#dorne

Your fingers curl around the dainty rings at your hands, turning the cool metal against your warm skin, focusing on the familiar weight of them before you let your quiet thoughts circle back to the reason you are here— which is marriage. Since young, it has been imprinted into you that it is a woman’s duty to marry and bring honor to her house. You are no fool, you have known this since you were old enough to watch brides ride away from Starfall trembling in the wind. 

Aerion Targaryen is a prince, and to wed a prince of Westeros is more than simply duty, it is the highest honour you could lay at your family’s feet. The blood of the dragon runs through his veins, and your kins would be fools not to seize that. Binding fire and blood to your bloodline, silver hair and sharp imperious features, along with violet eyes would never allow tongues to cease whispering. People fear him, and you do not need to question why, the fact that they once were dragon masters was enough for you to understand. 

You know you ought to feel a swell of joy and pride, yet you cannot help but want to weep, fear sitting heavier in your chest than any sense of honour. The ‘Brightflame’ is a stigma dressed in chains, a dragon with his wings torn off but its claws left sharp, and the thought of standing at his side makes your stomach fold and tuck in horror. And you are so very far from home, all that is left with you are the rings that sit on your fingers and the knowledge that you are being given to something made of fire. 

You hear your fathers soft voice call your name from behind, and you cannot bring it upon yourself to turn and face him. 

“It is time,” he says.

It feels as though all the time in the world has slipped away, like sand through open fingers, yet you are only eight and ten. Time was the one thing you had thought endless when you ran through the sunlit halls of home, but now it has narrowed to this single corridor as you follow behind your father. Feet falling into perfect rhythm with his, each tread is swallowed by the echoing of stone, you feel insubstantial, nothing more than a pawn on a board built by men.

“I love you, my daughter,” your father says, pride swelling in his chest, you swear you can almost see it. “You are doing the realm a great service.” He glances down at you and offers you a gentle smile you have always been used to, the one that meant safety, stories and long arms opening to catch you. Now it means nothing such.

To you, the words feel like mockery. You want, with an aching desperation, to be a child again in his arms, to bury your face in his chest and ask him not to make you stray so far from home, not to give you to a dragon and to keep you in Starfall until you become grey and old. Instead, you swallow back the heavy weight in your chest, blink back the sting of tears that threaten to fall and continue to walk beside him in silence. The words you do not voice turn bitter on your tongue.

Standing small at your father’s side, your spine remains straight and hands are folded in mirror to etiquette that was drilled into you since childhood. Even though you hold yourself in place with perfect posture, you cannot ignore your heart beating too fast against your ribs. You assumed you would have been prepared for this moment, or so your ladies-in-waiting had told you, but the nerves rising in your throat made a liar of every lesson.

The dragon prince, Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen stands opposite you, milky hands tickled neatly behind his back before his violet eyes sweep over you in idle disinterest. There is something about him that does not feel entirely human, you tell yourself it is only the Valyrian cast of him, the handsome lines of his face, the sharp bone, silver hair and inhuman calm. You find his presence to be heavy, as though it presses against your lungs with intentions to make them collapse, and you find yourself breathing a touch too quickly for a lady who is meant to be composed. 

The embers in his eyes glow like the flickers of flame as he looks at you, and his calm expression shifts, disinterest becoming irritation. He has not yet said anything, but behind his glimmering daze you can see him thinking. Gaze lingering on you, unfocused, in a sudden flicker of candlelight he turns his head towards his father.

“I have no desire to take someone so plain-looking,” He says at last, and his voice is smooth and steady, and almost silky enough that for a second you do not register the words that slip out his lips. 

Prince Maekar’s expression curdles and he lifts his chin up high in sharp irritation while his lips curl into something close to a snarl.

“Boy,” the Prince bites out, “do not try to be clever with me. You are to wed her.”

Aerion clicks his tongue to this, making a loud and disdainful sound. His purple eyes drag over you from head to toe in a slow and assessing manner. They are striking, you must admit, such eyes are not common in Westeros, and this is the first time you have seen them so closely. For all his cruel words, you cannot deny he is pretty in a cold, Valyrian way. Yet, his satisfying appearance does not help to ease the tightness in your throat. You decide to swallow hard, watching the two of them like some small thing caught between, absolutely insignificant. 

“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sounding bored, “for a prince of the dragon to take a wife of pure blood. It is tradition. She is no pureblood.”

“Pure blood or not, you’ll do as you’re told and take what is given. The matter is settled.” Maekar grunts out, beyond tired of his son's disobedience, then he gives your father an apologetic look. Aerion does not respond but you do see the jaw his skin tightens as he clenches his sharp jaw, the lids of his violet eyes growing heavy in what you suppose is anger at rejection. 

The thought settles in your chest as you take slight offence to the young prince’s words. You are a Dayne of Starfall, not some nameless girl that was plucked from a crowd, but his words make it clear that you are not what he desires. In his eyes, you are not pure enough nor worthy enough, and certainly not what he believes he was promised. 

Mind circling back to the same inevitable truth, you remember he is a dragon. It does make sense that a dragon would want fire and blood, and dragons do not bear disappointment well, they would prefer to scorch it from the world. Your shoulders stiffen as you wonder with a cold creeping dread if he will lose his tempter and spill his anger on you. 

A light tap between your shoulder blades signals your father’s silent command and you know it is time to perform your duty. Lowering your head at once, silk whispering as your pretty purple skirts sway forward, your hair slips forward like a curtain which veils the side of your face. You school your features into something that’s gentle and obedient, the way you were taught, the way a prince would prefer a lady. 

“I hope I will prove… acceptable to you, my prince,” you speak, voice soft, the royal title scraping your throat. My prince, the words feel wrong in your mouth, it is a vow that does not belong to you, like you are bending the knee to the edge of a blade, swearing undying loyalty to it. You are expected to play the dutiful pride, to smile and obey a man who can air his displeasures as openly as he breathes, while it is looked down upon if you so much as flinch. 

His expression tightens further, as though the gods above are mocking him, as though you are mocking him. To him it must seem like your very presence is a cage to be fitted around him, link by link. 

“I will judge that for myself,” he says at last, each word precise. “Soon enough.” 

The words feel like a threat. He licks his lips in a quick, unconscious motion, and for the first time his piercing gaze truly settles on you. It drops from your face to the line of your collarbone, to the way the slightly sheer Dornish silk clings to your body. It is modest enough beneath the sun of Starfall, perhaps, but here it feels suddenly too light and too revealing under a dragon’s scrutiny. 

With a sudden shiver, you realize that he hadn’t properly looked at you before you spoke. Now he is, and his gaze lingers a heartbeat too long before he catches himself, haunting eyes snapping back up to your face. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek and he clicks it again, creating a small, irritated sound that feels like a final verdict. 

The anger painted on his face does not fade. You have a sinking feeling it will not leave for some time, if it ever does. You can only hope he chooses not to sink his sharp claws into you the way a dragon might into a lamb, that he will not prove more cruel in marriage than he has already shown himself to be in court.

──

Aerion is aware of exactly who he is, the second son of a fourth son. In his family's eyes, he is too far removed from the line of succession to be given the honour of a sister or a cousin, too valuable to waste entirely, a convenient piece to trade. His father speaks of great alliances and the strength of the old blood as though that should soothe the insult. His late-mother had been a Dayne, he already paid the price of that through the blood that ran through his veins. Then why must a prince of dragon blood take a wife whose blood does not burn, whose hair does not gleam silver in the light that will not promise him babes with the right look?

During these thoughts, his mind inevitably slips to you. You seemed timid and shy, eyes lowered and shoulders held perfectly tight. A dragon can smell blood, and Aerion had smelt your fear the moment your eyes gazed upon him and you opened your mouth. Perhaps you will provide him with some entertainment in this dreary visit to King’s Landing. The whores of the Street of Silk had begun to bore him, there is no sport in flesh that yields far too easily, and definitely no thrill in maids who tremble on command. He supposes you will be different, untouched, untried yet already flinching. Your face is not entirely displeasing either, fear will suit you he thinks. A scared look on your delicate features might even be pretty.

The pre-celebration of your marriage bleeds into the evening, the last light of the sun dying over King’s Landing as lords and ladies murmur and laugh around you. You notice the sun sets much earlier here than it does in Starfall. You are dressed to be seen, Dayne’s prettiest colours draped over your frame, your gown mirroring the soft purples of the setting sky just before the darkness wraps Westeros in a black cloak. 

Ladies stop you with gentle hands and sweeter smiles, offering kind congratulations as if they are gifts, mentioning what an honour it is to be marrying a prince. What a blessing it is to find such a compelling husband, asserting what a lucky lady you are. You do as you’re taught, smiling and nodding as you let the words wash over you like cold water. The idea of drowning yourself and letting the night blur into nothing slips past you, yet you cannot afford to make a fool of yourself. You cannot risk forgetting the last scraps of freedom you have before you stand beside a dragon at the sept tomorrow. 

Your gaze drifts away from the cluster of smiling girls in front of you, still giggling over some lord who had just entered the hall. Your face morphs into a pleasant neutrality before you spot your beloved, Aerion Targaryen sitting alone at one of the long tables, one pale hand wrapped around a golden goblet. His fingers are restless against it, tapping it irately. If the goblet were not forged of the finest gold by the finest hands, it would already be crushed to splinters under his grip, and there is intent in the way he holds it, as though he is imagining the breaking. The lords near him cast him sidelong glances, eyes widening warily before they turn away, choosing the safety of polite ignorance over the flames of a dragon's temper.

Then, intense violet eyes find yours, and for a second you forget how to breathe. You try to shake off the fragile, trembling feeling that crawls up your spine as his gaze rakes up your face, like a hand turning a blade to catch the light. Something flickers in his Valyrian eyes, an unknown flame that sets you further on edge, then the edges of his lips curl upwards, mouth forming a sly smile. 

It somehow manages to unsettle you more than his scowl ever did. 

Suddenly, he hurls the goblet in his hands to the floor beside him, the crack of the metal on stone splits the room, sharp enough to pierce through the upbeat music and laughter. The sweet, dark wine spills out in a syrupy pool, sliding across the floor, soft and cloying, everything he is not. The serving girl nearest to him flinches violently as she drops to her knees beside his boot to clean up after the fallen cup with trembling fingers. When you look back, his smile drops from his slips yet he continues to stare at you, not with idle curiosity, but with the fixed and hungry focus of a predator who has chosen its victim. 

You tear your gaze from his, feeling your pulse jump and stomach twist, the hall feels too small, too loud, too full of eyes. Slipping away from the intimidating grey of the dining hall, skirts whisper as you weave between lords and ladies, pushing through a door onto the wide terrace that overlooks the dark smear of the sea.

A sob catches halfway up your throat as you drag in a breath, wheezing it out in a shudder. You had not realized how long you’d been holding your fear tight inside your ribs until it started spilling over. The glass clanking against the floor may have been something he had meant to show you, perhaps it was a promise of how easily his temper shatters or a suggestion of what he might do to you when nobody is watching. 

You tip your head back, forcing your gaze up to the sky, dragging in a sharp breath and holding it in, willing the tears to stay where they are. It is a star-dusted night, a faint echo of the heavens above Starfall. You fixate on them, the quiet and the distance , letting their shine stand between you and the horrors waiting for you back in the hall. 

Your fists clench at your sides, silk biting into your palms as you try to hold yourself together, because tomorrow you are meant to marry Aerion Targaryen, and you are not sure how much of you will be left once you do. 

The sound of boots on stone drags you back from the stars, and you see the dragon prince step out onto the terrace like a storm crossing a threshold. His dark cloak snaps in the wind and anger clings to him as tangibly as the scent of wine and smoke. His jaw is tense and his pale hair catches onto the torchlight behind him, violet eyes already fixed on you with a furious disbelief, as though your very presence here is an insult carved into the night. 

“You dare,” he says, voice low and threatening, “to run from your to-be husband?”

The prince looks angry, annoyed and most of all offended, so offended it is as if the emotion has sunk into his bones. You can see it in the tight line of his mouth and the way his hands flex at his sides, as though he's restraining the urge to break something just to hear it shatter. 

“No— never, my prince,” you blurt out, the words almost tumbling over one another in your haste. “I only needed some air.” Your mouth parts as you let out a breath, eyes wide with concern as you meet his violet eyes with fear racking up within your body. 

“Air?” he repeats, as though finding the words and finding them rather bitter. “Tell me, little bride, are you trying to insult me, or are you merely stupid?” 

Heat crawls up his spine, settling hot and ugly between his shoulder blades. He can feel everything in him tense along with it, his jaw, hands, and the muscles in his neck pull tight as your excuse echoes in his mind. What utter insolence he thinks, to leave him sitting alone before half the court, like some unloved fool, while his bride wanders off to stare at the stars. 

In his eyes, it is complete disrespect. Do you not understand the insult, to walk away from a dragon prince in a hall full of lords and ladies, to turn your back on him as though he is nothing.

Your mouth opens to answer, to apologise, to say something or anything, but the prince does not give you a chance.

“Are you always in the habit of abandoning your betters whenever you please?” He cuts in, voice silk over steel. 

He steps forward, and in response your body takes a step back without thinking, the movement small but unmistakable. His eyes flick down, catching your action, the retreat and the fear behind it. You cannot tell whether the sight of his eyes glimmering means he likes it, or simply files it away as something to use in the future. 

“I am so sorry,” you quickly apologize, shame crawling up your throat. You suppose it is better to apologize rather than face the wrath of the dragon, “I did not mean to—”

“First I am given a bride I do not want, but must endure, and now you make me look a fool.” 

You have no answer for him, the words dry up on your tongue. You are suddenly certain if you dare to say anything more, you will pay for it. When you still say nothing, Aerion shifts under his weight, tilting his head to regard you from above, like something curious caught under glass.

“Is this some little game of yours?” he asks, voice low and intentional. “Standing there mute, waiting to see when your dragon will finally lose his temper?”

He moves to close the distance between you with another measured step, the hem of his cloak whispering over the stone. This time, you force yourself to stay rooted where you are, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch. 

“No, my prince. That was never my intention.”

“Then why do you run from me?” he asks, head tilting slowly, eyes narrowing. “Afraid, perhaps?”

He watches the way your throat works as you swallow, the small stiffening of your shoulders. He can smell the nerves on you, they are sharp and thin, like smoke before a fire, it is instinct. You look as though you are about to murmur another sad little apology, and he almost turns away, growing bored at the sight. Instead, you lift your chin a fraction,

“No, my price,” you say in trained softness. “It is the highest honour to wed a prince of the blood.” 

You fight the horrible urge to tremble, and for a fleeting moment it almost feels as though you are standing up for yourself. Aerion says nothing at first, only studies you in silence, eyes raking over your face. Whatever interest your answer had sparked fades quickly before his gaze fools and he peers down at you with an unimpressed look.

“You lie poorly.” He says. “What a shame. If you were not so bound by duty and virtue, you might almost be interesting.” 

“Interesting how, my prince?” you find yourself asking quietly and suddenly. “For smiling when you insult me?”

You think you hate him. He feels like everything made of ash and ember, all heat and hurt and sharp edges, while you are of calmer waves and glassy tides that he would only try to pierce. You know you are pushing too far that you are prodding at a dragon’s temper with bare hands but you cannot bring yourself to be more careful. Everything is too much, the hall, the stares, and the weight of tomorrow, and you are not the only one being dragged into a marriage you do not want. 

“Is that not a wife’s duty?” he drawls, deciding to humour you. “To smile and bear what her husband gives her?” 

Aerion thinks he hates you. You pretend to be obedient, frail and soft-spoken, but the words you dare to offer him are anything but meek. Your words bite and push, his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as his lips curl into a smile that never reaches his eyes. 

“Perhaps you would find me interesting if I worshipped you as devoutly as you worship yourself.”

You meet his gaze as you say it, violet eyes on yours, steady and unflinching. Neither of you move before his eyes widen a fraction, and you see something catch a fire beneath them, a flash of raw, burning fury that makes your stomach drop, regretting your words at once. 

His breathing shifts, and rage seems to ripple through him like a shudder passing down a tethered beast. His shoulders tighten, fingers flex at his sides, even the line of his throat goes taut as if the anger is something barely held inside skin and bone. The prince looks as though he is vibrating with rage, every muscle in his body straining in order not to lash out. 

You wish with sudden, sick clarity that you had kept your mouth shut, that you had not let your frayed emotions drive you to prod at a dragon’s pride. 

The space between you closes as his pale hand is suddenly at your throat, fingers closing hard enough that the breath stumbles in your chest. His grip is iron and unforgiving, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of the side of your neck as his thumb presses against the hollow of your throat. Your back hits the cold white stone of the balustrade with a dull jult, the remaining air leaving you in a strangled gasp.

Your hand flies up on instinct, fingers donned with golden rings wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry him away, however he is far too strong. He peers down at you through dark narrowed eyes, watching the way you struggle, the way your mouth parts endlessly, the way your pulse flutters frantically beneath his palm.

His other hand almost lazily settles along your jaw, long fingers curling against your cheek, the heel of his hand pressing against the edge of your jaw as he forces your face up, angling you to meet his gaze. You try to protest, but you are pinned, held open beneath him, throat in his grasp and eyes locked onto his. 

The world narrows to the burn in your lungs and the heat of his rage wraps around your neck like a collar.

“You will not shame me,” he grinds out, grip tightening. “You are mine to endure, whether you wish it or not, and you will learn your place.” 

He leans in, closing the space between you until you can feel his breath hot across your face. He tilts his head, studying you, and his gaze drops to your lips— parted and struggling for air. There is a dark gleam in his eyes as he watches you struggle, something ugly that makes your skin crawl. 

Your vision begins to blur at the edges and black creeps in, just before you think you may faint, you swear you see your to-be husband's lips twitch, almost forming a smile before his hand loosens. 

You drag in a ragged breath as his fingers slip from your throat, but one hand remains on your sensitive skin, resting almost lightly now at the curve where the neck meets the shoulder. The contrast makes you shiver, a moment ago he was all violence and fire, but now he is close and still, leaned over you, refusing to move away— it feels almost possessive. 

He looks at you as though he is taking in art work, gaze lingering on your exposed throat. You can feel the ache blooming there, the tender skin throbbing where his grip has marked you. His fingers trail over the bruising skin in a slow brush, as if he is tracing the outline of something he has carefully crafted before he finally lifts his hand away. 

“Know who you belong to,” he says at last, voice low and unhurried, as though he is in no rush. “And do not forget it tomorrow.”

Your chest heaves as you fight to steady your breathing, each inhale sharp against your bruised throat. His gaze drops, following the rise and fall of your purple silks as they shift with every desperate breath, before sliding back up to your face. 

It is a shame, really, you used to love the colour violet, the evening-kissed skies over Starfall, the wild flowers that clung to the cliffs. Now you find yourself growing to hate it, it is everywhere, in the dress that draped fluidly around you, in the shadowed bloom that has begun to form on your neck, in the sharp and piercing violet of Aerion’s eyes that refused to leave you. 

You find yourself fearing tomorrow, after it, you will be alone in this world and only your husband’s, bound to a dragon’s temper for the rest of your life. And you cannot help but think that the colour you once adored is already beginning to dull for you.

──

The bells of the city had already begun tolling at dawn, their chime threading through the stone of the keep. The soft ringing serves as a reminder that by sunset, you will no longer be the only daughter of starfall, by sunset, you will be Aerion Targaryen’s wife.

The maid fusses with the clasp of your necklace, her cool fingers brushing the nape of your neck as you stand before a mirror, this is the last time you will see yourself as you are now, you think. Silk falls over your shoulders while the jewels catch the pale morning light, yet your gaze finds the faint purple shadow blooming at your neck. Your fingers trace the edge of the bruise, you know you are meant to be thinking of your vows, but all you can think of is the mark of his hand around your neck. 

“You look beautiful, my lady.” The maid says as she finishes with the clasp and meets your eyes in the mirror, offering you a small smile.

“Thank you,” You say, yet you cannot bring yourself to fake excitement, all you can think about is the dragon prince and the work of his hands. 

“Do you wish for me to cover it, my lady?” She asks quietly, almost hesitantly, her gaze following your eyes, hesitating before she shuffles a step closer. 

Of course, her gaze lands on your throat. After all, what else could she possibly mean with the ugly mark sitting so brazenly on your neck, impossible to ignore despite the necklace that has been carefully placed. The thought of him, your prince, soon-to-be husband, causes tension to ripple through you, a slow tightening in your shoulders as you can almost feel his fingers there again. 

“No,” you say after a moment of thinking. “It is well. Leave it as it is.”

Your eyes remained fixed on the bruise in the glass. If he can lay his hands on you before you are even officially his, then he can live with the evidence. You decide that you will let him see it, let his family see it. You want him punished in the only way left to you, you want the dragon to feel a sliver of the shame you have felt burning since arriving in King’s Landing. If you are meant to endure him for the rest of your life, you may as well make a spectacle of him before he convinces himself he is untouchable. Dragons may be fireproof, but he certainly isn’t, you think.  

Your gaze drifts, heavy and unwilling, to the large bed that rests against the wall, and you can feel fear strike clean through you. Your breath grows thick in your chest, harder to pull in, harder to push out. You know exactly what you are feeling, and you would be a fool to call it anything but fear. If he is this cruel to you before the vows are even spoken, you cannot imagine how cruel he will be when the night is his by right. 

The maid catches your expression and her face softens, giving you a sad, almost knowing smile. It is a look of a woman who has seen what men can do, who knows cruelty first hand. When you glance back at her, she meets your eyes and gives you a steady nod. It is an entirely fragile thing, but you almost feel comforted to know at least one other soul in this kingdom can feel sympathy for you. 

“I would like to be alone for a moment.” You say as you suck in a steadying breath.

Without protest she dips into a curtsey and slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her. 

The reality of today settles on you like lead, in heavy and uneven breaths you cross the room and sink down at the edge of the bed, curling towards it. Tears string your eyes as you stare at it, you try to imagine some way to keep yourself from further harm, some way to defend yourself and remain in slight control when the doors close and there is no one but your husband at your side. 

A tear slips down your left cheek and you find yourself reaching for the drawer beside the bed, pulling it open to the familiar sight of jewellery chests wrapped in velvet. Your fingers fumble past them until they find one particular box, and you draw it out, sitting on the bed as you settle it on your lap. Swiping the back of your hand across your eye you suck in a breath, reminding yourself you are strong, and must be strong. 

Opening the box, inside, Valyrian steel catches the light. A slim, beautiful blade inlaid with the crest of your house remains within, the pale metal taking on a faint white sheen where the morning sun touches it. Your brother had given it to you when you were children, a secret hidden away like a treasure, half forgotten until now. 

For a moment, you wonder what your prince would do if his throat ever met its edge, would he scramble in fear, whimper like a dragon who has lost its wings? You decide that this will be your last resort, if he tries anything with you, you will not be entirely defenceless. 

You tuck the blade beneath your pillow, angling it so your fingers can find it easily. It is hidden but close, close enough that if you need it you can reach for it in an instant. 

──

“I trust you won’t be as defiant tonight as you were yesterday, wife.” 

His words roll easily off his familiar tongue, smooth and casual, and you do not like how binding it sounds. You try to bite back every answer that tries to rise, and he seems to savour it, the taste of your shackling. You cannot help but wish he would find enjoyment in anything other than tempting your anger by simply standing in front of you.

Aerion stands before you in the reds and blacks of his house, colours cutting sharp against his pale skin. His violet eyes linger on you with a kind of idle entertainment, as if he can hear the way the word ‘wife’ grates inside your skull. He rolls the title again in his mind, you’re sure he is savouring it like a mouthful of rich wine. Stepping a little closer, his gaze drifts lower, skimming over the fall of your gown before noticing the bruise on your throat. There is a slight pause and faint narrowing of his eyes as he takes in the mark you chose not to hide. 

“Why do you choose to disgrace yourself like this?” His gaze continues to linger on your throat, voice smooth as silk. 

You pull yourself together and offer him an obedient smile, your head tips, lolling slightly to the side, baring more of your throat to his gaze. “Something made by your own hand could never be a disgrace, my prince.” 

“I do not know where this sudden nerve is coming from,” he says, voice dropping. “But do not toy with me, woman.” His eyes narrow at you, the faint glimmer in them sharpening.

The threatening edge in his voice cuts through whatever sudden spine you had found. You take a small step back, lashes lowering, smoothing your features into practiced obedience.  “I do not toy, my prince.” You say, tone soft and careful. “It is not my place to trifle with you.” 

He watches you as you finish speaking, gaze flickering down to your mouth, to the way your lips tighten around the words. A quiet huff escapes him, half irritation, half something else, and he lets the silence stretch a moment longer than comfortable. Then he clicks his tongue in a sharp, dismissive sound before finally deigning to speak again. 

“You know what is expected of you, do you not?” 

The thought of your wifely duties alone makes you shudder, a cold tremor running down your spine while fear coils in your gut. However, you smooth over your face and force your shoulders not to quake, you nod. 

“Of course, my prince.” You say, voice barely above a murmur. 

He tilts his head at that, considering your words before a low hum curls from his throat. The golden light of the hall catches on his Valyrian features, gliding against his cheekbones. For a moment, you can’t help but notice how beautiful he is, like a blade forged to be admired before it spills blood. 

“Good. Since you are so eager to please me, then you will do your duty and give me heirs worthy of dragon blood.” he muses before continuing, “Real heirs, not some bland little half-bloods.”

His tone is light, edged with condescension and something disturbingly similar to amusement as his gaze lingers on you. It drifts slowly down the line of your bruised throat, falling over the creases of your silks, and settles at your stomach, as though he’s already picturing it swollen with his seed.

“If the gods bless us so, my prince,” you say, eyes lowered, “I will bear you the heirs you desire.”

Your fingers move before your mind can catch up to the words that have just spilled from your lips, crossing your hands over your stomach in a swift yet awkward fold. It is as if you are trying to hide that part of you from his gaze, the gesture feels small and foolish but you try and cling to it. Dislike coils hot inside you, bitter as you continue to gaze at the dragon prince. 

He seems almost pleased by your answer, as though he hadn’t quite expected you to agree. He nods once, pouting his lips before he falls into thinking as you murmur again, 

“If I may be excused, my prince.”

He regards your presence for a heartbeat longer, then inclines his head. “Very well.” 

You leave the hall with your head lowered, the roar of conversation and music dimming behind you in every step. He torches throw wavering shadows over your face as you bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep another sob from clawing its way out, blinking fast to prevent your vision blurring. 

Fear sits heavy in your gut as you make your way into the bedding chambers, a cold knot tightens and presses at your ribs as you are walking away from the girl you will not be again. Yet, beneath it all, you think of Aerion in an unwelcome thread of curiosity, you wonder what he will be like when the door shuts and there are no witnesses. 

You slip inside and close the chamber door behind you, the room is quieter than you remembered, the candlelight pooling soft and golden over the bed. Turning towards the mirror, your fingers find the clasp of your cloak, sliding the fabric from your shoulders, leaving only silk, skin, and jewels staring back at you. It is duty, you think as your gaze stays to the bed behind you in the glass, searching over the pillow where a blade lies hidden beneath, a secret waiting for your hand. 

Moving towards the bed in slow steps, your fingertips brush the carved post as the door opens, and Aerion steps inside, shrugging off his cape in a smooth motion before his gaze finds you at once. The space between you seems to narrow as his violet eyes lock with yours, and that strange feeling coils in your chest again. You refuse it as curiosity, deeming it as nerves as you know you hate him, or you should hate him. Yet, your breath comes quicker and your chest rises and falls as the two of you hold each other’s stare in quiet intensity. 

“Waiting for me already, wife?” He speaks as he slowly crosses over to you, eyes unmoving from yours. Your gaze tracks over him, to the pale fall of his hair and the way the lamplight falls over his face, in this light, he looks attractive. Swallowing as he draws nearer, you feel your throat tighten with every inch he closes between you. 

Retreating on instinct, the back of your knees collide with the mattress and it takes you off balance. You drop onto the edge of the bed with a thud, fingers catching in the blankets as you look up at him. Aerion steps into the space you’ve surrendered, boot brushing your leg as he presses his knee forward. He parts your legs with an easy, unhurried nudge, sliding his thigh between yours until you’re forced to open around him. 

You feel heat seep through the thin layers of silk as his chest looms in front of you, and your breath stutters. His gaze drags down over you, your bare face, your bared throat, and the rise and fall of your purple silks where his knee is bracketed between your legs. Then slowly, his eyes climb back up, pinning you in place. 

His hand rises as you feel every inch of its approach, and it rests along the edge of your jaw. His fingers are careful this time, the pad of his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw rather than digging into it, slender fingers warm against your skin. He exhales, breath ghosting over your lips as he leans down, lids lowering as his gaze roams your face.

“You’re not so bad up close,” he murmurs at last. 

His fingers tighten, just enough to remind you who is in control. “On the bed,” he commands quietly, and you obey him.

Shuffling back, silk whispering as you crawl up against the pillows until they cradle your spine. The mattress dips as he sits at the edge to pull off his boots before he follows you, knees sinking into the mattress, the frame creaking softly under his weight as he looms over you. His hands go to fasten his top, one by one he works the buttons loose before the sharp line of his throat and collarbones appear, pale in the lamplight. 

You watch, unable to look away while he shrugs the garment off his shoulders until he tugs the shirt away completely and reveals lean muscle painted with shadows of old bruises or training scars that rise and fall of his chest. Heat crawls over you, prickling beneath your skin and you are not sure if it is fear, shame or something else you cannot name. He tosses the shirt aside before looking back at you, hair spilled on pillows as silk draped over you, it is as if he’s cataloguing every inch of you laid out before him. 

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” He suddenly asks, eyes lingering where the silk hitches up your thighs. 

You pause, chest heaving a little too fast, fingers knotting in the sheets. “Yes,” you breathe, “I am.”

“Good,” he says, running his tongue through his teeth. “They’re always easy to get wet.” 

He moves in and a startled breath slips from you as his hand finds your face again, fingers curling more gently this time along your jaw as his finger rests beneath your cheekbone. Holding you there steadily his violet eyes lock with yours before he lowers his head. His mouth finds the crook of your neck, feeling your pulse beat against his warm lips that move slowly, as if he is tasting something that he now owns. A small whimper escapes your throat before you can stop yourself, and you feel his mouth curve against your throat, a small smile pressed into your skin. His eyes open and his gaze darkens as he lifts his head upward back towards your face.

Heat pools low in your belly, and it feels shameful the way your body betrays you. You can’t help but look at him, eyes wide and full of something that feels much like guilt, as if he’s caught you in a sin you never chose. 

“Enjoying this now, are you?” he asks as something shifts in his gaze, tone going cool as he inhales slowly. His eyes track over your face then inevitably down to the bruise at your throat. Like flames flickering beneath skin, his hand slides from your jaw to that mark, fingers tightening suddenly as he grips your throat and presses your head deeper into the pillow. You feel panic slam through you as the mattress seems to swallow you whole. 

Your lungs burn, his fingers brand your throat, and your vision narrows to the dark blur of Aerion’s face above you.

“M…my prince—” You try to reason, but he does not hear you, only leaning in further as his eyes remain fixed on yours, and you see his other hand rising, fingers tensing as it comes towards your neck. 

In fear, your body decides for you as your arm snaps sideways, diving beneath the pillow. Your fingers close around the cool steel, the familiar shape of the hilt fitting into your palm as you rip it free and drag it up in a sharp and desperate slash. The blade flashes in the candlelight and meets the flesh of his hand in a wet resistance, parting his skin a fast gash. Heat splatters across your knuckles as Aerion jerks back both of his hands with a snarl,

“Fuck—!” He yells as blood spills from the gash, dark and bright all at once, running in quick rivulets down his palm and dripping onto the sheets between you. 

The dagger slips from your fingers and falls onto the mattress, your hand recoiling as though burned. Scrambling backward, your spine presses hard into the headboard while your husband stares at his hand, blood splattering onto the sheets in soft drops. His palm curls, flexes, crimson welling fresh with every twitch as you watch it trail down the line of his wrist, staining his pale skin. Aerion lifts his head, fury in his eyes blinding, violet eyes gone dark, burning straight through you. Your stomach lurches at the sight, gaze trapped onto his bloody figure. 

“You whore,” he spits, low and vicious. “You dare to shed blood of the dragon?” 

“No— no, my prince, I—” The words die in your throat as he looks at you through half-lowered lids, rage simmering just beneath the surface. His injured hand reaches for the dagger and his blood smears over the hilt as his fingers wrap around it. 

Bringing it up, you whimper a small and broken sound as the blade comes closer, glinting in the low light. His face follows, leaning in as a warm drop of blood falls from his wrist onto your bare skin, then another, sliding hot and sticky over your collarbone as he lifts the knife toward your throat. You suppose this is the end, you’ve laid steel against the prince of the realm, there is no taking that back. 

“You spill a dragon’s blood, wife,” he says, studying you with the length of the blade, voice low and calm when it comes. “And you think there will be no price?” 

His gaze drops from your eyes to your collarbone, to where his blood makes a trail over your skin. He stares at it with a terrible, intentional hunger, like a man eyeing a feast laid out before him, watching each red line crawl over the sharp jut of bone. 

“You must be taught the cost of that.”

Slowly, he moves the dagger that shines in the candlelight toward your collarbone, pressing the cold edge against your warm skin. His violet eyes watch intensely as your skin splits apart, blood sweeping through the slash like sweet wine dripping from a goblet, your blood swelled and mixed with the crimson already staining his hands. His thumb smeared through both as though ready to taste the liquid, his and your own mingling over your skin in a glistening streak.

“H—haah…” You whimper out at the stinging pain, a broken sound caught in your throat. At once the sweet noise you make catches his attention as he lolls his head up to your pained expression with an unnamed satisfaction.

“I was right,” he murmurs, nails dragging slowly against your neck, voice low and almost thoughtful, “You do look pretty with fear on your face.”

He leaned down again, slower this time as the heat of his mouth brushed against the bloodied trail along your collarbone. The touch made you suck in a deep breath, your whole body going taut against him as he shifts closer, closing the space between you. It feels wrong. It feels disgusting. And yet, your body betrays you as your legs tense and a restless heat gatherers low inside you, it is dark and shameful and impossible to ignore. 

The warmth of his mouth traces at the thin red line at your collarbone and you feel a sudden drag of his tongue against you. You try to catch your breath, but it is of no use as the heat of his mouth is lingering and unhurried, and he continues to lick away the blood as though he is savouring the taste of it. A dark warmth pools low in you, feeling humiliating throbs between your legs, the satisfaction is so dirty you feel it makes shame rise hot beneath your skin. You do not want it, you think you do not want it, but your body answers differently as you press your hips into his thigh, aching cunt trying to press against him in some hope of friction. 

His nails drag slowly where they rest against you and your breathing turns uneven, leaving you in a trembling rush. You tip your head back to look at him breathlessly, lashes heavy and mouth parted as your eyes find his, and he looks up at you in terrible focus, listening to every little hitch in your breathing. You suddenly feel him pressed against the heat of your cunt, his lips parting faintly as he pushes himself closer, almost like he’s refusing to let you grind onto him. 

“You enjoy it,” he says, breath caught in a sharp hiss when he feels you move against him once again.

“I do not,” you manage, breathless as your chest rises and falls, trying to pull in another breath under the heat of his gaze. 

His mouth curves upwards without warmth, taking in your ruined figure. “No?” he continues, thumb pressing against your neck before it tightens, which forces you to arch subtly towards him. “Then why are you pressed against me like a bitch in heat?” 

He pulls your head back slowly as his gaze drags over your tired face, forcing your gaze up at him. You try to pull in another breath, but it only seems to amuse him as he leans closer, inhaling sharply through his nose. 

“No, you do not get to move against me like that and pretend innocence,” he begins, staring you down with his violet lidded eyes before he drags them over your throat, to your jaw and then to your lips. “You must taste the blood you’ve spilt.” 

Aerion leans in slowly as you feel the heat of his breath as blood continues to stain his lips, smeared at the edge of them before his mouth presses to yours and stains your lips with red. His lips move against yours as though he wishes to claim all of you, below you his hand tightens just enough to keep you in place while his lips continue to drag against yours slowly. Your lips part slightly as you let out a shaky moan into his mouth and he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes of metal and rust, and the blood continues to drip into your mouth, smearing your lips with red. 

He pulls back only a small fraction, just enough to free you and see the red that is now smeared across both your mouths, branding you of him. It all feels wrong, tastes wrong, like the memory of claws biting into flesh, but the realization steals through you all the same, you want him. You want to feel the heat, you want the fire, and you want to burn. 

A single dark drop of red gathers at the curve of your lip, trembling before it begins to slip down your parted lips, trailing lower to the line of your chin. His gaze follows as it falls, then his hand rises and once slowly, his thumb catches it before it can fall any further, smearing the red across the pad of his skin. His violet eyes stay fixed on your face with terrible calm before he draws his hand back, gaze locked with yours as he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it with infuriating slowness. He sucks his thumb clean without looking away, as though your reaction is the truly satisfying thing. 

His hand slides down your thigh, fingers settling there before they drag a little higher, slow enough to make your breath hitch. “Your legs tremble, wife,” he murmurs, his eyes remaining on your face as his mouth curves, “Are you growing restless for me?” His voice is mocking, but you cannot find it in yourself to deny him.

You drag in a shaky breath and tilt your chin up at him, trying to gather what little pride you have left. “You speak... as though it displeases you,” your breath shudders against him, lashes fluttering before you push your head back onto the pillow behind you.

Aerion tilts his head at you, and his hands move to grab your hips without bothering to reply. He forces your back further against the bed before he presses you down into the sheets before you can move. The mattress dips beneath you and the silk twists at your legs as his grip tightens, full of possessiveness before his mouth curves faintly,

“I will not be displeased so long as you remember to obey me.” 

Then he shifts closer, slow enough to shake you until the space between you begins to vanish again. His slender fingers then reach for his pants, fastening his clothes, undoing them with slow hands as you can only watch as he shoves them aside, his face does not soften before he looks at you once again, and his lips are on yours again. 

You taste him and feel the heat of his body as his hands pull on edges of your dress, pulling it over your stomach, revealing your trembling cunt dripping with pain before him. Aerion hisses, hips jerking toward your soaked cunt as you feel the tip of his cock brush against your slit. You latch onto his sweaty shoulder, nails digging into his pale skin before he lets out a heavy breath.

“You weep for me, wife.” he says as you let out a whimper and brush your hips further into his hard cock, silk beginning to flatten against your stomach as he moves closer, wrist flicking as he grabs the base of cock, giving it a light stroke. 

“Aerion— please,” you find yourself speaking in desperation, head lolling to the side as he lets out an amused huff and his lips brush against yours again.

“There, there,” he says softly, almost mockingly. “That is better. You should remember how to speak with me.” 

Aerion then curls his slender hand around your waist, jerking his hips forward before he begins to push himself into your warm cunt. Unable to handle your bodyweight, your head slips further into the pillow as you feel him penetrate you entirely, your gaze blurs before you feel a sting, trying to adjust to his sheer size. 

You gasp, throwing your head back as you feel a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, his cock stretching your walls. Aerion slips his dick in you further and your nails dig into his shoulders as you whimper, trying to bury your head into his shoulder. He snaps his hips forward, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix as you gasp, “Hah—” it's so deep in you, you swear you feel yourself seeing stars. 

Aerion lets a grin out at the sight and continues to rut into you while breathily grunting, “You belong to me,” be begins, drawing out the sentence with quick huffs while he continues to thrust into your wet cunt, “all of you belongs to me.” His hand begins to trace your thigh shakily as he grunts out a quiet “fuck!” when he feels you clench around him, pressing his face closer to yours.

Tears well up in your eyes as he hurries his pace, chasing a high both of you seem to be reaching before he begins to suck at the crook of your neck where the mix of your blood begins to dry, “Tell me you belong to me.” he commands, hips dipping further into you as he continues to lick the blood dry, you can only moan in response as he drags his tongue

When you don’t respond immediately his abdomen tenses and he removes himself from the crook of your neck, earning a needy whine from you. “Say it,” he bites the words out, eyes lingering on yours with the embers of flames glimmering behind them, and you can almost see the frustration build up within him as he grips your neck, forcing you to look at him as he continues to thrust into you with slowed movements. 

“I’m yours,” you say, biting your lip as tears well up in your eyes as you feel his thrusts begin to fasten again, his cock once again buried deep inside you. Your thighs burn with pleasure as his cock continues to push into your gummy walls, and his chest flushes against yours in satisfaction before you feel breathless. 

He settles against you fully, skin to skin and the heat of him wraps around you like flesh giving into flame. It feels like you are being burned, it is cruel and consuming but you find yourself wanting more of it, you think this must be how a dragon leaves its mark, where you cannot tell the difference between warmth and burning. 

Your hand slides into the silver of his hair, gripping it tightly before he snarls at you and moves to give you an open-mouthed kiss, and you find yourself kissing him back with similar intensity. You lewdly moan into his mouth before he speeds up again at the sound of the soft melody leaving your throat, and he suddenly bites down on your lip and you let out a choked noise. 

Suddenly you find yourself slipping your arms around his shoulders and bringing his body closer to you as you feel your belly grow warmer and pleasure coils through you, “Aerion,” you breathe out, hands sliding to cradle him as his slightly watery violet eyes meet yours.

His head falls forward toward you as he ruts into you fast, like a territorial animal, and you suppose it is because dragons are territorial creatures after all, but you do not mistake the way he lets out a huffed groan. You squirm under him, feeling that coil in your stomach intensify before you desperately cling to him, rolling your hips into him slowly. 

Aerion’s pace grows sloppy as he feels your cunt spasm around him and he grinds his teeth together, “Fuck— Don’t move.” Instead, you do the opposite and jerk your hips upwards earning a lewd moan from him before he throws his head back with a clenched jaw and his veins bulging in sudden strain. 

Locking your legs around him you mutter his name over and over and with one last roll of his hips he spills his seed deep inside your cunt, thrusting forward once more in order to make sure a drop of it doesn’t leak. Your lips brush the side of his shoulder before the coil within you snaps and you find yourself cumming around his cock, whining while your hips stutter. 

Neither of you move and Aerion makes no attempt to slip out of you, remaining where he is with heavy breaths as your bodies press together in marital bliss. The room around you remains swallowed in candlelight as his hand does not leave you. Instead, his fingers drift slowly to the bruised skin at your neck, tracing the mark, as though admiring something he has made. The touch is light, but it makes your breath hitch nevertheless. 

His eyes stay fixed on the darkened shape before they lift to yours, lips curling into a small smirk. A dragon has laid claim to you, and you feel it like the claws buried beneath your skin. There is nothing more you can do now except be held here and burn. 

“You are mine to endure now.” he says at last, voice unhurried. “Do not forget it, wife.” 

divider made by me (please credit if used)

woahhhh this one shot was long aff hahahah and it took so long to write. i love my aerion so much he deserves all the love but at the same time he is a complete evil man!!

all reblogs and comments are so so so appreciated and loved <3