that you were not meant for any marriage, with any man, especially not a man that is so…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “But it is done now. And I will ensure your father is made aware of your mistreatment.”

You stare at him, his words falling heavy on you. “…My father said I was not meant for marriage?”

He looked at you as if he pitied you. He probably did. “Do not lament over such things. Come, step inside. It is time to return to your husband before he notices your absence.”

*******************************************

Your mother holds you against her, pleading, “I will send her home immediately, my Prince. You will never see her here again.”

The hall is quiet, sounded by only harsh whispers that have spread through the room like fire.

“I apologize for her, she will be punished-”

Prince Maekar silences her. “Do not speak.”

Your body trembles, and your mother holds you tighter.

Maekar talks only to your father. “Your daughter has struck my son.”

“She will be punished for this greatly.”

“Mama,” you whisper, “He forced a kiss upon me-”

“Do not speak!” Your father shouts at you, his anger louder than Prince Maekar’s.

You hide your face in your mother’s dress.

Maekar’s voice is so cold it gives you shivers. “Your daughter has struck my son on the day of his mother’s funeral.”

Another man steps up to speak. You do not know, nor recognize him. “Perhaps this should be settled privately.”

“Perhaps not,” Maekar spits. “It was done publically.”

“She is a child, brother, and your son is not known for being gentle with girls.”

“The consequences of a woman striking a royal are stated clearly in the law book.”

Murmurs break out in the dining hall.

You’re confused by the voices jumping around. You keep your eyes shut tightly.

“Seven whippings.”

You hug your mother tighter. “I am sorry-”

“Shh,” she shushes.

“Please, my prince,” you hear your father say. “She is a stupid girl, but she is not a traitor to the crown. Give her a chance to correct this.”

There is more whispering done by your father and the prince, but you are too far to hear it.

Finally, Maekar announces, “A compromise has been made. She has the chance to bend the knee to Daeron. Here. Now. Bend the knee and ask for forgiveness.”

“(Y/N),” your mother whispers, pulling you away from her. “(Y/N), go to your father.”

You look around to see the crowded room stares directly at you. You walk to your father with shaky steps. Your eyes clouded with tears.

“Kneel down before Prince Daeron,” your father tells you. “Apologize for your sins and beg him for forgiveness.”

Your lips quiver. “Kneel?”

“Kneel.”

You finally lay eyes on Daeron again. He is slumped along a chair, but rises to his feet with a look of smugness. “Beg for forgiveness,” he says, “And maybe I will give it to you.”

The amount of people watching you makes you feel sick.

Your eyes return to your father. “...He was improper to me-”

“Kneel and apologize,” your father stresses through gritted teeth. “I will not ask again.”

Taking hold of your shoulder, he forcibly turns you and forces you towards Daeron.

“Kneel,” you are instructed again.

You stare at Daeron.

And suddenly, the worry you feel-you fear you feel-is replaced by nothing but complete and utter outrage.

How dare he?

How dare he rip you from your seat, force you against his body, ask about your womanhood, and force a kiss on you?

This drunken, perverted bastard disgraced you.

And you were meant to apologize to this fool?

You would not.

To apologize would mean to say you were wrong. He was wrong. He deserved more than a slap, and you will not claim you are sorry for it.

You whip back around to your father. “I will not bend the knee to him.”

Prince Maekar’s eyes grow wide with anger.

Your father spits, “Get on your knees-”

“He spoke of the most abhorrent things,” you announce. “He asked about my bleeding, and my maidenhood, and he forced a kiss upon me-”

“(Y/N)!”

“He forced his hands on me, and I will not apologize for defending myself against him!” you cried to your father. “He does not deserve any apology! I do!”

Maekar snaps at your father, “She will kneel, or she will be whipped.”

You speak before your father does, “Then I will be whipped!”

And so it was.

Maekar grants his friend the sole favor of allowing your father to whip you himself.

So right there, in the middle of the feast hall, in front of nearly every noble in the realm, you are bent over a table and whipped seven times.

*******************************************

Ser Donnel coaxes you to your feet. He leads you inside, ushering a nearby servant to wipe your eyes and fix your powdered face.

The servant returns you to your seat beside your captor.

“You were gone for a long time,” Aerion comments. His eyes are on the entertainment, but all his attention seems focused on you. “Where did you go?”

“I was only getting fresh air.”

“With whom?”

“Myself. And two guards.”

“Which guards?”

“I do not know the names. I did not speak to them.”

“You were out for so long without speaking?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” He snaps a finger in the air. “Madam Pricher.”

You feel a coldness as she steps forward. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”

“Who was my wife outside with?”

“I only needed a moment alone-“

“She followed Ser Thenty out, Prince Aerion.”

His eyes finally settled on you. “Did she now?”

The urge to begin weeping fell upon you again.

“Ser Thenty,” he all but snapped. “What business was so important you had to discuss it with my wife?”

The knight’s eyes dashed between the two of you. “She followed me outside, my prince. I did not ask for it. I corrected her immediately and excused myself, reminding her there should never be a time we are alone without a chaperone.”

Aerion’s hand moves towards you. You flinch, even though he merely places a gentle hand on your wrist. “You so often forget the rules I have placed for you.” His thumb brushes your skin. “What was so urgent that you needed to run after him like a whore left unpaid?”

You stared at the table in front of you, wishing you could sink into the floor.

“Answer me or I’ll beat it out of him.”

The threat of harm caused Ser Thenty to quickly say, “She felt I was not doing my job properly. I disregarded her and returned inside immediately.”

Disregarded.

That is exactly how you felt.

And it made you feel so cold.

But the chills truly hit your body when Ser Thenty added, without prompting, “Ser Donnel is the one she was out there with.”

Your heart skips a beat, your head snapping in his direction to stare at him with widened eyes.

“There were other guards nearby, but they were sitting out of range of being heard,” he continued. “I do not know what they conversed about.”

You stare up at Ser Thenty with eyes of horrific betrayal.

He has thrown you to the wolves to save himself.

You watch as your husband’s eyes darken. You try to quickly tell him, “He was only consoling my distraught mood-” You hiss in pain as Aerion’s hand snakes up the back of your head, tugging tightly on your hair.

His thumb brushes the back of your ear, his fingernail pushing deep against the skin. “And what secrets were being whispered into my wife’s ear by dear Ser Donnel?”

“There were no secrets-” You flinch, your mouth shutting as you feel the sliver of something sharp on your skin.

Your husband’s dinner knife. It is in his hand, pressed against the back of your ear. Your hands fly to push him arm away. “Aerion-”

“Place your hands on the table. If you cause a scene, you will not like the outcome you find.”

Your hands are trembling now, yet you force them flat against the table. You look around, desperate for someone to have noticed already, but it seems nobody has.

“Shall I take an ear?” Aerion taunts you. “To punish you for continuously not listening?”

You shut your eyes tightly. “Nothing was done, the-the guards can vouch for me,” you quickly spudder out.

He gives a short, unconvinced, “Hm.”

Your whole body flinches as you feel the sting of a small cut against the back of your ear. Your hand flies out instinctively to try to push him away, “Aerion-”

“Hands flat on the table.”

You force yourself to do so. But he presses harder. Your eyes sting with tears from the sharp pain.

Aerion leans forward, his face painstakingly calm. He brings his lips to your ear. “Was I not the one who saved you from Ser Donnel’s wrath just this morning?” he asks you. His voice mimics being emotionless, yet...something was there. You could hear something in that tone, whether it was jealousy or hatred, you did not know. “He would have ripped you from my hands and delivered you to my father to be whipped.”

You try, once, to get out of the situation. “Ser Thenty, he is hurting me-”

He presses the knife harder. A sharp cry leaves your lips. It turns a few heads of those sitting beside you. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. The small batch of blood you felt now becomes a trickle down your neck.

“You think he wants to spare you from this?” Aerion scoffs. “Do you think Ser Thenty does not see what a disrespectful cunt you are?”

“I am sorry.” You do not know what else to say.

You feel defeated by this world.

There is no more fight left in your body, it is just...pain. It is always pain, and it will always be this way.

The tears in your eyes begin to spill over.

“I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”

That is all you do anymore. Beg for forgiveness.

Your stomach churns with how sick you are of all of this.

“I-I did not call on Ser Donnel.” You try to keep your voice quiet and even. “He saw me in distress, because I was weeping. That is all. We spoke of my father. I-” The blood trickles down to your shoulder. “I would never call on him.”

His hold on you barely loosens. “You will repeat every word that was said when we return to the tent.”

“I will. I will repeat every word.” You are desperate for relief of this pain, so your hand moves to his thigh, and you clutch the material of his trousers. “I am sorry, husband, I did not mean to disrespect you, I-I know better. Forgive me.”

He is quiet a moment, but he finally pulls his hand away, the knife leaving with it. You shudder a long breath of relief.

He places a napkin in your hand, and pushes it against your ear. “Pull yourself together. The tears make you look so ugly.”

You hope you bleed out and die.

The edge of Aerion’s knife is coated in your blood, and it has dripped down to his wrist. He brings the knife to his mouth. You feel sick as you watch him draw the knife along his tongue, ingesting the crimson red until it is gone.

“Go clean yourself off,” he tells you. “The tears and blood will be gone when you return.”

You swallow. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”

You push out the chair quickly.

When you turn around, you see those two bastards just staring at you.

Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher watch you like nothing has happened. As if they were not your protectors that have been carelessly witnessing your torture.

A rage builds in your soul and you are unable to swallow it down.

You have been held hostage by your husband, living only by his mercy. And this pitiful excuse of a knight seems to think you deserve it? That it is your role of wife, that being beaten without complaint is you staying in your place?

Perhaps Ser Thenty would see his sins for what they were if he were the one forced to survive Aerion’s rage.

He threw you to the wolves. Did he not deserve for the same to be done to him?

“Ser Thenty,” you announce. There is an expression of guilt on his face. But you have seen enough guilt. That will not save him now. “You have failed me.”

His shoulders slouch. You hear the slightest chuckle from Aerion.

You wish to wipe that smile off your husband’s face with violence. But you have no violence that will harm him.

So you aim to harm that pathetic heart of his.

You steady your breath, your hand still holding the napkin to your ear.

“But you are my favorite knight,” you say. “So I forgive you.”

Ser Thenty’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. You can see your husband’s head turn to stare directly at you now.

With Aerion’s eyes on you, you take a step toward Ser Thenty, you raise yourself higher, and you place a kiss on his cheek.

The squealing of Aerion’s chair is so instant and loud it makes you flinch away.

Then you flee. You take off out of the dining hall, walking quickly down the hall as the door shut behind you.

Suddenly, there is screaming. More than one person screaming.

You heard Madam Pricher’s voice. “Prince Aerion! Prince Aerion, please-”

There is commotion so loud that all you make out is more screaming. Then the door slams open again, and billowing footsteps follow as guests storm out of the hall.

People are leaving-no, evacuating.

You walk fast, but there are people running now. They hit your shoulders as the crowd begins passing you.

One hand still covers your ear with a napkin. As the screaming grows louder, you raise your other hand, and you cover both ears.

********************************************

Three knocks sounded off against the wooden chamber door. 

Aerion would have been annoyed at the sudden interruption, if it wasn't for the amusing reaction of your panicked state. Your eyes had grown wide, lips parted in shock as your hands unconsciously come up to quickly fist his shirt before traveling to his hands, hurriedly pulling at the entertained princeling in attempts to get him up from the bed and behind the privacy screen. 

The main thing he noted was your hands, what others would never consider to do, you'd done it in less than a thought. You had never initiated touch first and the mere action left his speechless.

He kept forgetting about your temporary lapse in sense—forced to understand why you were panicked at the thought of being caught alone with your husband. Nonetheless, he humored you and let you drag his body behind the divider with a chuckle. The walls of the Red Keep were the only witness to Aerion's sudden compliance when your finger unconsciously traveled up to his smile, the cool touch smooth against his lips to shush his unspoken words. His smile turns to a serious frown as you pull away and walk toward the door, not seeing the way his eyes traveled up and down your backside. 

He could look all he wanted—you were his wife. His deluded wife.

Finally pulling his gaze away, his eyes find the tossed dress you wore earlier in the day, fingers gripping the blue fabric in distaste as he listens to someone enter. It should be red, was all he could think over the hushed tones coming from the door. The interaction lasts for a moment longer than necessary before the door shut and he strolled out to find you standing near the hearth, picking underneath your fingers with a far off expression he had come to dislike.

He called your name once, only earning a low hum of inattentiveness before he marched forward and stood just before you. You finally knock back to the present at his proximity, forcing a polite smile you had learned to maintain decorum. 

Just like that, the small moment you had come alive was gone.

Aerion's anger was quick, fingers suddenly grasping your face tight as he angled your stare upright and into his violent one. Before he could speak a word, another set of knocks sounded off just behind him. Rage bristled Aerion's frame as he turned to the door—ready to throw the wooden slab open and demand everyone within the keep to leave—only to stop with his hand at the handle, your hands simple touch on his skin calming him. You pull open the door, trapping him just behind in utter disbelief, as you grab the tray the maid brought and urge her to close the door behind you. With the swing close, Aerion appeared from the shadows with a scowl as you made your way deeper into the room. 

You hear him follow behind, no doubt stewing in his wrath, before you settle the tray on the table. Aerion doesn't hide his confusion at the sight of a cup, a flagon and a small dish of orange hard candies—he was most surprised when you began to serve a cup that poured out red instead of clear. 

A flash of your shared wedding night slipped into his mind at the sight of you pouring a cup with shaky hands, the memories may have left you but the person you were remained. That night being the first time the two of you were alone together—Aerion would never forget the way you kept glancing up at him, the whisper of your lashes fluttering against your wet cheeks as you mumbled your promises to be a good wife then calling him 'my prince' as he laid himself into you with a definitive thrust.

It seems too long since he's heard you say that to him.

Aerion blinked back the memory, focusing back onto your hands that now plopped a single candy into your mouth before you offered the drink to him with a small voice. "You were interrupted and I could tell you were getting a little…tense, your grace"

He gave you a puzzled expression as you offered him the drink once more, his hand slowly reaching forward and grabbing the cup. Your fingertips linger on the stem, ensuring his slack hand had grasped the cup correctly, only to pause as his fingers cover yours. Aerion could feel it, the fingers beneath his own flexing before letting go, leaving him to grab the drink before it fell while you turn back to the table.

"You mentioned you were to depart to Summerhall, is that right your grace?" you ask, busying your body with tidying as you send him a polite smile over your shoulder. You don't give him a chance to speak before you continued. "It's odd that you depart so soon since my brother arrives in three days time with my sister"

Aerion scoffs, taking one gulp of his drink before slamming the chalice down onto the table with a thud, sloshing a little bit of liquid onto the mahogany. You jump at the sound and watch as his face twists into unrestrained outrage. "You have truly lost all sense— why would you be here? If your sister was meant to be my bride, why would you be here?!"

A frown greets the prince as you explain, "Your uncle and Maester Robynn informed me that I was sent here before my sister to help get things ready for the princess to be— settling her chambers and preferences—being that I am her closest friend and family member. Apparently my fall caused more lapses in my memory than they thought because I believed my sister arrived before me" 

"Your fall?" he asked, skepticism clear in his tone. His face pinched tight in strained frustration as he watched you step away and continue. "Yes, I was told I was prepping my sisters' chambers when I slipped and fell down the stairs"

Your answer only makes him spin around and curse his uncle before vowing to have the maester sent to the wall. He doesn't say anything else as he grabbed the drink off the table harshly, letting out a deep sigh before drinking down the rest of the cup. Aerion placed the cup on the table, licking his teeth before settling his gaze on you, which you misinterpret. You move forward and reach for the cup to refill it while ignoring his fierce stare. You pour again and hand it to him, offering a meek smile without looking at his face, turning back to the task at hand.

His stopped midway of bringing it to his lips, his eyes finding your body back at the table, cleaning his spill, when a sudden though pops into his head. "I don't get one?"

"Your grace?" you ask turning, eyes following his head jutting toward the small tray of hard candies by your side. "Oh," you grab the small bowl and keep it to your chest. "I take these to help with sleep, I'm told too many can make ones senses hinder so—"

"—so give me one and be done with it" he cut off, voice growing more irate by the second. 

Not wanting to anger the prince, you pluck a small candy from the tray and outstretch your hand and to dangle the piece on the edge of your fingers. He shook his head and licked his lips before gesturing you to come closer. 

"Too many of these can hinder my senses?" he asked, playfully shaking his body as if in fear while cocking his brow at your approaching fingers that lingered in the air, the orange candy distracting him from what he originally came for. You nod and go to put the candy back into the cup when he tuts and opens his mouth. His unoccupied hand comes out to your waist and brings you closer, ignoring the way your eyes widened or how your feet dragged. He finds joy in your thwarted expression, sticking out his tongue while wiggling his eyebrows with a tightened grip on your waist.

You are quick to push the candy into his mouth, trying and failing to avoid his tongue that flicked out against your skin. The warmth from his tongue had you jolt back and avoid his lust-filled eyes. You clear your throat before finally gaining the courage to speak. "Did you need anything else, your grace?"

He stayed quiet while letting out a low chuckle, looking you over and sipping on his wine. 

A loud crunch snapped through the room, the candied sweet now in smithereens in Aerion's mouth. "Summerhall." he said curtly, biting down once more with a tense jaw. "You seem to think these candies have 'hindered my senses' as much as yours were when you woke weeks ago"

You open your mouth but he cuts you off, waving his hand to silence you. "You mentioned being sent here to help settle your sister— well then, you are to settle things for your sister. In Summerhall."

Aerion watched as you fumbled with the candy dish, his own body coming toward you despite the sluggish feeling that enveloped his muscles. He reached forward and plucked the tray from your grip and placed it beside his cup on the tabletop. He could feel his body burning as he breathed in, your chambers being a nest of your essence as he looked you over, a sudden drunk-ish feeling filling him up. 

He couldn't help but notice your eyes, wide with suspicion. Part of him had the idea to knock you upside the head to get you to remember him, but after the countless hours of waiting to see if you would live—it awoke something within him. Now what he spoke in the sept had echoed loudly in his head, his half-hearted vows now full of weight since the sight of your vacant look when you asked him who he was. 

It didn't matter now— all that mattered was that he had you once more and nothing would take that away, not even you. 

He let out a small sigh as he smiled down at you, hand coming up to brush your hair from your face. You can't hide your disbelief as he gives you a mock pout to match your own, his plump lips fighting back a smile as his thumb rubs your cheekbones. Aerion's eyes become a little heavy, low-lidded as they try focusing on your face. His lips pursed as he squinted at you, slowly slouching forward with a stumble into your frame.Your hands fly up to catch him while he let out a husky laugh and mumbled oops. His arms come around your waist, securing himself upright before he spun and sent the two of you toppling toward the bed.He managed to land onto his back, arms coming to lock around your waist as he landed with a small grunt onto the mattress. Your face is now a breath away from his and you remain there despite your attempts to free yourself.

"I need my wife by my side," he mumbled, eyes scanning your face as he kept one hand locked around you while the other came to poke at your furrowed brow.

"Your Grace, I—"

"—My prince," he cut you off, whispering and bringing his thumb to your bottom lip. "Just say it once" 

You almost do it, answer his plea with just two words. His eyes had filled with a look of longing enough to make you gasp at the vulnerability you'd never seen before from him. It leaves you still as Aerion's hands come to brush against your face as he muttered little nothing's, pleased with your gentle presence as he settled himself deeper into the sheets. 

Then you hear what he had been stuttering over and over. My bird.

The nickname punched a hole in your chest, gasping and leaving you to pull away harder until you are finally free and standing over him. Aerion's head had fallen back to onto your pillow, no longer mumbling as he gazed up at you with an unreadable look from the bed. The two of you stare at another for a long moment of silence until Aerion huffed out a wistful sigh, eyes blinking to a close when he finally spoke. 

"Maybe it is best you don't remember"

The silence that followed had no effect in calming your over-beating heart, keeping the steady rise and fall of Aerion's chest in your sights as you stood a foot away from the bod on your mattress. It's a few minutes before you are able to pull your eyes away from him and toward the door you had desperately wanted to escape through. You had come up with a million different ways to approach the usually creaky door, not able to find the one that had no noise. 

You had half a mind when you asked for your regular sedative, the small candy the maesters made for your aversion to milk of the poppy, it worked just the same only went down easier. You had originally wanted to take one, enough to get him to see you needed to sleep but then he demanded one of his own. Maester Robynn explained the potency of each candy, one being enough to get your pain down while causing severe sedation and loss of consciousness and two would leave you out for more than a day. 

He had to be out for more than a few hours… maybe you could make it out before he would be the wiser.

Feeling the starting effects of your medicine, you begin to head to the door when Aerion's warm hand reached out as you passed and gripped your hand as tight as the day you woke. He mumbled and groaned before pulling you over him and onto the bed, nestling you beneath his body. His head comes to rest on top of your head while his large hand is sprawled out over your belly. Aerion's lips brushed the top of your head, his deep breath shushing your struggles as he settles you down until you both are quietly breathing in each others scent. 

You decide to wait for him to fall back asleep to make your escape but before you know it, your breathing had matched his own and you were lulled to sleep alongside Aerion.

────────────

Your sleep is disrupted with a ticklish feeling along your brow, the light tracing followed until it reached your cheekbone and stopped when you twitched. You settle after a few moments only to feel warm fingers caressing your arm, smooth skin brushing your own. You let out a hum and lean closer to the warmth until you hear a small chuckle come from above you. With one eye open, you lean back and look upon Aerion's serene expression, his hair was mussed and in all directions.

You say nothing as you pull yourself upright to sit, keeping your eyes on Aerion's pleased expression as he adjusts in his spot. You never considered the infamous prince to be a morning person but at the sight of his smile, you learn to never take things for their appearances. 

"Your grace, my apologies," you mumble, voice cracking until he hands you a cup of water from the bedside table. Your eyes remain on the cup as you drink, panicking at the thought of anyone knowing Aerion was in your chambers. He must've noted your expression because he explained calling his knight to bring the refreshments before being told to leave. You settle into your spot and let the morning sleepiness fade, through it all Aerion remained at your side with nothing to be said. It becomes unbearable, the silence eating through you more than the stare Aerion gave at your side. You finish off the cup and move to stand when he suddenly speaks. 

"A knock came at your door this morning" his words have you freeze, trying to process his reaction as well as your own, you remain silent—the safest option—and wait for him to continue.

"It seems," he started by grabbing the empty cup from your hands and placing it on the bedside. "My new brother has arrived this morning" He came to face you, his eyes remained fixed on your face. 

He was waiting for a reaction at the news of your brothers arrival to Kings Landing days before he was supposed to. 

He sees surprise register in your eyes before he pats your free hands, clutching them under his palm. He stays like that for a moment before he stood and turned to you. "Dress, we can both go down to greet him" 

He gestured toward your screened divider, making a dramatic show of throwing himself onto the bed and throwing his arm over his eyes when you protested at his presence. He mumbled something under his breath when you continued and finally got up and walked to the door. He stopped at the handle and turned to look at you, a deep look on his face before he stepped out of the room. When the door clicked to a close, you allow your mask to slip and your body slips into a cold sweat. 

Maekar had said to be at the ready and you ended up sleeping with his son. 

You give yourself a few seconds before you rush for your bag, stuffing it with items of importance. You fill it with just enough things that you needed before walking over to your privacy screen and begin looking through your trunks of clothing only to stop at the sight of a single black and red dress intermingled but delicately folded within your dresses. It's design was worthy of a princess and the embroidery was beyond what you could imagine, but this was not your dress.

You hold up the dress between your fingers, dangling the fabric in the air as you admire it before settling it back down. It felt like a trap. You retreat, deciding to play it safe and wear what you wore already. You made your way to the door and open it only to stop at Aerion's bored expression leaning against the wall just opposite of your bedroom, a knight by his side and at the ready. At your arrival, the other man greeted you by bowing while Aerion's bored expression was replaced with a frown at the sight of you. 

"Is something amiss, your highness?" you hesitantly ask, not liking his approaching figure that glanced between you and the room behind you. He shook his head and offered his arm to you, still clothed in his dressings from the previous night. Deciding to play it safe, you grab onto his arm, grasping your light blue gown and make your way toward the dining hall. 

Before entering the main corridor that lead toward the dining room, you are quick to pull away from Aerion and walk forward a few paces with your head looking forward. You can hear him mutter a curse, the profanity so low you let it go and approach the doors and wait for your announcement of arrival.

The second the doors opened and you spotted the familiar silhouette of your brother, your body had thrown itself forward and into his expecting embrace. You couldn't hear anything over the sound of your crying as you tightened your arms around his tall frame. He didn't say anything to soothe you but you could feel it in his hold that he had missed you . The reunion is cut short when a throat clearing off to your side calls your attention and you face Baelor Targaryen who wore that all too familiar everything-is-okay smile. You try to regain your composure to which he insists to give you two a moment and clears the room.

You keep your head low until the room is slowly cleared of a certain lingering princeling who finally relented in his refusal to depart. The room grew quiet once the door closed and all that was left was the silence between you two as you embraced once more. After another round of cries, your elder brother shushed you with news.

"You've come just as Prince Baelor had brought me up to the recent events," he said. Grasping your hand, he brought you to a chair and sat you down, and delivered news you hadn't expected.

────────────

In his solar, Baelor Targaryen raised his voice to his younger brother while his nephew watched just as enraged. "You went behind my back, that would be considered treason to others!"

Maekar remained ever poised. "Treason? I agreed to your suggestions to send the girl home!"

"Send her home to recover—not this misconstrued nonsense of annulling their marriage—did you know this?" Baelor glanced at his nephew whose jaw tightened with a glare fixed toward his father. He spoke up before the young prince could. "Not only was a raven sent in secrecy but now her brother arrives to collect her in an unmarked carriage? You've outdone yourself brother" 

Baelor couldn't believe the underhanded attempt Maekar had attempted. Aerion said nothing as his father spoke with his brother, his entire mind was catching up to the information. His own father—behind his back— had attempted to take what he had given his devotion to.

Baelor silenced the disagreement with a simple wave of his hand and looked between the two starry-blonde men and gave them both a look of disappointment. One was a schemer annulling a marriage while the other may have possibly thrown his wife down a few steps. 

The Targaryen madness came in many forms of inane.

"It doesn't matter," he professed to the room. "The decisions been made and it is final"

Baelor looks between the two, noting the way Aerion's eyes were wild while Maekar kept his expression stoic— but Baelor knew his brother. 

He knew the reason Maekar tried to get rid of you was for your safety and the secrecy was to ensure Aerion wouldn't get upset as he was known to. Many wondered when the princeling had shifted to such harsh attitudes but to Baelor it was obviously after his mother's passing. He was young when it happened and it reflected in his relationships with his siblings. 

Aerion shifted under his uncle's intense stare before he finally spoke up, "Well?"

Baelor took a deep breath, leaning back into his chair before looking between the two.

"The marriage between you two has not been annulled but she is to be sent home until she has shown signs of recovery—they leave as soon as all her items have been gathered and she is ready to depart"

The second Baelor finished his statement, Aerion had flown out of the room in rage and rushed back to the room he had left you in. When he didn't find you there, he rushed to your room that had nothing but servants tidying up and resettling the room, his anger quick to dismiss them from the premises. His name is called from behind him, he registered one as his father while the other was his uncle—but he was still stalking into other rooms you frequented. 

He is pulled to a stop by a large hand on his shoulder belonging to his father who held a regretful frown. "Aerion—"

"No." he snapped, pushing his father's hand away. 

He knew what his father would say, he just didn't wouldn't accept it. You were gone—without a word—and he could do nothing but accept it? Wrong. 

Baelor arrived just behind Maekar, knights stationed on either side of the Hand of the King. He stood between father and son, gesturing the knights to take a step back, before he spoke. "I understand your anger Aerion," he said calmly despite the hard anger behind the young prince's eyes. "We must give it time—there is to be a tournament, in Ashford. Give it until then—maybe you could visit" he reasoned, voice going down a tilt.

Aerion shook his head at both of his supposed family members and pushed past them, heading to the room you occupied for weeks for a lingering sliver of you. This continued until he was forced out of the room and onto his steed to head toward Ashford.

note: tysm for all the support on little bluebird! 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯♡ ⤷ if you'd like to be added to the taglist, let me know in comment ˎˊ˗ ⤷ next part here!

“Her. Right over there. Can you not recognize her?”

You pretend not to notice the man pointing your way.

“That’s the wife of Aerion the Monstrous.”

The way they speak your husband’s name sends shivers down your spine.

“The vile bastard. How dare she comes here.”

You continue your way down the crowded street. The royal guards surround you, forcing a path forward and keeping pedestrians at a distance.

The guards are enough to draw the attention of those you pass by. The Royal emblem they wear makes all the stares become hateful.

You hear a scoff. “The nerve of these royals. How dare she walk through this town after all the blood spilt by the vile Targaryens.”

You try to pick up your pace. It is difficult with the guards blocking your way.

Another man further back mentions, “The Ashfords welcomed this barbaric family with honor. I would rather see them hung in the streets-”

He was hushed quickly by a woman nearby, warning, “Shh. They could hang you for saying such a thing.”

You ignore the prickles of fear that encompass you as you are escorted past angry citizens. You were granted temporary freedom, and this time, you would not take it for granted.

“Go to the market. Buy new bathing oils. Something that smells sweet. I despise that floral scent they keep putting on you.”

You repeated the command in your head, over and over, so that you wouldn’t forget it.

“Have yourself prepared for me by this evening. I have already told you I dislike braids in your hair. Fix it by the time I arrive.”

You take out your braids as you walk, letting your hair fall down your back.

Nearing the market, the street becomes even more crowded. More eyes cast your way.

Whispers follow you as you go. It should not bother you to be talked about so often. You should be used to it, seeing as you are a royal now. But even with a royal title, you still have the same sensitivity that you were born with.

Growing up, your mother always chided you for being so soft and easily angered. One of the many reasons she was so terrified for you to be married to a man who was just as angry.

There is giggling laughter trailing behind you. You glance in that direction. A woman stares at you. Your face burns red, yet you do not know why. It makes you feel weak to be getting this riled up by what others do.

“You will stay here,” you command the soldiers once you reach the busier area. “Just outside the market tent.”

“We must stay by your side,” one informs you.

You do not want that. People will continue to stare and point. You feel so small under their pointing.

“It is dangerous for me to go through the crowd with guards,” you try to say. “They will assume me rich and try to rob me. Stay here, where you can keep an eye on me, but you are not to follow unless I need help.”

“I am afraid that is not possible. We must stay by your side.”

You try not to show weakness. Men always tried to push their control when you showed weakness.

Aerion’s words return to your mind. ‘You are a Targaryen now. A commoner’s word will never outweigh yours.’

A knight was not a commoner, but you tried anyway. “You will stay here. It is an order.”

“Lady (Y/N), with all due respect-”

“My husband is very insistent on me having privacy for my shopping,” you say to him. “If you have an issue with it, then perhaps you should find him and ask him about it.”

The knight goes quiet. A burst of satisfaction rolls through you.

They would never dare seek out Aerion and you know it.

They are scared of him. It is so…different to use someone’s fear against them. You are so used to fear only being used against you.

You like it, you realize. You like that these men, the ones who left you alone in the tent at Aerion’s mercy, have suddenly been placed at your mercy.

“Line the tent,” you command them. “Do not enter unless I permit it.”

“Yes, Lady (Y/N). As you wish.”

You’re even more satisfied, relishing in the power you never knew you had.

The guards line themselves by the entrance. You pull your scarf over your head and enter the tent.

Your hair and head garment hide your face. You made sure to not wear any Targaryen colors.

You try to muddle yourself in the crowd. After a few moments, you seem to blend in, no one turning your way any longer

It’s not as if anybody knows you. They know drawings they’ve seen of you with your husband. Without the guards, you were sure you were nobody to these people.

The first thing you do in the market is buy what Aerion has ordered you to buy.

New bathing oils. Sweet ones that remind you of warmth.

The market is hot and humid. The thought of another bath excites you.

“The oils can go in the ends of your hair as well,” the sales woman tells you. “Would you like a hairbrush to go with it? We sell ones that hold the oil longer.”

“Yes,” you say. You browse the booth without a care. “These ribbons as well.”

You do not care how much it costs. You hope you spend all his money. You hope you spend so much that his father chides him about his spending habits.

Glancing at the end of the market, you can see the guards staring inside. They are far too far to hear you.

“Have you been...watching the tourney?” You curse yourself for sounding so nervous. It was a simple question.

“A bit. My husband is more interested in it than I am.”

“Does he know any of the knights?”

“A few.”

“Does he perhaps know a…” You pause your words, wondering whether or not this saleswoman has a loose tongue. Probably. All salespeople do. Yet you ask anyway, “…Ser Duncan the Tall?”

“Never heard the name in my life.”

Your spirits drop. And once again you find yourself wondering why this stranger of a man is controlling your mood so dramatically.

“Just these items then,” you tell her, a lower pitch in your voice.

You pay the woman, and she begins wrapping your purchases for you.

“Did you say you were looking for Ser Duncan?” a voice calls out.

A scandalously dressed red-haired woman nears you, a basket slung on her hip. She picks up an object from in front of you, eyeing it, before carelessly dropping it back into the pile.

“The tall one?” she continues. “Big oaf of a fella? Goes by Dunk?”

Your eyes light up, and you finally find some proof he is still real. “Yes. That is the one.”

She laughs. “Whatcha wantin’ him for?”

The sound of laughter prickles at your survival instincts. Laughter is always followed by violence with Aerion.

You are careful, reminding yourself that no one in this city is to be trusted. “I was only wondering which day he will joust.”

She lets out a humored snort. “Probably never. That one’s still beggin’ to get on the lists.”

A frown forms on your face. “He’s not signed up yet? The tourney is half over.”

“He says his knighthood wasn’t properly filed or somethin’ of the sort. He’s not recognized by the castle yet.” She shrugs. “He could just be sayin’ that, I suppose. Not the first man to lie about being a knight.”

“He does not seem like a liar to me.”

You defended him too quickly, and she notices. The woman’s expression changes. She glances over you, and you see her eyes pause on the clothes you try to keep covered with your scarf. “You’re right. He don’t.” She leans against a wooden table, not caring about the fruit she leans on. “You don’t look like you’d know him. You look a little too...posh to hold that man’s company.”

Her eyes continue to devour your appearance, as if trying to match you to a memory.

A scenario enters your mind, one where she may see you by Aerion’s side one day and recognize you. If she did, she may sell information about you, spread gossip that you are fancying some hedge knight. You tilt your head down. “I was only asking. That is all.”

“I hear he’s havin’ a shield painted by a girl that does puppets.” Another shug. “Maybe check the Dornish tent if you needa find him.”

“The Dorish tent?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you know what a Dornish tent looks like?”

“Yes,” you mumble. You wonder how pitiful you look for her to have to ask. “Yes. Thank you.”

That was all the information you needed. Your best bet was to leave before she could get a better look at you.

But something else gnawed at you.

You knew what she was.

No, it wasn’t very obvious to most people, but it was obvious to a noble lady. She is dressed in a way you were always told not to dress, because people in those clothes attracted the wrong attention.

The woman before you was a prostitute, and she was somehow familiar with Ser Duncan. It should have been obvious why she knew him, yet your hopeful nativity tried to tell you there could be other reasons. Reasons beyond the usual man seeking a wench’s body.

“Do you mind if I ask-” You feel shy continuing, eyes glancing down at her dress clinging to her hips. “I was only wondering, how do you…know Ser Duncan?”

“How do you think?”

You get an unpleasant feeling in your stomach. It is not your business, but your selfishness makes you confirm, “He has paid for your...services?”

A chuckle. “You sure are a proper girl, aren’t ya? Can’t even hardly say the words.”

Embarrassments hit you again, like so many times before. It is bad enough being laughed at by men, women laughing at you stings sharper.

“I apologize. It is not my place-”

“He hasn’t laid with me, if that’s what you’re scared of. I helped him get in contact with a knight he was looking for.”

You feel yourself relaxing. So wrapped up in feelings for a man you hardly knew.

Duncan sought help from a prostitute. Only the most mature of men could do such a thing.

She smiles at your visible relief. “Are you some lovergirl of his?”

“No.” You hurry the refusal. “I have a bet placed in the tourney, that is all.”

“Mhm.”

“Thank you for your help,” you tell her. You recall the coin purse in your pocket, you reach into it, and pull out two coins. You hold them out. “Let him know there is a noble lady who wishes him luck, if you see him before I do.”

You do not need to leave your name. He will know.

She snatches the coins from you, smiling. “I’ll do just that.”

As you leave the market, you feel a happiness that you haven’t felt since the last time you saw with Ser Duncan.

Oh, how childish you feel. Daydreaming of a man you’ve had less than five run-ins with.

“I have another stop to make,” you inform the guards.

“Yes, Lady (Y/N).”

You feel in control for the first time in a long time.

Walking along the busy city, you spot a tent with large paintings along the side of the canvas. Dornish paintings of puppets and dragons.

You imagine it is these beautiful paintings that drew Duncan in.

Cheeks blush crimson as you picture Duncan finding this place, his kind heart being amazed by pretty paintings in the way other men weren’t.

“You will stay here,” you order the guards. “I have private business to attend to.”

One argues back, “Lady (Y/N), we cannot allow you to be out of sight.”

“It will take no more than five minutes. If I am not out by then, you may enter.”

“Prince Baelor instructed us to stay exactly by your side,” one insists, his tone becoming impatient. “We allowed you in the market where we could see you, we cannot allow you to enter a tent alone. You could be accused of anything, and we are meant to be your witnesses.”

Your confidence in the idea slowly dwindles.

“Stand near the entrance,” you eventually say. “I will be no longer than a moment. I have to speak of confidential things involving Prince Aerion, and he will be very angry if he learns there were any eavesdroppers.”

Once again, it works. They feared Aerion more than Baelor.

Who didn’t?

They line the entrance of the tent, and watch you as you enter.

It is cooler inside. Cooler than the sun, and much cooler than the market.

You spot a woman. It is only one, and you are grateful. You would feel shy if there were more than one.

It is a tall, slender woman, one that holds herself elegantly, even hunched over and working

She does not hear you come in. She bends over a table, pressing down fabrics. You clear your throat. “Pardon me-”

You flinch as she whips around, the fast movement reminding you too much of your explosive husband.

But she is not rude at all. All she asks is, “Yes?”

“You are…one of the puppeteers?” Again, you chide yourself for how awkward your voice is.

“I am. Are you looking to buy a ticket?”

You glance out the tent. The guards cannot hear you from this distance, yet you still drop your voice to a lower volume. “I was told that you know Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Oh. Dunk.” She nods. “Yes. I do.”

“He is having you paint a shield for him?”

She looks over you like the other woman had. “Yes.”

“How much are you charging him?”

She frowns. “I am not overcharging, I assure you.”

“No, no,” you quickly say. “I was not suggesting that. I only ask because-” You pull the coin purse from your pouch. “I wish to pay for it for him.”

“…You do?”

“What is the price?”

She tells you what she is charging him.

You reach into your coin purse and pull out double. Handing it to her, you say, “Please, make sure you do your best job on it.”

She stares down at the coins, before asking, “How exactly do you know this knight?”

“He is a friend of mine.”

Once more, she looks you up and down. “You must be the ‘princess’.”

You frown. “No, I fear you’ve mistaken me.”

“Dunk told me that he is riding with the favor of a ‘princess’,” she informs you. “And that is why he knows he is destined to enter the lists.”

Did he think you were a princess? He had seen you with the royal family at your arrival. Did he think you to be a blood Targaryen?

“I am no princess.”

She laughed. Not like the others. In a kinder way. “I told him there were no Princesses in Ashford. Then again, he spoke the title with more…admiration than formality. As if he knew he were the only one to call you such.”

You were no princess. Not even your parents referred to you as so. The main thing you were called growing up was ‘difficult’ and ‘melancholy’.

You tell her, “Perhaps he speaks of someone else.” Because that is what your self-doubt tells you.

She holds up a finger, before moving behind the table. “When Dunk first came to me, he requested a shield painted. A symbol. A shooting star over a tree. Said it meant something important.”

“Do you know what?”

“No.” She knelt down to gather something. “But just the other day he told me that he was given favor by a princess. He told me that he was not allowed to speak her name, but he wanted to find another way to thank her for her generosity.”

Generosity? She had not done anything generous prior to paying for his shield.

The woman stood to her feet. You could see now that she was holding a shield. She turned it to show you. “It is unfinished, but as you can see, he requested I add a few apples to the tree.”

Warmth falls on your heart like a blanket in the winter.

Your lips part in surprise as she presents the shield to you.

“I tried to explain that I had not drawn an apple tree,” she laughs. “But he did not care. He said the princess would recognize it as a thank you.”

You stare at the painting. It is beautiful to you. Not just because of the picture, but because of what it is.

She had painted proof that someone had seen you. The only proof in the realm that someone had known you.

Not a single gift of yours, not from your childhood, not from your wedding, certainly not from your husband, had ever captured a part of you in the way this had.

The man who let you hide behind him to eat apples, now wore apples proudly on his seal of knighthood.

Ser Duncan has made you feel more like a princess than your royal husband ever has.

You stare at it for another moment, for the first time in your life, you feel too overwhelmed to speak.

“I hope you like it-”

“I do,” you quickly tell her. “I very much like it.” You clear your throat, snapping out of your haze to hand it back. “You are doing a marvelous job. Thank you for helping him with this.”

Placing down the shield, she pulls out the coins you have given her. She holds some out to you. “I am glad to have your satisfaction, but I must inform you that you have overpaid. It is too much-”

“Keep it,” you beg. “As a thank you for helping him.”

“I cannot accept this amount,” she tells you. “It would not be right.”

“Take it as a donation to the puppetshow.” Your eyes gaze upon the half painted dragon. “It looks like hard work.”

She smiles. “Come see it. The main show will be in two night’s time.”

“I fear I’ve grown somewhat tired of tales of dragons.”

“Perhaps you will like this one. The dragon dies in the end.”

*****

You took great effort in perfecting your appearance that evening.

You spent nearly an hour in the bath, the servant girls brushing through your hair with the new oils, others plucking the hair off your body.

If being beautiful and quiet is what it would take to keep Aerion from getting violent with you, then so be it.

A beautiful, quiet, submissive wife. If that is what your husband wants, that is what you will force yourself to be.

‘Lips sealed,’ you tell yourself. ‘No replies, no rebuttals, and no backtalk.’

Your hair falls long down your back. You hold up your foggy hand mirror. A smile forms on your lips.

You look like a princess. A princess who dresses in the most beautiful of gowns in case she passes her knight in shining armor on the street.

You are so happy with the thought of Duncan that the smile stays on your face for a long time, dropping only when two visitors enter the room.

Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher. The sight of the woman makes your stomach hurt.

“Good evening, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty greets with a quick bow. “I trust you got much needed rest today.”

“I did. Thank you. Were you able to rest as well?”

“Abundantly. Prince Baelor gave us the entire day to revive our energy. Your thoughts are appreciated.”

You risk a glance at Madam Pricher. She meets your eye with a sharp gaze. You look away.

Madam Pricher intimidates you in a way no one besides your husband does. She could get you killed one of these days. She has practically tried to already. She went behind your back to tell Aerion about Valarr approaching you the day prior, and you are lucky it did not end with another split lip.

“They brought in wine,” you tell Ser Thenty. “I will be called to dinner soon and have no way of finishing it. Please, have some.”

You are fond of Ser Thenty because he reminds you of Ser Donnel, as well as the other knights at home. He is the first knight of the Targaryen castle that is truly kind to you, and you hope that rewarding him for his kindness keeps him from turning into the devilish type of man the other knights were.

Yes, he is kind. But not as kind of Ser Duncan. You suppress another childish smile that starts to form at the thought of the tall man.

You begin to pout Ser Thenty a cup. “You are welcome to partake in any of the refreshments brought to me-”

“You are not to serve wine to a man that is not your husband,” Madam Pricher chides.

The thought of Aerion dulls you, but you try not to show it. “I merely mean to show him my gratitude-”

“Aerion will not be pleased when I tell him that you and Ser Thenty are sharing drinks together.”

Spiteful bitch, your mind screams.

“You will not bother my husband with such things.”

“I certainly will.”

You speak to her as you spoke to the guards earlier. “My husband tells me I can place orders on you,” you insist. “And I order you to be silent. If you fail to do so, you will have to answer to him.”

“I look forward to answering to him. Answering any questions he may have about your behavior.”

In a single moment, all the power you felt that day has been stripped down to nothing.

You feel like a nobody again. Nothing more than a misbehaved pet that’s being trained on how to act properly.

“I need no wine, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty tells you. “Have some yourself. It will calm your nerves for your husband’s arrival.”

You know you cannot dare drink the wine. You cannot risk any drunkness. You must be hyper aware whenever Aerion is around.

“Your hair should be braided,” the older woman tells you. “It is improper to have it undone while you are a guest at a feast.”

“My husband enjoys my hair when it is down.”

“I have seen the things your husband enjoys, and they are classless.”

You burn with hate for her. “Aerion wants it down,” you insist.

You will do what Aerion wants. Her insults will never hurt as much as your husband’s fists.

Out of spite, you add, “But I will be sure he knows how classless you find him.”

You want her to be scared. Instead, she laughs. “I have known Prince Aerion since he was a small boy. There is no insult I have not given him straight to his face.”

Another feeling of hopelessness settles over you. You don’t understand how a maid is able to make you feel so powerless.

Even more so as Madam Pricher says, “If you intend to control me with your husband, you will fail. I answer to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. That spoiled Aerion has no hold over me.”

She has read right through you. She has seen your plans, and is letting you know that you have failed them. Your shoulders slouch.

You will never get a break from the cruel torture that is life.

Dinner was still half an hour away. Aerion was still ordered not to come near you yet. You spend the rest of the time in silence, counting down the minutes you have left before your tormentor returns.

Aerion arrives the exact moment the bells ring for evening dinner. It was if he was waiting directly outside the tent until the very second he was allowed to come back to bother you.

Your husband entered the tent with a smug smile, and overflowing confidence.

“Much better,” is the first thing he says to you.

You despise him.

Aerion stops himself just in front of you, eyes on your dress as his fingers graze over the fabric. The dark red seems to reflect in his eyes.

Aerion touches your hair next, running a hand through it and moving it out of your face. He leans in and places a kiss on your neck.

His face lingers as he inhales the scent of you. He is checking to see if you have obeyed him, if you have found new bathing oils. You wonder what the punishment would have been if you had not.

Pulling away, he seemed satisfied with the new scent. “You have listened to me for once, (Y/N). I am glad. I would have had to cut the dress off your body had you still been in the wrong color.”

You wish you could cut the heart out of his chest and watch him die in front of you.

Your husband’s eyes land on his second favorite thing in the room. “Have you not touched your wine? I had it chosen specifically for you.”

“I poured a cup,” you tell him.

He moves to the desk, and begins to pour a glass for himself. “You did not like it? Tell me now if that is the case. I will reprimand the boy that suggested it.”

You lie, “I liked it-”

“She poured a glass for Ser Thenty, Prince Aerion, not herself. She has not drank any.”

Your heart drops.

Aerion pauses.

Your lips part in mere shock at the comments. Ser Thenty seems just as startled.

Your husband slowly turns to you. “You gave my gift to your knight-?”

“I offered him a glass but he refused,” you rush out. “He did not have it.”

His jaw sets. “Why was my gift offered to him?”

A lie comes to you fast. “It-It is customary in my homeland for a guard to drink any open liquid before we drink it ourselves. The wine was sent unsealed, I did not want to risk sickness. That is why I did not drink any, because he refused.”

Aerion stares at you. One moment, two moments, three moments. Then, you hear a low scoff. “You think I would allow something to reach my wife without going through poison prevention? Do not be so stupid.”

He gives you a glass, and you take it without complaint. You will be obedient, as long as you are able. You take a sip as he watches you.

“Where did you go today after you left me?” he asks you. His voice is casual, the tinge of suspicion in his eyes is not.

“To the market,” you tell him. “And to the baths.”

He pours wine of his own. He takes larger drinks of it. You pray he will not be drunk tonight. “Only those two places?”

You knew the guards saw you at the Dornish tent. They would most likely inform someone. You quickly add, “I tried to stop by a tent for a puppet show. They told me they are only held at night, so I left.”

He halts the cup in his hand, frowning. “A puppet show?”

“I went in and left. I was there for only a few minutes. You can ask the guards, those are all the places I went.”

“What interest do you have in a puppet show?”

“They are...interesting.”

“They are childish. Do not seek one out again.”

He can’t even let you have that? It was a fake interest, yet he will not allow you to have it?

“As you wish, Prince Aerion.”

He finishes his wine, and he takes your cup from you as he realizes you have only sipped from it. He finishes it for you. Carelessly dropping the empty cup to the floor, he says, “My father is expecting us at dinner with Lord Ashford. Need I remind you of your rules?”

Your eyes go to the floor. “No, Prince-”

He snaps his fingers in your face. You flinch, eyes flying back to him. “Do not look away while I speak to you. Need I remind you of your rules?”

You quickly shake your head. “No, Prince Aerion. I remember them.”

“Stop looking so cowardly and pale. Stand up straight and act like a woman.”

You stand straighter.

“You have been a royal for almost a year yet you still hunch like a peasant.”

Half a year. You wish to correct him, but your mind screams at you not to. You stay silent.

He snaps his fingers at you again to say, “Let us go.”

He leads you out, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty trailing at a distance, three other guards following as well.

“Valarr won his match today,” Aerion informs you. “But his competitor was hardly any competition. Sometimes, I wonder if his father pays for him to receive the worst knights to joust.”

There was a hint of disdain in his voice. He seemed disappointed he was not the only victor.

To combat his shifting mood, you tell him, “You also won your match today.”

A flicker of a smirk rises on his lips. “Not that anyone doubted I would.” He whistled behind you. “Pick it up, you old hag.”

You glance behind the two of you. Madam Pricher is struggling to keep up with his fast pace. You do not care to defend her. In fact, you hope she passes out from the exertion.

“Pick up your skirts when you walk,” Aerion commands you. “You are not a maid. You should not drag your clothes on the ground.”

You hold them higher, and say, “Yes, husband.”

He sends a look your way. “Use that mocking tone on me again and you’ll receive a slap to the face.”

You truly do not understand him.

Does he want you submissive, or does he find it mocking? Does he want you kind, or does he find it false?

You make a mental note in your head of the tone you used. It might have been too high pitched, or perhaps too soft. It was not a tone he believed, so you would make sure not to use it again.

You do your best not to make eye contact with anyone as you enter the Ashford Castle. You keep your eyes on the ground, where Aerion seems to like them.

The two of you are announced as you enter the dining hall.

“Prince Aerion and Lady (Y/N).”

You put so much work into keeping your head down, you had no idea who was at the table until you were fully seated.

It is an eight seat table.

Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar hold the ends of the table. Besides Baelor, on the opposite side of you, is Valarr. He does not look at you this time. You are grateful.

Aerion sits beside Maekar. The rest of the seats are empty. You risk glancing around, wondering if the Ashfords are late for the meal.

“The Ashfords are not coming to dinner,” Valarr says to you. “If that is who you are looking for.”

Aerion’s head snaps your way. You quickly stare at your lap, pretending as if you do not hear Valarr.

“Lord Ashford thought it best not to bring his wife and daughter,” Valarr continued, “After learning Aerion would be arriving.”

“Valarr,” Prince Baelor says cooly.

Aerion is staring at you, you can feel it, waiting for you to make a reply. You do not. You continue to pretend no one is speaking to you. The reaction seems to satisfy him.

“You sound spiteful this evening,” Aerion tells his cousin. “Are you angry that you were not the only one who won their match today?”

“I am more proud over the fact that no animals were harmed.”

Maekar hums in disapproval. Aerion chuckles. “You know, we may face each other eventually, cousin.”

“If you make it as far as I do,” Valarr nods.

“Perhaps we will be the finalists.”

“This tourney will be going longer than expected,” Baelor speaks. “Many knights entered the lists after learning of our presence here. I assume many men wish to apply for our royal guard. I estimate another week of jousts.”

Your blood runs cold.

Another week?

Another week of this torture of sharing a bed with Aerion?

The idea sounds horrid. Yet…another week in the same city as Ser Duncan the Tall does not.

“That is your doing,” Maekar tuts. “You allow in every knight that begs to enter.”

“Every rightful knight.”

“And you know them to be rightful?” Maekar asks. “Like the hedge knight that had not even a witness to his knighting?”

“I told you, I recall the Ser Arthur he spoke of.”

“Even the worst knight wouldn’t have thrown knighthood onto that giant brute.”

The word ‘giant’ catches your attention. You suppose it always will from now on.

“Regardless, he is entered.”

“Perhaps you should enter your favorite knight,” Aerion says to his uncle. “See if he is as brave as he pretends to be.”

Baelor barely glances at Aerion. He lets out a low sigh. “And who might my favorite knight be, in your opinion?”

“Ser Thenty, is it not?”

Your eyes widen, and you turn to see Ser Thenty is tense as he waits along the wall.

“He must be if you have chosen him to watch over my wife.” He turns to you. “And you find yourself very fond of him, yes-?”

Maekar made another sound of irritation. “Enough.” He snapped his fingers before his son could continue. “We have waited too long. Bring out the food.”

A serving boy asked, “Are we not expecting anyone else, Prince Maekar-?”

“No. Serve the food now.”

“No other guests are comfortable dining with the family,” Valarr begins. “Here we are, in someone else’s castle, yet no one else wishes to dine with us-”

Maekar slams his hand on the table.

Valarr falls silent.

The whole room falls silent.

It is so interesting for you to see how much power Maekar holds over this family, despite being the younger brother. Baelor will inherit the throne one day, yet his brother commands the rooms.

“Speak of the tactics used during your match today,” Baelor tells his son.

Valarr does so. He speaks of the books he’s been reading on jousting, how he’s been practicing holding his lances at different angles, how he’s taken notes.

Valarr is finally behaving like a calm scholar, the one others in the kingdom so often describe him. He is said to be a good man that is right and just, and finally you begin to see it. In fact, all the men seem to finally be able to converse without argument.

Except, Aerion isn’t conversing much. He is only listening.

Listening, and watching you, as if waiting for you to misbehave so he can put you in your place.

Again, the family seems to read right through you. Dinner is halfway over when Baelor says, “As you can see, Lady (Y/N), this family is capable of sharing a decent meal together. It is not often the boys bicker so much, I hope you do not see them in a bad light because of this.”

You do not answer him, especially not while Aerion stares right at you.

Baelor then says, “I hope you were able to enjoy Ashford more today. My guards tell me you made your way around town.”

He speaks to you, but it is your husband who answers.

“Yes, she came to watch my match,” Aerion tells him. “She helped me discard my armor, and recover from my soreness.”

You hear Valarr’s voice, “I’m sure she was thrilled to be there.” His tone held thick sarcasm.

Aerion seemed amused by it. “She was. She came on her own accord, even after your father tried to banish me from seeing my own woman.”

You clench your skirt fabric in your fist. You hate when they do this. When they speak about you as if you are not there.

You tense when he reached over and brushed his thumb over your cheek. “She brought me much luck.”

All eyes have fallen on you once more. You think of what to do. Your husband lives for flattery, so you give him flattery. “You had no need for my luck, Prince Aerion, you win every match you are in.”

You have pleased him with the comment.

Dinner ends smoothly. You are proud of yourself for your silence.

When the two of you return to your tent, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty stand near the entrance. You try to pretend they do not exist.

“You did well tonight, wife,” Aerion says to you. “You will be rewarded for it.”

The reward he gives you is his mercy.

He does not rip your clothes when he strips you. Instead, he unbuttons them and places them on the table.

He does not shove you onto the bed to fuck you, he merely lays you down and gets on top of you.

His hands do not grab and pull at you, they merely brush over your skin.

When he enters you, it is not brutal and all at once, it is slow, and the pain is lessened.

You pause what you are doing, hand freezing in the air as you were just beginning to pull shut the window curtains.

You turn towards the servant girl who stood uncomfortably at your chamber doorway. Your face showed your confusion. “Now?”

Your feet were bare, you were dressed down in your night clothes, and your hair was already braided for bed. You were unprepared for this.

She gave an obedient nod. “Yes, my lady. Now.”

It did not make sense to you. Your husband had never requested you at this time of night before. In fact, he never requested your presence in his chambers at all. On the brief occasion he would seek your company, it would be for a quick bedding in the afternoon, after his lunch, when his body was full of wine.

You convince yourself this is a mistake. “It is quite late,” you begin, “Perhaps he meant in the morning.”

The servant girl stood with obvious discomfort. She seemed to think carefully over her words, before repeating, “Now, my lady. He insists on it.”

You tell her, “If he asked you to bring him a woman to warm his bed, then he did not mean me. It is a wench that he wants. You will have to call one from town.”

You were not naive to your husband’s infidelity, nor would you pretend to be. Not that it bothered you anymore. You were grateful he entertained himself with prostitutes instead of you. You despised being in his company the same way he despised being in yours.

The servant shuffled in closer. “My Lady (Y/N), your husband has requested you specifically. He wants you in his chambers immediately.”

The idea of you being on his mind, especially at this time of night, made your heart drop.

A prickle of fear coursed through your body. “Why?”

“I do not know.”

“What was his mood when he sent you?”

The servant girl opened her mouth and shut it again, like she was not sure if she should answer. Eventually, she slipped out a pitiful, “He is angry, my lady. I know not why.”

Your heart beat faster.

Angry. The thought made you shudder. You had no desire to be anywhere near your husband when he was in a normal mood, and definitely not when he was angry. You had no idea why he wanted to be anywhere near you either. You were never a comfort for him, he never confided in you, he hardly ever spoke to you. You had never been called to calm him down, so you did not understand why he might want you at this very moment.

Truth be told, you had never even been to your husband’s chamber.

He would come to yours, to use your body for his own pleasure, and then leave within an hour. That was the extent of your relationship with him.

It was a loveless marriage. Everyone in the kingdom was aware of it.

Because everyone in the kingdom was aware that Aerion Targaryen was incapable of love.

You were married to the monstrous man just over six months ago, yet you were still strangers, the same as you were when you met him on your wedding day.

Aerion seemed to enjoy pretending you didn’t exist. You were glad, because it was not easy existing around him.

The two of you lived separate lives, only intertwining when he wanted to bed you, or when he placed you by his side for a public banquet.

The nighttime was supposed to be your refuge from him, and you were not willing to give it up so easily. Especially not to face his anger.

In an attempt to escape your fate, you tell the servant girl, “Please, tell my husband that I have already retired to bed. I will see him in the morning.”

“Lady (Y/N).” She spoke your name with more desperation. “Prince Aerion has told me to bring you to his chambers, and he said that if you refuse, he will punish me, and then he will send a knight to drag you there.”

Your shoulders slouched, and your panic rose even further. “…Why?”

“I do not know,” she repeated, fretfully. “But please, come.”

This servant girl was not the one married to the devil. She was not the one damned to hell. It would be unfair to delay your own fate and allow her to receive a punishment for your own cowardice.

Slowly, you relent with a nod. “Let me get dressed, and I will be on my way.”

“Thank you,” the servant whispered, her gratefulness as clear as day.

You dressed quickly. You could tell by the way the servant gripped her skirts that she was just as scared as you were.

“I do not know the way to his chambers,” you admit. “I will need you to guide me.”

She was surprised. She should be. You were probably the only wife in the kingdom to not know where her husband slept.

She gave a kind, “Of course. Follow me.”

As you made your way through the castle, you tried to rack your mind for anything that might have set Aerion off today.

He was hotheaded, easy to anger, and quick to violence. But you did not think anything specific upset him today. You spotted him a few times from the balcony of the library. He was training as always, laughing. He seemed fine just a few hours ago. Surely, if he was upset all day, he would have been frowning.

The servant stopped in front of a door you had never seen before. She gave a quick knock, before bowing to you, and taking a step back.

“Enter,” came your husband’s voice through the door.

His tone was normal, and it eased you. You stepped inside his chambers. The door shut behind you.

Aerion had his back to you, occupied by something at his desk. He was pouring wine, you realized.

Your eyes glanced around, and you notice there are no servants, nor guards in his room. You tense again.

“(Y/N),” he speaks, smoothly. “You took your time arriving.”

“I apologize, my Prince. I was asleep when you called upon me.”

It was a lie. You shouldn’t lie to him, you know this. But it came out too fast for you to stop it.

He abruptly placed the pitcher of wine back on the desk, somewhat roughly. “Were you?” he asked, his voice still neutral.

You swallowed back the nerves building inside you. “Yes.”

For a few moments, he did nothing. He said nothing. He stood exactly where he was, still and silent.

A coldness swept over you. You had never seen this from him before.

Finally, he turned to face you. His eyes were unreadable. “Would you care for some wine?” he asked, as if this was all normal. As if you were a regular husband and wife who enjoyed spending time together.

You had never drank with him, except for your wedding, and you did not want to start while he was angry. You quickly refuse. “No, thank you, my Prince-”

“Come. Drink with me.”

He closed the distance between you two, forcing a goblet into your hand. You hold it with uncertainty.

Was he trying to poison you? He would never get away with it. His father would surely find out. Yet, you didn’t put it past him to do something as cruel as poisoning you, his own wife.

Aerion stands before you, staring at you expectantly.

Understanding he is an impatient man, you decide to ignore your paranoia and take a drink of the wine.

He smiles at you. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.” Another lie.

“You have never told me what your favorite wine is,” he says to you. His finger brush against your jaw, causing you to flinch in surprise. “A year of marriage, and you have never told me your preference.”

“Half a year of marriage.” The words spill out of you before you can rethink them.

His fingers pause, his eyes meeting yours sharply.

Another moment passed of his silence.

You felt like you had just triggered something you should not have.

A smile graces his face again. You cannot tell if it is real or forced. “You are right. Half a year. Seems like so much longer, does it not?”

This time, you were truthful. “It does.”

“Come,” he says to you, gesturing with a short flick of the wrist. “I would like to show you something.”

Aerion makes his way to his window. You stay exactly where you are, uncertain of his intentions. You finally find the courage to ask, “Why have you called on me-”

He brushes off your question with a stern, “Come. Now.”

You finally join him. You glance at the window, but find nothing of interest in the courtyard below.

“I find myself watching this window very often,” Aerion tells you.

His hand falls on the small of your back, and he pushes you closer to the glass. He fills the space behind you, and you are suddenly aware that you are trapped where you are.

“Do you know why I watch this window?”

You look desperately at the courtyard, trying to find anything that might catch his eyes. “You watch the men train,” you tried.

“No.”

“You watch to see who enters the place.”

“No.” This time, as he speaks, his hand falls to your hip. His body presses against yours.

“You…” You’re unable to think when his hand comes back to caress your face again. “You make sure the guards do not leave their post.”

“I watch this window,” he begins in a colder voice. “To keep an eye on my wife.”

As he spits out the last word, his hand grips your jaw with a tightness you were unprepared for. You cry out as he cranes your head to the left, and your eyes suddenly on a familiar balcony.

Your blood runs cold.

Your chambers. They were in view of his window. You had never seen his room before, yet his window held a perfect view of yours.

You left your candles going, and you had not drawn your curtains yet. And your room was so visible.

He could see right into it.

He could watch you.

Oh gods, he had been watching you.

The goblet of wine falls to the floor.

“Do you think of me as a fool?” he seethes in your ear, so close you feel his lips on your skin. “That I would not keep an eye on my own woman?”

No, he was not a fool, you were. Because you had not even considered this. Never had it even crossed your mind that you were being monitored in the privacy of your own chambers.

You winced as he pulled your body tighter against his, his hand still gripping your face painfully. “Do you think I do not see what you do?”

The sudden realization that you’ve had no privacy this entire time startled you, but it also further confuses you.

Because you were not a sinful woman.

You did not cheat, you did not steal, you did not even gossip.

It made your skin crawl to know he watched you through your window, but you had nothing to be guilty for.

You had done nothing wrong. No lovers, no conspiracy, no hidden agenda. Your room had been your sanctuary, to read and write and sew in peace. What could he have seen?

You try to make sense of it. Tears begin to fall down your cheek as you become unhealthily overwhelmed. “I do not understand,” you cry. “What have I done-”

His hand released your jaw, only to spin you around and slam your back against the brick wall.

You shrank under his gaze. His eyes burned with an anger you did not understand.

His eyes came up to cup both sides of your face, making it impossible to look away from him. “Am I not a kind husband?”

No. He was not. Yet, you still force out, “You are, my prince.”

“Do I not give you everything you ask for?”

You have never asked him for anything, besides the freedom to leave the castle without him, and even that he hardly gave you.

“You do,” you cry, flinching as he leaned even closer.

“Do I not take care of you?”

No. His servants took care of you, he hardly ever spoke to you.

Still, you lied, “You do.”

He brings a hand to your cheek, his fingers softly brushing away the stream of tears that had began to coat your skin.

His whispers, with false kindness, “Aren’t I gentle with you?”

No. He always held your hand too tightly during public banquets. He manhandled you in bed. He often shoved you forward when you would walk too slowly beside him.

But you feared him, so you lied. “You are very gentle with me.” Your voice shook, as did your body. He could feel your trembling. It seemed to encourage him.

After he wiped your tears, his fingers softly caressed the red bruises he had just inflicted upon you. “Have I ever struck you?”

That was the only thing he had never done. He never hit you, never slapped you. His physical punishments towards you were pinches or rough pulls each and every way. But he had never struck you.

Your throat is dry as you admit, “No. You have never struck me-”

His hand crashes against your face with a slap so strong it makes you dizzy. Your head whips to the right, and your eyes quickly prickle with a new batch of tears. Your hand flies up to protect yourself.

“Maybe that is why you behave like some lowborn whore,” he spits with rage. “Because I have not slapped enough sense into you.”

A panic arose in your chest, and you found yourself trying to push him away. “Aerion-”

Another slap, harsher than before.

You would’ve fallen to the ground had he not been holding you.

“Stop!” you cry out, eyes shut tight as you try to get away. “Husband, please-!”

“Husband!” he spits with fury. “Or do you forget?!”

“No!” you sob. “I do not forget!”

“I am your husband! You are my wife!”

You try to nod so fast your neck aches. “Yes! Yes!”

“Do not forget your place!”

“I have not!” you cry out, your face stinging from his palm.

Finally, he let go of you. Your hand flew to your face, trying to rub out the pain in your cheek, but to not avail.

“What have I done?!” you cried out again, unable to bear this any longer.

He gave no verbal answer. Instead, he walked away from you. You shut your eyes tightly, not opening them until something was thrown at you.

You look at your feet, and see a bouquet of flowers thrown to the floor.

Your heart dropped at the realization of what caused this all.

“No,” you choked out.

Realization of what he had seen, and what he must suspect, made your body plunge cold with terror.

This was all a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that could get you killed.

“No,” you all but sob. “It’s not what you think-”

“I stood at this very window and watched you allow a knight into your chambers,” he said, his voice going back to a chilling factual tone. “My wife brought a man into her bedroom, unsupervised, and accepted flowers from him.”

“No. No.” You kept shaking your head in desperation. “I sent him for flowers. I wanted flowers for my windowsill, so-so I sent Ser Emeret to bring me some-”

“And bring you some, he did. He brought you flowers, and a smile, and a cock for you spit on-”

“I did no such thing! It is a lie! I have never strayed from you!

“And who is there to prove this?”

“Ask him,” you cry. “Call-Call upon Ser Emeret. He will tell. He gave me the flowers, and that was all.”

“I cannot call upon Ser Emeret.”

“Please. He will tell you-”

“Ser Emeret is dead. He was killed in a training accident a little over an hour ago.”

The world seemed to crumble around you.

Aerion was going to kill you. You were sure of it. He brought you here to strangle you, or beat you to death, or maybe that wine was a slow acting poison after all. He was going to kill you, over nothing, because he hated you that much.

“…You-” You were so scared you felt you might faint. But the thought of being unconscious in this cruel man’s presence was even more terrifying. “You…saw that nothing happened.” You shook your head, becoming hysterical. “If you were watching me, you saw that nothing happened! He handed me flowers and left! That was all! That was all! You saw it! If you were watching, you saw it!”

Your husband once again closed the distance between you two. For a moment, you feared he would strike you once more. But instead, he began to caress your hair.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I saw it.”

“I did not betray you,” you cried. “I did nothing with that man.”

He stared at the end of your hair as he played with it between his fingers. “I know.”

You did not understand. You wept, “Then why are you doing this?”

His eyes met yours. There was a flash of something his expression, something she hadn’t seen before. His voice dropped to a whisper. “…Because he smiled at you. And you smiled back.”

“It was out of courtesy-”

Another slap hit your face. This time, he let go of you, and you fell to the ground.

You try to push yourself up, but his boot comes down on the side of your body, forcing you back to the floor.

“You cannot do this!” you cry out. “I am a Lady-”

“You are my wife,” he spat at you. “Do not forget that your life, and the conditions in which you live it, are at my discretion.”

You wanted to scream. Your throat was burning to. You wanted to scream and shout at him. You wanted to spit in his face and slap him back, maybe scratch him with your nails and leave a scar on that pretty face of his.

But you knew that even a single utterance of refusal would end violently. You did not even want to imagine what he might do if you pressed his frustration any further.

For your own safety, you clamped your mouth shut.

The flowers you bought were now scattered on the floor.

Aerion slowly squatted down beside you, brushing your hair away from your red, tear-stained face. “If I see another man in your chambers ever again, I will have every item you own burned to ashes, and I will keep you chained to my own bed while I am gone.”

You wished he would burn to ashes. You wished you were the Targaryen, and that you had a dragon, and that you could burn him to a crisp.

“In four days time, I will be traveling to Ashford for the tourney. You are no longer trusted to remain at the castle without me by your side, so I have made the arrangements for you to accompany me.”

This felt more like a slap to the face than his physical strike had.

The last bit of peace you had was gone.

His trips were the only time you ever felt alive anymore. When he was out of town, and you knew he would not call on you, was the only time you could truly breath. And now it was gone.

Biting your tongue, you tried to muffle the cry trying to force its way from your throat.

You curled up on the ground, trying to become as small as possible, covering your face with your hair, as if it would hide you from him.

“You will mind your tongue while we are there,” he continued, speaking down on you like you truly were nothing but a dog. “You will speak to no other. You will look at no other. You have no duty but to be my wife.”

You curled your face into your hands.

“You will clap when I win, you will sit up straight when we have company, you will nod when I speak. And when I bring a whore to my tent to satisfy myself with, you will sit quietly in the corner of the tent and not say a word. Do you understand, Lady (Y/N)?”

The command sparked hatred in your bones. Your face held a grimace. You grit your teeth, your fists clenching.

He repeated, “I asked you, do you understand-”

“No, I do not understand,” you hissed, forcing your head up. “You have lost your mind over me buying flowers, yet you speak of bedding whores in the very same room as me. Have you no respect for your title, Prince Aerion?”

You braced yourself for another slap to the face.

But Aerion did not lash out.

No, in fact, he smiled. He let out a laugh, like your outburst humored him. “I have never seen a woman who is so eager to be beaten by her husband.” He took hold of your hair again, this time pulling it in a way that strung your scalp. “You will watch your words carefully, or else you may hurt my feelings.”

“You have no feelings!” you scream. “There is no emotion in that cold empty heart except hatred! Why do you care who smiles at a wife you never wanted?!”

His brows dip together, and another short flicker of humor passes his features. “Never wanted? Did your father tell you that?”

You are too overwhelmed by the night to come up with any reasonable explanation for his words.

But he explains it for you.

“I chose you, (Y/N).”

The room becomes suffocating, as does his gaze.

“If you cause me to regret my choice,” he continues, “I will nail you to a tree and burn you.”

He stands up quickly, giving you no time to process what he had told you.

“You will sleep in here tonight,” he informs you. “But I have no desire to share a bed with a disrespectful wife, so you will sleep there on the floor like the bitch you are.”

He picks the goblet off the floor, fills it, and drinks it.

No poison.

You wish there secretly was. You wish you would both die in your sleep tonight.

“Goodnight, wife.” He puts the candles out.