#got x reader

The wedding was a punishment in and of itself. Aerion couldn’t wipe off that sneer in his face. He seemed somewhat satisfied with how beautiful you looked at that moment. But everyone from his family to the court can tell this whole match - this wedding - you - have slighted him and there is nothing you can do to not feel so small against him. Even as you share a dance, there is no warmth, just duty. 

The bedding was extremely painful. Made you almost wish you weren’t a maiden; there was no time for you to undress with the prince laying you on the soft mattress. Climbing on top of you, his breath reeking of wine. He tugged down his pants, lifting your gown; there was no gentleness as he thrusted in and out of you. You couldn’t muffle your sobs, hand reaching to grab his arm to anchor yourself. And when the deed was done, you just stared up at the ceiling, unable to hear the words he spoke to you before leaving.

The night was a haze with all the days blurring together. Aerion had kept his distance since, it’s not long before you felt like a ghost wandering the halls. Newlyweds were the talk of the court, whispers were exchanged of the sad bride you were becoming; gossip you pretend doesn't bother you. It didn’t help that your husband would just walk in front of you, taking quick steps, and at first you tried to keep up with him, but your sore legs served as a reminder, so you remained far behind. Breakfast and supper were spent by yourself in silence, unless his family took pity on you and invited you to sit with them. 

You have learned to put up with your husband, a fate you didn’t anticipate, but what else were you to do but tolerate it. Even when Aerion wasn’t angry, it always seems as if he’s mocking you. Lessons didn’t elude you, as your septa taught you; you were polite, courteous, laughing when it called for it, even tried to ask of his family’s history, anything to make the marriage more bearable. 

Your husband still visited your chamber and you knew exactly what he wanted. Who were you to deny him? You could only cling to his shoulders as he thrusts into you. Times he would push your nightwear up, exposing your nips to the cold air, whimpering when his fingers touched and squeezed your breasts. His pace all the brutal, but with each visit, the pain eases and your sobs slowly turn into moans as you learn to enjoy it.

Aerion has good days, they are rare, but you learned to cherish them when they came. One could swear he enjoys hearing himself talk. You learned not to contradict him, for your husband is a man built with pride that when you gently corrected him; a misplaced name or he confused a minor house. The prince will snap at you and you’ll be given the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. If there is a crowd, he’ll even make a joke at your expense. 

Every word felt like walking across glass. He is not a fool; Aerion knows every second that passes is you trying so desperately to please him. How your sweet words feed a little more and more into his vanity and when you call him my prince, something in him twitches. It all pleases him in ways he doesn’t fully understand, even in a twisted sense, arouses him. He knows you have no family nearby to protect you, no allies to speak for you, only the Targaryen prince who no one dares to defy. 

Your husband who once looked at you as if you were nothing more than the air he breathed has begun to be seen more often. The quiet hours you had grown accustomed to are now shadowed by his presence. He would ask of the book you're reading that seems to preoccupy you so much, only to hum dully in response. And when you are allowed at court, able to finally exchange pleasantries with the other ladies. Your husband can’t help to corner you as soon as you take your leave, asking what has you in such good spirits. There is tiny amusement in seeing his brows furrow when you say it’s just idle talk.

Visits to your bedchambers have become so frequent, you grew to expect it. Acting gullible to his gaze while you arrange your hair in front of the mirror, pretending not to know what he’s here for either. You’ve grown shameful in how you seem to look forward to it.

It was all for duty, your only worth was to give him heir. But surely duty isn’t running through his head as you feel so good, your tight cunt squeezing his cock. It’s like it was made for him and only him. He says. And as you wrapped in the sheets, covered in sweat; you hum as he speaks on the weather, some foolish gossip he heard or an upcoming tourney. He stays the night, snoring softly beside you. 

There are other nights where your husband visits because he’s restless, complaining of his family or whichever lord happened to offend him that day. He lets you pour his wine as he rambles on. He would dare not say he simply came seeking your company. His eyes follow as you light the candles, he comments on it, of course, asking why don’t you leave it to your servants instead, not long before you feel the familiar tug at the laces of your night dress. Demanding you undress and you know better than to refuse.

Sometimes he asks if you miss your family. When you admit you do, confusion flicks across his face. You have risen in station, married to a Targaryen prince; a maiden’s every dream. Aerion finds himself more annoyed than he should whenever you mention how you miss your home.

You belong to him now, your place remains by his. It doesn’t matter how tedious or late such events are. You remember all too well how furious he was when he asked where you were and he was informed you had returned to your chambers, too tired to stay. Aerion bursted into your place later in the night, blaming you for his foul mood, he had to entertain some drunk old fool all alone. As long as he is there, you must accompany him, is that not what wives do for their husbands.

Just like his love, Aerion must be the most jealous man you have ever crossed paths with. There can be no reasonings; it’s like wildfire, it spreads and there’s nothing you can do but wait for it to die down. You are stuck in its path, having to just endure it.

When tournaments are held, you are seated among the royal family watching your husband. There is no definitive proof but you feel his gaze flicker at you through the steel of his helm. And there is the semblance of proof, when he lifts his visor and you’re met with a smug smile meant only for you.

Before the tournament begins or after it, he demands you to be in his tent. He acts like he doesn’t need your praise or sweet words of encouragement. When it’s all over, he comes to you still in armor, the smell of blood, sweat and dirt clinging to him. The dirt of the field stains your gown when he pulls you close, insisting you should celebrate his victory, his mouth clashing into yours.

You’ll never forget the day when one simply asked for your favor. He was a boy from some minor house. And even if your husband was in denial of any feeling of attachment he had towards you. The mere act was seen as an insult, you pitied the boy long before and the gods must have been cruel to make him face your husband next. When Aerion struck, he didn’t target the shield but rather the legs of the horse. The boy was flinged from his horse landing face first into the ground, you gasped along with the crowd. Even from a distance, you can see the boy’s face all bloody and mangled as they dragged him away.

Aerion’s jealousy has become the talk across king’s landing, yet no one dares to say it out loud. A glance from another man across supper will have him feel a sick rage of jealousy. Tightening his hold on the goblet and you feign as you can’t feel his other hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. He’ll even squeeze your fingers a little too tightly when he thinks you’ve spoken to some other lady-in-waiting for far too long. The only reason his wrath is so restrained is due to his father. 

Aerion pretends he is above it all, acting indifferent but it burns in his eyes. His jealousy sometimes can seem ridiculous even childish yet you are always there to reassure him. Yes, Lord Tyrell made you laugh, but no one can ever be as charming as him. Yes, you spoke with lady Royce for a while, but no one is more of a pleasant company than him. You’re even careful not to clap too eagerly to another during tourneys, according to your husband, none of them could perform as well as he does. 

Your servants have gotten used to lowering their eyes when entering your chambers. The prince has become a common sight,  laying beside you, chest bare, an arm draped around you and hair tangled. If you shift, he stirs as well. An unfortunate lesson was taught when you left your husband waking up alone, for you were informed your maid ran out in tears; met with a foul mood Aerion during breakfast time. 

Aerion also being drunk is another common sight. He is far more affectionate, clinging to you. Yet you are still careful, his temper is still unpredictable, his jealousy if even possible is more intense, and his words are much harsh. Sometimes he looks at you, almost like he is bewitched, brushing your hair aside so he can take a better look.

Aerion cannot not touch you now. A hand will trail up your arm or toy with a strand of your hair yet in the same breath, Aerion insists he has no care for you. He’ll not hold your hand even when he wants you to follow, gripping your wrist instead. Do not try pushing his hand away unless you want a furious Aerion. His affection is, in many cases, rough. Gripping your face when he wants your attention or when he’s kissing you. The servants try not to stare when they are dressing you and see the hickies and bites laid across your skin.

Aerion would rather face a terrible death than admit he seeks your approval. He’ll tell stories or a jest and his head turns you, waiting for your laugh or nod. Aerion also surprisingly knows when something is wrong, it can’t be because he watches you so often. He knows how you twist your ring when you’re anxious or how you seem more lost in thought when nervous. He’ll ask, sounding more irritated than concerned. Aerion wishes to fix it, but his version of doing so is finding someone to blame for it then taking it out on them. 

Silence treatment is a death wish. It didn’t matter what Aerion did. Using silence as your weapon will drive this man mad. You remember all too well when he threw a cup at the wall right beside your head when you refused to answer him. Aerion didn’t apologize, he never does. He simply moved on with the day, as if nothing had happened. 

Aerion loves to spoil you. Dressed in his house colors, your dresses sewed with silks, hair pinned with adorned clasps. The first gift was a necklace with a dragon pendant, his sigil. He jests the gifts made you less plain beside him, yet his eyes linger with hunger whenever you wore them. But heaven forbid you wear anything from your own house or worse, do the offense of wearing someone else’s gift. No he doesn’t care if it was a family gift, he’ll throw it out the window or in the open sea without you knowing. 

And yet, with all of this. Aerion swears it’s not love. He is too proud for that. Love is a weakness. Love is for fools and singers. He can easily replace you. Find another lady from wherever who can do the simplest task of warming his bed and bearing him heirs. Yet Aerion finds himself noticing how your eyes twinkle in the moonlight, what rings you like to fiddle with when you are nervous, and your soft scent of lavender that lingers even when you leave. 

There was a time when fever struck. It seemed simple at first. Aeron didn’t even seem all that concerned, but when you became bedridden, and there was a slim chance of you not making it out – Aerion began to panic. He was truly unruly, the maesters were threatened while they worked, the servants were accused of poisoning you. There was such a scene, Maekar himself was forced to intervene, forcing his son from your bedside so the maesters could actually do their work. Dragons do not die of weakness, he kept telling himself. You must not. You will not. And when the fever finally broke, the realm seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Maekar was even unsure if you had tamed his son or drawn him deeper into madness. 

There is no separating you and Aerion. What began as a cold, loveless marriage had turned into something you are unsure what to call. For now, the man, the prince you married will never claim he loves you, and he’ll always remain cruel. But you know he would kill for you. He will force a lord into his knees if he was to make a joke of your expense. He not only wants you, desires you, but he needs you, like the flower needs the rain. You must only say the word and he’ll fulfill it and maybe that is all what a person wants. And with nothing else to do, you have grown to also care and love this cruel man. 

When you see him sitting like that, it's hard not to get excited and jump on him.

And poor Dunk doesn't really know why you're suddenly so passionate, climbing onto his lap as if you were conquering a mountain, kissing his neck and whispering sweet words of praise onto his skin, fragrant with his masculine scent. But who could possibly be so foolish as to refuse your attention?

“L–love?” He clears his throat as he calls for you, his long fingers caressing your lower back as he simply lets himself be pampered by you, chirping like a happy little bird, “may I ask the reason for this sudden outburst of affection?”

He is such a gentleman and just so good.

“You're so handsome and big, Dunk,” you tell him in awe, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And he blushes, of course, tilting his head away from yours so he can look you in the eyes, searching for some sign in your expression that might suggest you are just teasing him, but why would you tease him about that?

Your lips are plump from all the kisses you've showered on his skin, taking your time on every freckle and mole and scar you find on his upper body.

“Does that— does that arouse you?” Dunk asks, his voice dropping sheepishly as he speaks. 

You smile coquettishly, your fingers caressing his warm, flushed cheek. “It arouses me to see you like this and to know you’re mine.”

All yours.

He considers all the men who would love to be in his shoes, with a glass of fine wine in one hand and the other appreciatively caressing the finest ass in all of Westeros, as you, the most stunning woman in the world, bounce on his lap like a savage beast, drawing out hoarse moans from deep within his throat with every twirl of your merciless hips.

The fat tip of his cock drags heavily inside you, forcing its way open through your tight, gummy walls. He's so deep you can feel it in your fucking throat.

“That's it,” is never shy to keep whispering praises at your neck, kissing affectionately the point where your shoulder meets your collarbone, running his tongue over a drop of sweat rolling down your skin and moistening it some more with his saliva. He really loves when you take control and simply having to sit back and enjoy the view. “You do it so well, my love. Fuck— still so bloody tight— uhh— just like that”

Barely does his deep voice stand out above the lewd sounds of your sexes joining, flesh slamming against flesh, so wet, so filthy.

“So fuckin’ big,” you whine out, yet you take every inch of him all the way down like the good girl you are, sitting nice and pretty on his lap, your bum pressing down on his heavy balls. Your hands squeeze his broad shoulders, seeking to catch his gaze amidst the shadows of the night. “Dunk—

“Hmm?” he hums in response to your little cry immediately, croakily. Then he kisses your neck, your forehead, your nose, and your lips, “I’ve got you, love. I always got you. So good for me.”

And from there, he'll take care of the rest. He'll drop the cup of his dear wine to get a good grip on your plump buttocks, squeezing your hips, rocking you up and down on his cock, up and down, like a weightless little doll.

Your man is so strong, yet so gentle with you.

Dunk can't stop kissing you! He kisses your tear-streaked face clean to taste the exquisite blend of your teardrops and sweat. He loves the taste of you.

He is devoted to satisfying and pampering you, so naturally your pleasure comes before his own. He ensures that you finish at least twice before he does, a set of intrusive fingers stimulating your sensitive clit, pressing between your soaked folds, sucking on your perky nipples.

“You're so small, so gorgeous... all mine, y–yeah?”

His cock is stretching you out so much that if you look down, you can see the outline of it poking out from the inside of your belly every time he thrusts all the way in. 

Dunk glances at it too, and that's all it takes to push him to climax. 

He cums so much that he quickly fills you up. Your abused cunt is oozing with cum, greedily milking him absolutely dry and sucking in as much of his seed as she can. 

The wind howled outside the tower, rattling shutters and setting the fire to crackle and spit as Robb fed it another log.

Behind him, the bed creaked softly as you shifted, burrowed deep beneath the furs with a book balanced on your knees and Grey Wind curled heavy and warm at your side. His tail flicked once with lazy contentment, thumping softly against the mattress.

Robb turned, brushing ash from his hands. "It’s freezing. Move over."

He crossed the room, tugging off his tunic with chilled fingers, but the moment he lifted the covers to slide in beside you, Grey Wind’s head snapped up.

A low whine. Then a growl, he wasn't angry, just... possessive.

"Don’t start," Robb warned, already half in the bed.

Grey Wind stood.

Robb froze as the stubborn beast stepped right into the spot Robb had been aiming for and promptly sat.

You snorted behind your book.

"Oh, you think this is funny?"

"A little," you murmured, eyes still on the page.

Robb glowered. He wasn't about to share his wife tonight, and especially not with his damn wolf. He gently pushed Grey Wind out of the way and crawled into the bed.

You giggled as Robb pulled the book out of your hands and tossed it across the room. He leaned down and nuzzled into your neck, trailing kisses over your bare shoulder.

"Robb," you gasped, "Your hands are freezing."

He hummed in response, pushing the covers down, so he could slip his hands beneath your nightgown. He kissed his way up your neck, his fingers tickling up your thigh.

You arched toward him with a breathy sigh, and Robb smiled against your skin, his voice low and thick with want.

"I’ve been waiting all day to have you like this," he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. "Warm and soft and all mine."

Your hands found his hair as leaned over you, the weight of him delicious, grounding. His mouth found your collarbone, your throat, your lips…and just as his fingers slipped beneath your nightdress, brushing over your soaked heat-

Whump.

Grey Wind jumped back onto the bed.

Pushing himself right between the two of you.

Robb groaned loudly, dropping his head to your chest as the direwolf circled once, then flopped down directly across your hips.

You let out a startled laugh, half breathless, half annoyed. "He’s so dramatic."

Robb sat up, shoving at the direwolf’s massive shoulder. "Off, Grey Wind."

The wolf blinked. Didn’t move.

"Down," Robb repeated, sterner this time. "Go lie by the fire."

With an exaggerated sigh, Grey Wind heaved himself off your legs and padded a few steps away... only to sit again at the end of the bed, watching. Judging.

Robb gave you a look that said ignore him, and you tried…really tried…as he lowered his head between your thighs and drew a slow, deliberate lick up your center.

You moaned, hand flying to his curls, hips canting toward his mouth. "Oh…Robb-"

Before either of you could register the sudden shift in weight on the mattress, all eighty pounds of fur and misguided concern landed directly on Robb’s back.

"Seven hells!" Robb sputtered, dragging himself up off you with an exasperated huff as Grey Wind walked over him, sniffing at your face, licking your cheek like you were the wounded party.

You couldn’t help it, you burst into helpless laughter.

Robb looked murderously betrayed.

"That’s it."

He stood, hoisting Grey Wind from the bed. The wolf let out a startled huff, clearly offended as Robb stomped to the chamber door, flung it open, and deposited the menace into the hall.

"No more interruptions. No more chaperones. You are banished."

Grey Wind sat outside the door and howled.

Robb slammed it shut and locked it, turning back to you with hair tousled, chest rising and falling, and a look in his eyes that made your thighs press together.

"Where were we?" he breathed, already climbing back over you, hands sliding up your sides.

"Hmmm," you hummed, grinning as you wrapped your legs around his waist. "I think you were about to make me forget my own name."

Robb smiled, a real, proper smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "My favorite thing to do."

He reclaimed your lips, one arm braced by your head, the other pushing your nightdress up, helping you pull it over over your head. Your skin tingled in the firelight, the cold air a shock before the heat of him returned.

He kissed down your stomach, and your hands tangled in his curls as he settled between your thighs again. His gaze met yours over the plane of your body, dark and adoring, and then he lowered his head, and the world narrowed to the point of his mouth on you.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he worked you with his tongue, slow, languid strokes that built a tight, aching knot deep inside you. Every flick, every suck, every breath against your slick heat was deliberate, practiced. He knew exactly what you liked, exactly what made your breath hitch, exactly what made you arch off the bed.

He murmured something against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through you. Your whole body tensed as he sped up, a relentless rhythm that made your toes curl, that made your own moans sound distant, unfamiliar. His name was a prayer on your lips as he pushed you over the edge, your entire body shattering in a wave of blinding, perfect release.

He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your stomach until you were trembling and pliant, blinking back stars.

When he finally moved back over you, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. You could feel him, hot and hard and insistent against your thigh, but he made no move to hurry, content to just kiss you slow and deep, stroking your hair back from your damp forehead.

You pressed your hands against his chest, a gentle push that he answered easily.

You rolled with him, settling on top, straddling him. He looked up at you, firelight catching in his hair, his blue eyes soft in the dim light. He watched you as you positioned him, watched you as you slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch.

You both groaned at the connection, the familiar, perfect stretch of him. You began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that had him fisting the furs, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

His hands came up to grip your waist, guiding you, encouraging you.

"There you go," he rasped, his head thrown back. "Just like that, my love. You're perfect."

You leaned forward, changing the angle, and the friction shot straight through you, pulling another moan from your lips. He sat up then, wrapping an arm around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. The new position left you breathless, every thrust deeper, more deliberate. His face was buried in your neck, his hands gripping your ass, moving you against him.

"Robb," you gasped, your own hands fisted in his hair.

"I know," he breathed, his voice ragged. "I know. Come with me. Come with me now, love."

And you did. It was a slower, deeper wave this time, a crest that broke again and again as you continued to move together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the frigid air. He followed you over, a choked groan against your skin as he pulsed inside you, filling you with his warmth.

After, you stayed tangled, a mess of limbs and heavy breaths. He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, small, soft kisses that made your chest ache.

Then, from the hallway, came a loud, mournful howl.

And then another.

Robb stilled, then started to chuckle, a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your chest. You couldn't help but join in, burying your face in his shoulder, your body shaking with laughter.

"I'm going to skin that wolf," Robb said, but there was no heat in it. "Make a lovely rug for our chambers."

"He's just protective," you mumbled against him.

"He's a menace," he corrected, but he was smiling. He rolled, pulling you with him so you were curled against his side, your head on his chest. The fire crackled, the only other sound in the room besides the occasional, pathetic whine from the other side of the door.

He drew patterns on your back, a slow, lazy path up and down your spine. "Maybe we should just leave him out there. A night in the cold might teach him a lesson."

"Now you are being cruel," you chided, sitting up to look at him. "He'll think we're angry with him."

"I am angry with him," he said, though he pulled you back down for another kiss, this one slow and sweet. "He interrupted his king."

You laughed, a soft, happy sound. "Well his queen has granted him mercy."

You slipped from the bed, pulling your discarded nightgown over your head. You padded to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open just a crack.

A huge, furry head pushed its way in immediately, a wet nose nudging your hand and a low whine rumbling in Grey Wind's chest. You knelt, scratching him behind the ears. "You are a troublemaker," you whispered.

He wagged his tail, thumping it against the stone floor and began to lick your face.You laughed, shoving gently at the wet nose now pressing insistently against your cheek. "Stop, stop-"

Grey Wind did not stop.

Behind you, the bed creaked. When you glanced back, Robb had pushed himself up on one elbow, watching you both with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and something unbearably soft. The furs had slipped to his waist. Firelight painted warm lines across his chest.

"You're too soft on him," he said, but his voice had gone quiet. Tired. The good kind of tired.

"You're too hard on him." You crawled back onto the mattress, and Grey Wind followed immediately, settling his considerable weight at the end of the bed like he'd never been banished at all.

Robb opened his mouth. You raised an eyebrow.

He closed it.

You smiled and curled into his side, your head finding its place on his chest like it had a thousand times before. His arm came around you immediately, hand finding your hip beneath the furs.

Grey Wind sighed. A great, rumbling sound, and then flopped down across your feet.

Robb huffed a laugh against your hair, his hand tracing slow patterns on your skin. His breathing evened out first. Then Grey Wind's, a low rumble you felt through your toes.

You were almost there yourself when Robb's lips brushed your forehead.

"Love you," he whispered. Half asleep already.

You smiled into his chest. "Love you too. Both of you."

Grey Wind's tail thumped once against the mattress.

And the three of you slept.

Your heel caught on the uneven stone of the hearth, sending you stumbling backward. Aegon caught your wrist before you could fall, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse jump under his fingers. "Careful" he murmured, though the way his gaze dropped to your parted lips made it clear he wasn't concerned about your safety. The heat at your back was nothing compared to the slow drag of his thumb over your inner wrist, a touch that felt like ownership.

"Y-your Grace… I'm quite tired" you mumbled, even as his lips brushed your wrist, breathing in your scent before pressing a slow, open mouthed kiss to the delicate skin there. His exhale was hot, uneven, a man starved. You could feel the scrape of his teeth as he lingered, as if debating whether to bite down and mark you properly. Your pulse fluttered like a trapped bird beneath his mouth.

Aegon’s lips lingered a moment too long, the scrape of his teeth sending a jolt of panic down your spine before he finally pulled back. His grip on your wrist loosened, but before you could exhale in relief, his hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing the hollows of your cheeks with unsettling tenderness. "Yes" he murmured, voice rough with something between amusement and hunger, "sleep is needed for such beauty, I suppose." His gaze dragged over your face like a physical touch, lingering on the way your lashes fluttered against your cheekbones. "Though you’d still be perfect without it."

His thumbs still pressed against your cheekbones, Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound caught between frustration and dark amusement. “You wound me” he murmured, though the way his fingers tightened infinitesimally betrayed the lie in his honeyed tone. The firelight painted his face in flickering gold and shadow, carving the sharp angles of his jaw into something dangerously beautiful. “Fourteen moons of refusing me. Fourteen.” His breath hitched audibly, the words roughening as his gaze dropped to your mouth. “Do you know what that does to a man?”

The pressure of his fingers against your jawbone bordered on painful, his breath ragged against your lips. "I’ve dreamt of this" Aegon confessed, voice thick with something you didn’t dare name. "Dreamt of you beneath me, screaming my name loud enough to shake the stones of Dragonstone." His thumb brushed your lower lip, parting it with deliberate slowness. "But you’d rather play the dutiful lady, wouldn’t you?"

"Y-your grace flatters me, but I think it is time you head to bed…" you stammered, twisting your face away from his touch, only for his fingers to tighten, forcing your gaze back to his. The firelight made the violet of his eyes look molten, pupils blown wide with something far more dangerous than mere desire.

His grip shifted suddenly, fingers tangling in your hair as he yanked your head back hard enough to make you gasp. "Flattery?" Aegon's laugh was a low, broken thing, his breath hot against your exposed throat. "You think this is flattery?" The hand not fisted in your hair slid down your side, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to bruise. "I could have taken you a hundred times over...in your chambers, in the godswood, bent over the damned Iron Throne—" His teeth grazed your pulse point, not quite biting, not quite kissing. "But I wanted you willing."

Your fingers trembled against the rough stone of the hearth as you instinctively took a step back, only to freeze when the heat of the fire licked at your bare heels. Aegon sighed through his nose, finally releasing his grip on your hair, though his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long, trailing down the curve of your neck like a brand.

"My patience grows weak, sweet one" he murmured, voice dripping with false sweetness. The firelight carved shadows under his cheekbones, turning his smile into something jagged. "I assure you, a man having a wife has never stopped him from taking others." His gaze flicked toward the door, as if imagining the distant chambers where Visenya and Rhaenys slept, or didn’t. "Nor has it ever stopped other woman from wanting a married man."

"That is not me, your grace" you whispered, voice fraying at the edges as you pressed yourself deeper into the hearth’s unforgiving stones, the sapphire necklace cutting into your collarbone. "I would not wish my husband to take others…nor I to be with someone out of wedlock." The words tasted like cowardice even as you said them, too soft, too weak against the wild intensity of his gaze.

Aegon snorted, the sound dark and unamused, before lifting your trembling hand to his lips. His mouth was scalding against your knuckles, lingering too long, tasting the pulse that fluttered beneath your skin like a caged thing. "You are quite pious" he murmured against your skin, breath hot enough to sear. "Another reason I burn for you." The words curled around you like smoke, suffocating and inevitable.

You swallowed thickly, fingers twitching in his hold as Aegon's lips brushed your cheek, a chaste kiss that felt anything but innocent. His breath was warm against your skin, lingering just long enough to make your pulse stutter before he pulled away entirely. "I shall wait another moon" he murmured, the words thick with a promise that coiled low in your belly. You blinked, stunned by the abrupt shift in his demeanor, the sudden restraint where moments ago he'd been all teeth and hunger. The firelight caught the curve of his smile as he stepped back, the predatory grace of his movements making the distance between you feel like a taunt.

The silence after Aegon left was deafening, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you slid down the hearth, your legs refusing to hold you any longer. The sapphire necklace felt like a collar now, the weight of it pressing into your throat as if to remind you, his, his, his. You tore it off with shaking hands, the delicate clasp snapping as you hurled it into the fire, watching the gems blacken and crack in the flames. It didn’t matter. There would be another tomorrow. There was always another.

The dress arrived at dawn, wrapped in black silk so dark it drank the morning light. You ran your fingers over the embroidery of dragons coiled around the bodice in silver thread, their tails twisting down the skirt like possessive claims. It was obscenely beautiful. Obscenely his. You wore it without protest, the fabric whispering against your thighs as you walked to the great hall.

The next morning Aegon’s gaze found you the moment you stepped into the hall, his goblet freezing halfway to his lips. The chatter of courtiers faded as he stood abruptly, his chair scraping against stone. "Little love" he breathed, his voice carrying across the sudden silence. He didn’t blink as he crossed the room, the crowd parting for him like waves before a ship. His fingers brushed the dragon at your collarbone, tracing the silver thread with something like reverence. "You honor me."

"It is so very kind of you to send me such gifts" you murmured, folding your hands together with deliberate grace, the silver dragons on your bodice glinting as you dipped into a shallow curtsy. Your smile was practiced, sweet enough to charm, tight enough to betray nothing. "The least I could do is wear them."

Aegon's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Kindness has nothing to do with it" he murmured, fingers lingering on the embroidery over your ribs, too close, too intimate for court. You could feel Visenya's glare burning into your back from the high table, the weight of it heavier than the sapphires you'd burned. His thumb pressed deliberately against the silver thread, right where your heart hammered beneath. "Tonight" he said, low enough that only you could hear, "you'll wear nothing at all."

"Your Grace, you must stop with such comments" you whispered urgently, fingers twitching against the embroidered dragons on your skirt as you took a half-step back. The heat of his touch lingered where his thumb had pressed against your ribs, branding you through the fabric. "Had your wives heard—"

"They would gut you—" Aegon started with a small tilt of his head, but you quickly shook your own, cutting him off.

"They'd be hurt" you corrected sharply, fingers tightening in the folds of your skirt as you watched Aegon's smirk falter for half a heartbeat. His thumb still hovered near the embroidery over your ribs, the phantom press of it searing even through layers of silk. The words tasted bitter on your tongue, not because they were untrue, but because admitting it felt like surrender. Visenya’s knives and Rhaenys’s sweet poison had never frightened you half as much as the raw, wounded pride glittering in their eyes whenever Aegon’s attention strayed too long in your direction.

Aegon's fingers twitched against your ribs...once, twice...before he wrenched his hand away as if burned. "Gods fucking damn you" he snarled, the raw edge in his voice slicing through the court's murmured conversations. The sudden silence was deafening. His chest heaved, the embroidered dragons on his doublet straining with each ragged breath. "Fourteen moons of this...this farce!" The word dripped with venom.

He didn't touch you again. Instead, he took three deliberate steps back, his boots striking the stone like hammer blows. The violet in his eyes had darkened to near-black, pupils swallowing the light. "I am growing tired..." he bit out, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood, "of you rejecting me for such reasons." The last word cracked like a whip.

You opened your mouth, to protest, to placate, to lie...but Aegon was already turning on his heel. The crowd scattered before him, nobles tripping over their own silks to clear his path. He didn't look back. Not when Visenya rose from the high table with her hand on Dark Sister's hilt. Not when Rhaenys' melodic laughter cut off mid note. He simply kept walking, the great hall doors shuddering shut behind him with a finality that echoed in your bones.

The absence of Aegon's voice was louder than his presence had ever been. For two days, he did not speak to you, did not send gifts, did not corner you in shadowed alcoves with promises that tasted like threats. But his silence was a lie. You felt the weight of his gaze like a hand between your shoulder blades, burning through silk and skin alike. At meals, he lounged in his carved chair with a goblet dangling from careless fingers, watching you over the rim with eyes that never blinked. In the courtyard, you'd turn from the training yard's clamor only to catch the glint of silver hair from an upper balcony, motionless as a predator assessing its prey.

That night the door didn't just open, it exploded inward with a crash that sent splinters skittering across the floor. You barely had time to drop the hairbrush before Aegon was there, his boots crushing the scattered shards of wood beneath him like bones. Moonlight caught the wild sheen in his eyes, turning violet irises into something nearly feral. "Your grace?" you whispered, the words catching in your throat as he took another step forward.

The hairbrush clattered to the floor as you stumbled back, your heel catching on the hem of your nightgown. Aegon didn't pause. Didn't hesitate. His hands closed around your upper arms with bruising force, hauling you forward so abruptly your scream tore itself raw against your teeth. "Enough!" he growled, the word vibrating through his chest and into yours where you were pressed against him. His breath smelled of wine and something darker, sharper, like the metallic tang of a blade left too long unsheathed.

"Stop moving, I'm not going to—" Aegon started, but your scream tore through the chamber like shattered glass, raw and primal. You twisted violently in his grip, nails raking down his forearms as you wrenched yourself backward, only for his fingers to slip. The moment he let go, regret flashed across his face, but it was too late. Your bare foot slid on the polished stone, your body arching backward in a terrible fall. The sickening crack of your skull against the wrought iron bedpost echoed like a death knell.

Aegon swore, the sound guttural and raw, as your body crumpled to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and pooling nightgown. Blood seeped into your hairline instantly, dark as wine in the moonlight. He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering uselessly over your still form, half afraid to touch, half desperate to shake you awake. "No, no, fuck—" His fingers trembled as they brushed your throat, searching for a pulse. When he found it, thready but there, his breath left him in a rush that bordered on prayer.

"Stupid girl." Aegon sighed, lifting your limp body with an ease that belied the tremor in his hands. The blood smeared across your temple was still warm, sticky against his fingers as he cradled your head against his chest. His boots crunched over the shattered wood of your door as he carried you into the corridor, where a wide eyed servant stood frozen. "Clean it." he snapped without breaking stride. The servant's choked gasp followed him down the hall, but Aegon didn't turn. He didn't need to see the carnage to know what it looked like, the overturned furniture, the shattered vase you'd hurled at him, the dark stain spreading where your skull had met iron.

The guards at his chamber door stiffened at the sight of their king carrying an unconscious woman, but they knew better than to speak. Aegon kicked the door shut behind him with a force that rattled the tapestries, depositing you gently on the bed before turning to the nearest man. "Remove her lord father from court" he said, voice eerily calm. "Him and all his kin." The guard hesitated, your father was Master of Coin, after all but one look at Aegon's face had him bowing sharply. "Burn their letters before they leave" Aegon added as the man retreated. He didn't need spies whispering to your family about bloodstains and midnight screams.

Aegon's fingers came away from your temple slick with blood, the metallic scent filling his nostrils as he swore again, low and vicious. The wound wasn't deep...he'd seen enough battle wounds to know that, but the way your head lolled against his arm sent something primal clawing up his throat. "Fuck" he hissed, pressing his sleeve against the bleeding gash as he strode to the door, bellowing for a guard. The man appeared instantly, his eyes widening at the sight of your limp form. "Fetch the fucking maester," Aegon snarled, "and if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll feed you to Balerion in pieces."

The guard fled. Aegon turned back to you, his chest tight as he laid you carefully on the bed. Blood had seeped into the linen sheets already, blooming like some grotesque flower beneath your head. He tore a strip from the hem of his own tunic, dipping it into the basin of water by the bedside with hands that shook, whether from rage or fear, he couldn't tell. The water pinkened as he wrung out the cloth, pressing it gently to your temple. "Stubborn girl" he muttered, though his fingers were feather light as they brushed the hair from your face. "Always fighting me." The words tasted like ash. He hadn't meant to hurt you...hadn't meant for any of this.

The maester's fingers stilled mid replacing your bandage when your eyelashes fluttered, a butterfly's wing against his wrinkled knuckles. He exhaled sharply through his nose, adjusting the linen strip with practiced ease even as your head twitched weakly against the pillow. "Your Grace" the maester murmured, not taking his eyes from your face, "she stirs."

Aegon's chair screeched against stone as he lunged forward, his wine goblet forgotten where it rolled across the floor, staining the rushes crimson. He barely noticed. His entire world narrowed to the infinitesimal tremor of your fingers where they lay limp atop the coverlet, the first movement in three days of stillness so absolute he'd pressed a mirror to your lips hourly, watching for fog.

"Forgive me…" you mumbled, your voice raspy and eyes blinking hazily. The words felt strange on your tongue, like trying to recite a poem in a language you'd only ever heard whispered. "I am a bit confused… and my head hurts." Your hand drifted up toward your temple, fingers twitching instinctively toward the ache, but the maester intercepted your wrist with surprising speed. His grip was gentle but unyielding.

"Best not to disturb the wound, my lady" he murmured, pressing your hand back down onto the coverlet with wrinkled fingers that smelled of bitter poultices. The linen bandage wrapped around your head felt stiff against your skin, crusted with something dried and flaking. The maester leaned closer, his breath sour with sleep deprivation. "Do you remember your name?"

You opened your mouth and froze. The answer should have been there, resting on the tip of your tongue like a familiar sweet. Instead, there was only a yawning void where your name should have been. Your brows furrowed, sending a fresh lance of pain through your skull as you strained against the blankness. "I…" The syllable hung in the air, brittle and uncertain. Panic curled low in your belly, cold and slick.

A chair scraped violently against stone. Suddenly Aegon was there, looming over the maester's shoulder, his shadow swallowing the candlelight whole. His face was carved marble in the flickering gloom, too still, too perfect. The maester glanced between you both, then cleared his throat. "Memory loss isn't uncommon with head injuries" he said carefully, though his eyes darted to Aegon's clenched fists. "It may return in hours… or days."

"Who… who are you?" you mumbled, your voice thin as parchment. The man with violet eyes, so intense they seemed to glow in the dim light, approached slowly, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a stormcloud. The maester opened his mouth, his lips curling into an obsequious smile. "His Grace the King—"

Aegon's hand shot out, fingers clamping over the old man's wrist hard enough to whiten knuckles. The maester's breath hitched, his words dying in his throat as Aegon leaned over you, his other hand cradling your face with terrifying gentleness. The lie slipped from his tongue like honeyed poison. "Your husband." His thumb brushed your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of you.

The maester's breath hitched audibly, his wrinkled hands freezing midair as Aegon's grip tightened on your cheeks. His thumbs pressed into the hollows beneath your eyes, not painfully, but with a possession that made your pulse stutter. "Shh" Aegon murmured, his voice roughened by three days of silence and smoke. The pad of his thumb brushed your lower lip, lingering just long enough for you to taste the salt of his skin. "You hit your head, my love. The maester says you may be confused."

"Husband?" you questioned, staring up at him. The word felt foreign, like trying to recite a line from a play you'd never read. The man looming over you, his silver hair catching the candlelight like molten metal, held your gaze with an intensity that made your breath hitch. Something primal stirred in your gut, a flicker of recognition drowned beneath the pounding in your skull. "You're… the king?"

The maester coughed discreetly, shuffling backward as Aegon's fingers tightened imperceptibly around your jaw. "Yes..." Aegon said, voice low as embers banking in a hearth. His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, too intimate, too familiar. "And you are my queen."

Aegon's fingers twitched against your jaw, too tight, then abruptly gentle, as if he'd caught himself. His breath smelled of wine and something darker, something that made your stomach twist in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. "Aegon" he murmured, his thumb dragging across your lower lip again, slower this time. "And you…" His pause was barely perceptible, his gaze flickering to the maester, who had suddenly found the ceiling beams fascinating as your name fell from his lips.

The maester's lips parted, whether to protest or confirm, you'd never know. Aegon's glare silenced him before a single syllable escaped. The old man bowed stiffly and retreated toward the door, his robes whispering against stone like a guilty secret. When the latch clicked shut, Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers sliding from your face to cradle the back of your head instead. His palm was warm against your scalp, avoiding the bandage with surprising tenderness. "You fell" he murmured, thumb tracing the shell of your ear. "Three days ago."

"That is so sad" you murmured, your voice distant, as if commenting on some tragic tale told by a minstrel rather than your own missing memories. Your fingers twitched toward his, hesitant, uncertain, before finally curling around his calloused palm. The warmth of his skin startled you, sending an odd shiver up your arm. "You must have been so worried… as you are my husband." The word tasted strange in your mouth, like some fruit you'd never bitten into before.

Aegon's breath caught when your fingers tightened around his, hesitant, trusting. The tremor in his hands stilled as if you'd cast some silent spell. His gaze dropped to where your skin met his, the contrast of your pale fingers against his knuckles sending heat coiling low in his belly. "Worried?" he echoed, voice rough as he lifted your joined hands to his lips. His kiss burned against your knuckles, lingering too long to be proper. "You have no idea."

The maester's hands trembled slightly as he unwound the linen bandage from your temple on the seventh morning. Aegon loomed behind him, his shadow stretching across the bed like a dragon's wing. You barely noticed the old man's nervousness, too busy leaning into Aegon's thigh where it pressed against the mattress, your fingers idly tracing the embroidery on his breeches. The wound had scabbed over nicely, leaving only a thin white line barely visible beneath your hairline. "No sign of infection" the maester murmured, avoiding your gaze as he dabbed the scar with mint smelling salve. "Though headaches may persist…"

"Does she remember?" Aegon interrupted, his voice deliberately casual. His fingers slid into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that made you sigh and press closer. The maester's throat worked as he glanced between you, pliant and drowsy against Aegon's leg, and the king's too calm expression.

The maester's fingers twitched around his salve jar, his throat bobbing as if swallowing a stone. "You would have to ask her, my king" he murmured, gaze darting to where your hand rested on Aegon's thigh, your thumb rubbing absent circles through the fine wool.

You frowned, shaking your head slowly. The movement sent a dull throb through your temple, but it was the hollow ache behind your eyes that truly unsettled you. "I'm sorry, husband" you whispered, pressing your forehead against Aegon's hip in silent apology. His fingers stilled in your hair. "I don't."

Aegon exhaled through his nose, long and slow, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear in a gesture that might have been comforting if not for the tension coiled in his shoulders. The maester hesitated, then bowed so low his beard brushed the rushes. "The memories may yet return in time, Your Grace. Or…" His pause was heavy, weighted. "They may not."

Aegon's lips curled at the edges as he watched the maester gather his ointments and rolled bandages, a slow, secretive smile that didn't reach his eyes. You didn't see it, too busy tracing the embroidered dragons on his sleeve with a fingertip, marveling at how the silver threads caught the firelight. "We may make new memories, my love" he murmured, his breath stirring the loose strands of your hair where you leaned against his thigh. The words tasted like victory, thick and sweet on his tongue.

The maester's hands faltered as he cinched his leather satchel shut, the buckle clinking like a distant prison chain. He didn't dare look up, not when Aegon's fingers slid from your hair to cradle your chin, tilting your face upward with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. "Tell me" Aegon coaxed, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, "what would please you first? A feast with singers? A hunt in the kingswood?" His voice dropped to a whisper only you could hear, roughened by seven nights of watching you sleep. "Or shall I show you how a king worships his queen?"

Aegon's fingers stilled against your cheekbone, too long, too deliberate...before he turned his head sharply toward the maester. "Out" he commanded, the word cracking like a whip. The old man scurried backward, nearly tripping over his own robes in his haste to obey. The door clicked shut with finality, leaving only the sound of your breathing, too quick, too shallow and the distant crackle of the hearth.

"You've been unwell" Aegon murmured, his thumb resuming its slow arc along your jawline. His pupils swallowed the violet of his irises, black as the space between stars. "I wouldn't…" His voice roughened, his free hand flexing against the bedsheets where he braced himself above you. "I wouldn't take you while you couldn't remember the pleasure of it."

Your lips parted, not in protest, but in something softer, warmer. The way his gaze dipped to your mouth sent heat pooling low in your belly, unfamiliar yet intoxicating. "Oh..." you breathed, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. The scent of him, smoke and salt and something indefinably male, filled your lungs as you leaned closer. "That's… kind of you."

Aegon's laugh was dark, unamused. His teeth flashed white as his lips peeled back from them. "Kind?" He pressed forward, his knee slotting between your thighs with devastating precision. The contact drew a gasp from you, half shock, half something else entirely. "I've been fucking my hand every night imagining this." he growled against your temple, his breath scalding where it seared your skin. "There's nothing kind about what I'm going to do to you."

The vulgarity should have repelled you. Instead, your body arched instinctively into his, your hips canting against the hard muscle of his thigh. Aegon's groan vibrated through you as his hands slid down your sides, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. "Seven hells" he rasped, "you're even more responsive than I dreamed." His lips traced the shell of your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the sensitive skin beneath. "Were you always like this? Or is this my reward for patience?"

Your breath hitched, not from fear, but from the way his teeth scraped along your pulse point. "I don't… remember" you admitted, your voice trembling. The confession should have been terrifying, but with Aegon's hands mapping your body like a man starved, it felt inconsequential. His thumb brushed the peak of your nipple through the thin fabric of your shift, and you cried out, your fingers twisting in his hair.

Aegon shuddered, his hips grinding against yours in an unmistakable rhythm. "Gods..." he gritted out, "you're perfect." His fingers made quick work of the laces at your bodice, the fabric parting like petals under his touch. Cool air kissed your bared skin, but his gaze burned hotter than any flame. "Look at you" he murmured, his palm skimming your ribcage. "Made for me."

You gasped as his mouth closed over your nipple, his tongue swirling in wicked circles. Pleasure shot through you like lightning, your back bowing off the bed. "Aegon—" His name tumbled from your lips, broken and desperate. His answering growl vibrated against your skin as his hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing through slick folds.

"You're dripping" he observed, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Do you know how long I've dreamed of this?" His fingers circled your clit with agonizing precision, your hips bucking against his hand. "Tell me you want this" he demanded, his breath hot against your throat. "Tell me you're mine."

"I—" Your words dissolved into a moan as his fingers plunged inside you, curling just right. Stars exploded behind your eyelids, your body tightening around him. "Yours" you gasped, nails scoring his shoulders. "Always yours."

Aegon's restraint shattered. He surged forward, pinning you beneath him as his cock nudged your entrance. "Look at me" he commanded, his voice ragged. Violet eyes burned into yours as he sheathed himself fully in one brutal thrust. Your scream echoed off the stone walls, pleasure and pain blurring into overwhelming sensation.

The moment Aegon pulled out, his cock glistening with your shared arousal, he froze. A dark streak smeared across his thigh, not just slickness, but blood. Crimson bloomed bright against his pale skin, stark as dragonfire on snow. His breath hitched, fingers tightening where they gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck" he rasped, staring down at the proof of your untouched state with something akin to reverence. "You were a maiden."

"What?" you mumbled breathlessly, fingers clutching the rumpled sheets beneath you. Your thighs still trembled from the force of his claiming, but confusion furrowed your brow as you glanced down at the blood smeared across his skin. A giggle bubbled up, light, airy, as you swatted his chest. "We were surely intimate before this, husband. You're teasing me." The words tasted like honeyed wine, sweet with the certainty of shared history that didn't exist.

Aegon's expression flickered, something dark and hungry shifting behind his eyes before he schooled his features into a mask of tender amusement. His thumb brushed your lower lip, coming away damp from where you'd bitten it during his relentless thrusts. "Clever girl" he murmured, though his voice carried an odd thickness. His cock twitched against your thigh, still slick with your virgin's blood. "Perhaps I liked pretending you were untouched. Perhaps…" His hips rolled lazily, the head of his cock catching at your sensitive entrance, "…I wanted to break you open all over again."

The chamber reeked of sweat and sex, the heavy velvet drapes doing little to stifle the sounds still echoing off the stone, your breathy whimpers, Aegon's guttural growls, the wet slap of skin meeting skin with each relentless thrust. He hadn't let you rest, hadn't paused except to flip you onto your stomach, your cheek pressed into the mattress as he hiked your hips up and plunged back in with a groan that rattled his chest.

The castle had fallen silent by the third hour, though the walls still hummed with the aftershocks of Aegon's possession. You lay sprawled across the rumpled sheets, legs trembling too violently to close, his spend dripping down your inner thighs. Aegon traced the mess with possessive satisfaction, his fingers painting lazy patterns through the sticky warmth before bringing them to his lips. "Sweet" he murmured, tongue darting out to taste you with unhurried relish. "Sweeter than I imagined."

The castle woke to silence the next morning, the kind of silence that came when servants walked on tiptoes and maids exchanged knowing glances over their scrubbing brushes. You stirred beneath the silk sheets, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache, the scent of sex clinging to your skin. Aegon's arm was a dead weight across your waist, his fingers still twitching possessively even in sleep.

The morning light bled through the heavy drapes in slanted amber stripes, painting Aegon's bare chest in molten gold as he watched you stir. His fingers traced idle patterns along your hipbone, not tenderly, but with the proprietary satisfaction of a dragon circling its hoard. You blinked up at him through sleep heavy lashes, your thighs instinctively pressing together at the memory of his roughness. The movement made his lips twitch.

The first thing you noticed was the ache, deep and throbbing between your legs, a pulsing reminder of what Aegon had taken from you. The second was the warmth of his palm splayed possessively over your belly, fingers dipping just beneath the silk sheets as if marking territory. His breath ghosted across your shoulder, slow and even, but the tension in his body betrayed his wakefulness.

The rustle of silk against bare skin was the only sound as you stretched beneath the sheets, wincing at the dull protest of sore muscles. Aegon's fingers tightened imperceptibly on your hip, not restraining, just present, a brand seared into your flesh as surely as the bruises blooming along your throat. When you turned to face him, his eyes were already open, violet dark and unreadable in the dawn light.

You had spent the morning in the tub, the water sloshed over the copper tub's rim when you flicked your fingers at Aegon, droplets catching fire in the morning light as they arced toward his face. His answering growl sent heat pooling low in your belly, half threat, half promise, before he lunged, dragging you against his chest with a splash that soaked the rushes. "Cheeky" he murmured against your temple, his erection pressing insistently against your lower back. You could feel the water ripple around it, the teasing bob of his cock stirring currents against your thighs.

One of the maids had left lavender oil by the basin, its scent clung to the steam rising between you, thick as the tension coiling in Aegon's shoulders when you reached back to trail soap slick fingers along his inner thigh. His breath hitched, sharp enough that you felt it in your own lungs, before his hand clamped over yours, guiding you higher. "Here" he rasped, your palm enveloped in heat and hardness. The water did nothing to disguise the way his pulse jumped under your fingertips, the rapid throb of veins beneath silken skin.

"It'll be easier if you face me" Aegon whispered, his breath hot against the shell of your ear as he turned you in the water. The movement sent ripples cascading over the tub's edge, but you barely noticed, not when his hands settled on your hips, guiding you until your knees bracketed his thighs. The second he placed your palm against him again, your fingers twitched instinctively around his hardness. You bit your lip, the taste of lavender and salt sharp on your tongue. "W-what do I do…?"

Aegon's exhale was ragged, his cock pulsing against your tentative grip. His thumb traced the crease of your wrist, pressing gently until your fingers tightened just so. "Like this" he murmured, his own hand covering yours, demonstrating the slow drag of your fist along his length. Water sluiced between your joined fingers, making the glide effortless, sinful. His head tipped back against the copper rim, veins standing stark along his throat as his hips jerked into your touch. "Fuck. Just like that."

You watched, transfixed, as a bead of moisture welled at his tip, not bathwater, something thicker, and your thumb brushed over it without thinking. The groan that tore from Aegon's chest was raw, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave marks. "Curious little wife" he rasped, his other hand tangling in your hair, tugging until your lips were a breath from his. "Taste."

Aegon's fingers glistened in the steam heavy air, his thumb slick with his own release as it brushed your lower lip. You gasped, not in protest, but in startled arousal as he pressed insistently against the seam of your mouth until your lips parted on a shuddering exhale. The taste burst across your tongue like lightning, salty, musky, something indefinably him and your lashes fluttered shut instinctively. His groan vibrated through your chest where he held you flush against him, the water sloshing wildly as his hips jerked upward.

The copper tub groaned under Aegon's sudden movement, water sloshing onto the stone floor as he hauled you onto his lap. Your startled yelp dissolved into a moan when his cock slid against your slick folds, the blunt head catching at your entrance with delicious pressure. "You asked what to do" he growled into the crook of your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. His hands molded your hips, guiding you down with agonizing slowness until you gasped at the stretch, still tender from last night's ravaging. "This is what you do."

The water had gone cold by the time Aegon finally lifted you from the tub, his arms trembling with the effort of holding himself back. You clung to him, dripping and breathless, your thighs marked with crescent shaped impressions where your nails had bitten into flesh. He didn’t bother with towels, just carried you, shivering and slick, to the nearest flat surface of a carved oak table cluttered with scrolls and quills. They scattered to the floor as he laid you down, the parchment crinkling beneath his knees when he climbed atop you.

The quill snapped under Aegon's knee with a sound like breaking bones. Ink bled across an unfinished letter, some lord's petition about grain stores as he pinned your wrists above your head, his hips grinding against yours with deliberate, maddening slowness. "Look at you" he breathed, watching your nipples pebble in the morning chill, your thighs already parting in silent invitation. "Still hungry for me after last night."

The courtyard outside your chambers was unnaturally still the next afternoon, no clatter of armor, no chatter of serving girls, as if the entire castle held its breath. The only sound was the rhythmic creak of the bedframe and Aegon's guttural growls punctuating your broken cries. He had you bent over the window ledge, your fingers scrabbling against the sun-warmed stone as he pounded into you from behind, each thrust sending your breasts bouncing against the cool surface. "Louder" he commanded, his palm cracking against your ass in a sharp sting that made you yelp. The sound ricocheted off the Red Keep's towers, carried by the sea wind to every open window below.

"Look down" he snarled, his hand fisting in your hair to wrench your head forward. Below the window, a cluster of servants froze mid task, their upturned faces pale as milk. Aegon's hips snapped harder, his teeth sinking into your nape. "Let them see their queen well used."

Aegon traced the curve of your sleeping shoulder with the edge of his dagger, not enough to break skin, just enough to feel the heat of you beneath the cold steel. The blade caught the candlelight as he dragged it lower, following the dip of your waist where bruises bloomed in the shape of his fingers. He'd kept you abed for three days straight, fucking you raw every time you stirred, whispering false histories against your sweat slick skin until you repeated them back to him like prayers.

The dagger's tip lingered just below your collarbone, catching the predawn light in a thin silver gleam. Aegon's breath fogged the steel as he exhaled slowly, watching the rise and fall of your chest with something between worship and hunger. The gods had already answered one prayer...your pliant body, your trusting eyes, the way you arched into his touch like a flower seeking sun. Now he sent another into the silence between heartbeats... "Let her stay this way"

Your lashes fluttered as the cold metal traced a lazy path toward your nipple. A soft sound escaped your lips, not fear, not protest, but the sleepy murmur of his name. Aegon's gut tightened. He could count every time you'd said it without prompting since the injury…sacred utterances that meant you'd begun stitching him into the blank tapestry of your mind. The dagger trembled in his grip. "Let her never remember."

The dagger clattered to the floor when you reached for him in sleep, your fingers curling around his wrist with instinctive trust. Aegon froze, watching the way your thumb brushed his pulse point, softer than the touch he deserved, gentler than the violence thrumming through his veins. His free hand hovered above your throat, trembling with the need to claim even this fragile moment.

The dagger's clatter jolted you halfway awake, your fingers still wrapped around Aegon's wrist like a shackle made of silk. His pulse hammered against your thumb, wild as a trapped bird, until you made a soft, questioning noise in your throat and pressed your lips to his knuckles. The tension bled from his muscles all at once, his free hand cradling your jaw with terrifying gentleness.

All good things have things that can ruin them.

The parchment crumpled in Aegon’s fist as he paced the solar, the ink of his latest decree bleeding through the fibers like poison. Through the arched windows, he could see the courtyard below, lords and ladies milling about in their silks and velvets, blissfully unaware of the viper in their midst. His jaw clenched. Someone would talk. Someone always did. A serving girl with loose lips, a knight who’d once seen him beg at your door, a fucking stable boy who remembered how you’d recoiled from his touch. The thought made his fingers twitch toward the dagger at his belt.

You shifted in the chair by the hearth, the furs pooled around your waist slipping to reveal the bruises he’d left along your hip. The sight stilled him mid stride. Even now...especially now, your innocence was unbearable. You blinked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, fingers toying with the embroidery on your sleeve. “Will I meet them soon?” you asked, your voice soft as the firelight gilded your throat. “Your sisters… our ladies? I'm sure I have before but I'd like to again seeing as I can't remember.”

Aegon’s gut twisted. He crossed the room in three strides, caging you against the chair with his body until your breath hitched. His thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing the question away. “Not yet” he murmured, tasting the lie like bile on his tongue. His other hand slid possessively up your thigh, fingers digging into the tender flesh. “The maester said no excitement. No strain.” The word dripped with double meaning as his knee nudged your legs apart. “Would you disobey his orders, sweet wife?”

You whimpered, but your hips arched into his touch all the same, always so fucking pliant, so his. It made the panic in his chest recede, if only for a moment. He could control this. Could control you. His lips found the shell of your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “I’ll bring them to you” he lied smoothly, his hand sliding higher until your nails bit into his forearm. “When you’re ready. When I say.”

Beyond the chamber door, a serving girl’s footsteps paused, too close, too curious. Aegon snarled against your neck, his free hand darting to the dagger at his belt. The footsteps scurried away. His fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your face up to his. “No one sees you until I’ve prepared them.” The words were velvet wrapped steel. “Do you understand?”

You nodded, breathless and dazed, your pupils blown wide with trust. Aegon’s chest ached with something vile and victorious. He kissed you then, hard enough to bruise...to seal the lie between your teeth.

Maekar shakes his head and rides off with a grumble. Baelor smiles at you pityingly as he follows his brother. You choose to ignore them both. Just as they have ignored your desperate pleas for freedom since you were entrusted to Maekar’s care. 

You lead your horse to the stables and see a rather large stable boy waiting. Gods above, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man so big. Must’ve been kicked in the head as a child, poor thing, he looks utterly lost. 

“Would you ensure she has some oats and a good groom?" You run your hand over your mare's mane as you approach him. "She does hate muddy roads, and I’m afraid that’s all we’ve had,” you tell the boy. 

He blinks big blue eyes up at you before frowning. “Beg pardon, m’lady, but I’m no stableboy.”

“Oh,” you tilt your head and smile. “That certainly makes more sense.” He lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You find yourself endeared by such sheepish behavior. It’s as if he has not one idea how to act around a woman. 

Perhaps he doesn’t. It seems a skill lost to most these days. 

“You there! Fetch me a nice wench and have her brought to my rooms.” You glance over your shoulder at your betrothed and scoff. 

“How very princely.”

Aerion bares dragon-like teeth at you in a stiff smile that makes you grimace. “Until my lady flowers, I’m afraid I must find entertainment in other forms.”

“Better them than me,” you grumble, swinging your leg over your saddle. 

“Here,” the large man steps forward, offering his hand. You smile, taking it gratefully as he eases you from your mare, steering you away from the thick puddles of mud. 

“Flirting with the stable hands, now?” Aerion taunts, failing to hide the venom in his tone.

“He’s no stable hand,” you scold Aerion. “He’s…” you glance back at the man for some help. 

He straightens, puffing his chest proudly. “A knight, your grace.”

Aerion’s eyes flit up and down the knight before he scoffs. “What a sorry state the realm is in that you are a knight.”

Aerion slips from his horse and heads into the keep. You’re going to apologize to the man when Aerion’s monster of a horse bucks out at one of the true stable hands. The man flies back, blood spraying from his face as his body slams against the ground. 

You jump back with a sharp gasp as the knight rushes past you. He reaches Aerion’s mount and hushes her, grabbing the reins as he soothes her. You can’t help but be awed at the display as he leads her quietly to the stables. 

“It’s alright, girl,” he whispers and you smile, following after him with your own mare. 

“I don’t believe I got your name, Ser.”

“Oh, um, Dunk- Duncan,” he quickly corrects. “See Duncan the Tall.”

“A pleasure, Ser.”

“And you, m’lady?” He asks, still calming Aerion’s wily horse. 

You give him your first name and then smile, “Waters,” the last name of all bastards born in the crownlands. “Soon to be Targaryen,” you sigh. 

Dunk’s eyes go wide and you can’t help but laugh. “Fret not, sweet knight. I hold no true importance. I am betrothed to Aerion, the very same man who that beast belongs to,” you nod toward the horse. 

“I am sorry for how he spoke to you. Could I make it up to you in some way?” Dunk begins to shake his head no. You appreciate the attempt at honor, but all men want something.

Slowly, his eyes drift back to the keep before he faces you once more. “Actually, m’lady, I’m trying to get my name in the lists. But I need a knight to vouch for me. All others have forgotten Ser Arlan of Pennytree. But he did always boast of his joust with Baelor Targaryen, perhaps the prince might remember.”

You let out a huff of laughter and nod your head. “It won’t be too hard for me to get an audience with him. Besides, if any man remembers a hedge knight, it would be Baelor. Come along, Dunk.” 

His feet thud against the mud as he follows quickly after you. You glance over your shoulder and smile at the hopeful look on his face. Perhaps you’ve just found a reason to be interested in this damnable tourney. 

“Will you be gracing us with your presence today, cousin?”

You glance at Valarr and sigh at the smirk on his face. “Only if you allow me some of that wine you keep in your tent.”

He laughs and nods, leading you out toward the field. “But of course, my lady.”

“Enough,” you scold, shaking your head at his antics. You'd rather be treated as a bastard than a proper lady, and he knows it. Always teasing you with formalities that only serve to remind you of the noble place you will soon be marrying into.

The king might have decreed you legitimate, but you still carried a bastard’s name. And a bastard's dislike for higher-borns. 

Though Valarr was a rare exception to your hatred. Maekar had never quite mastered parenting after your aunt had died. His boys ran wild from him and slipped between his fingers. At least Baelor had brought up an honorable man.

Valarr leads you to his tent on the edge of the jousting field. He ducks inside while you sit on a chair outside the tent. He returns with two goblets generously filled. 

You doubt he’ll drink much. He prefers to be clear of mind when competing. But you’ll happily finish his. The drunker you are, the quicker this will go. 

Aerion rides out onto the field. His ridiculous armor clinks with each beat of his horse's hooves. He travels down the fence, stopping before you and Valarr. 

Valarr tenses immediately. A wise instinct on his part, considering how much Aerion threatens his own brothers, he could hardly care much for a cousin. 

“Do not worry, Valarr, I will not embarrass you. Not yet, at least.” You roll your eyes at his cocky demeanor as his gaze drifts to you. “I wish only for a kiss of luck from my beautiful betrothed.”

You choke slightly on your wine and cut him a sharp glare. “Perhaps a kiss of victory after, darling," you grit out.

Aerion’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head. “No,” he drawls, a lilt to his voice that has your body tensing on instinct. “Come here, love.”

There is no sweet lover’s lilt or crooning affection in his tone. It is wholly and entirely ownership, domination over your body and soul. You are something that has belonged to him since you were first forced to go to Summerhall. No means nothing to him. 

You place your goblet on the table and rise to your feet. Your boots slip against the mud and he grins as he watches you struggle. Placing your hands on the pommel of his saddle, you push up to your toes. 

Aerion slides the front of his helmet down and leans until you’re face-to-face with a metalworked demon. “Come on,” he taunts, voice echoing beneath the helm. 

You force yourself to press your lips to the cold face, to the twisted visage of death he wears so proudly. He lets out a laugh, jerking back and urging his horse forward. The pommel slips from your hands abruptly and you nearly fall to the mud. 

You glare at the back of his head and wish you would one day grow old enough to see him hanged or worse.

Oh, how he loves to taunt you like that. With little moments that show you the rest of your life. Visions of him commanding you as he sees fit. For all that you are is also his. As it always has been and always will be. 

If you weren’t so stubborn and intent on living. You would have let the Stranger take you years ago. Slipped Tears of Lys into your supper wine and entered the long sleep as a child. 

Valarr offers a pitying look as you walk back to him. It only serves to anger you further. It’s not as if he or his father ever said a word in your defense. No, you were Maekar’s burden. If he wished to marry you to his mad son, then you were a sacrifice that might benefit them in keeping Aerion subdued. 

You throw yourself back down in your chair, tipping your head back and downing as much of your wine as you can swallow without drowning. Aerion looks toward you before he faces his opponent across the field. The horn bellows from the seats above and you avoid Valarr’s stare burning into you as the other men charge. 

It is of no surprise to you when Aerion ducks to the side, a coward’s attempt at getting his opponent off balance. But he does not give the man time to recover. He turns his horse around and drops his lance low. 

“It’s too low,” Valarr mutters, straightening up in his seat. 

“Indeed,” you mutter, taking another swig of your wine. And, again, it is no surprise to you when Aerion drives the lance into the neck of his opponent’s horse. But that does not mean you enjoy listening to the piercing screams of the beast as it dies. 

“Gods above,” you look over at Valarr and scoff. It is astounding to you that Aerion’s family is still surprised at his cruelty. 

Your betrothed flips up his helm, grin wide on his face as the horse writhes, crushing his rider’s leg. The goblet in your hand spins against the table. You run your fingers over the gold and the jewels embedded in it. 

The crowd shouts profanities at Aerion, cursing him for such poor sportsmanship. They riot, shoving up against one another as a violent, hungry wave of hate. Their screams fill you, remind you of the many injustices the Gods have dealt you. 

The goblet is flying from your hands before you can think. Aerion flinches, jolting forward as it slams against the back of his helmet. You get to your feet just as he turns. But someone from the crowd sends a rock flying into his face before the full force of his anger can find you. 

“Cousin,” you ignore Valarr, lifting your skirts and storming from the field before you have to take in the full consequence of your recklessness. You have had enough Targaryens for a lifetime. You need to be in the presence of someone who hates them as much as you do. 

Lyonel’s tent is full and rowdy. They do not let the energy of today’s match dim their mood. Nor their generosity with their wine. You sit toward the back of the tent, sulking as you drown your sorrows. 

“M’lady?”

You jolt at the voice and whip around to find the knight from the stables. “Ser Duncan,” you greet, wiping Dornish wine from the corner of your lips. “Please,” you nod to the seat beside you. 

He offers a tentative smile before sitting on the bench. You let out a quiet groan as the table dips, gripping the edge of your seat so you don’t slide toward him. You’re sure a man like him is aware of his size, but you wonder how much he truly understands the effect it has on those around him. 

“Did you enjoy the match today?” You ask dryly, already certain you know the answer. 

Dunk blanches and shakes his head. “No offense meant, m’lady.”

“Nonsense,” you wave him off with a little laugh. “There is no bigger critic of my betrothed than myself. It was unseemly for a prince and absolutely abhorrent for a knight. Did you not wonder where that goblet came from today?”

Dunk chokes on his wine and sends you a wide-eyed look. “That was you?”

You let out a weary sigh and nod. “I am not keen to go back to the keep and face the consequences of my action.”

“No,” Dunk mutters, shaking his head. 

You slam your hand on the table and Dunk jolts. Pushing off the wood, you stand on wobbly legs, warmed by the wine. “I wish not to think of my future husband. Would you dance with me, Ser?”

He blanches at the idea. You cannot fault him. You would not be eager to take the hand of a woman destined to marry such a cruel man. “M’lady, I shouldn’t-“

“I understand,” you cut him off. “Perhaps it’s time I retire, anyway. Face the music as is so often said.” You bite your lip, brushing off your skirts. You take in a shaky breath as you struggle to imagine how cruel Aerion might be tonight as he sneaks into your chambers. 

Just as you turn to leave, Dunk jumps to his feet. You startle at the abrupt movement and he rocks on his heels. He’s slumped, like he’s unsure what to do with all his height. You have a few ideas. 

“Perhaps, one dance,” he amends. You smile and let out a huff of laughter. You hold your hand out, smile only widening when the size of his palm completely dwarfs your own. 

“Lead the way, Ser.” You sweep your arm out toward the dance floor and he eagerly leads you to it. His dancing is clumsy, but it’s more enthusiastic than anything your betrothed might ever give you. 

He doesn’t care how he looks as you spin him about the floor, or how many times you step on his toes. He leads you through one dance before relinquishing control and letting you lead him through two more. 

It is, perhaps, the most fun you’ve had since your tenth name day. The last year you remember being happy. He is a breath of fresh air, a man who reminds you of a time before you became Targaryen property. 

When the dancing is over and sweat dots your temple, you take a seat with Duncan once more. You pick at honeyed bread while he devours a turkey leg nearly as big as his own bicep. You watch him with rapt attention. Such different mannerisms from the properly bred and behaved nobles. It is endearing, in a strange way. 

“Might I ask you something, m’lady?” You nod your head with a smile, taking another drink of your wine. “You don’t seem to love the prince. How is it you came to be betrothed?”

“It’s sweet that you think love might have anything to do with a noble’s marriage.” Dunk flushes, ducking his head, and you smirk. “Aerion’s mother is my aunt. After my own mother passed, she took me in. They didn’t know who my father was, so I was named a bastard. But when Maekar noticed just how enchanted my cousin had become with me, he had the king legitimize me. He thought promising Aerion my hand might tame his son. But I’ve spent long enough time around him to know that when Aerion becomes tamed is the day dragons return to Westeros.”

You scoff and shake your head, “Aerion often likes to tell me he can forgive me the impurity of my bastard blood for the sake of the love he holds for his mother.”

Dunk's face is aghast as he listens, lips parted with disgust. You snort into your wine. “Trust me, I’m just as disgusted by a Targaryen’s tendency toward kin-fucking as you are. The day I actually have to marry Aerion, I’ll likely fling myself from the highest window. But!” You slap Dunk’s shoulder and he jolts.

“That is not tonight, so distract me with a tale of your travels, hedge knight. I wish to hear of this Ser Arlan you love so much.”

Dunk hesitates for a moment, looking like there’s a word of sympathy he wishes to give you. Blessedly, he simply nods and does as you ask. Regaling you with a ridiculous tale of his master’s drunken fights with gold cloaks and Lannisters alike. 

The tourney ends up being far more enjoyable than anything you had ever expected. You can lay credit to that on Dunk’s shoulders. The nights you are here are spent dancing in Lyonel’s tent, getting drunk off Dornish wine and listening to stories you scarcely believe are real. 

But your mornings, unfortunately, are owned by your kin.

You break fast around Lord Ashford’s table. There has been silence since Aerion’s incident on the field. He has been more temperamental after Baelor forced the prince to give his horse to that knight he’d dishonored. 

“It is barely past dawn,” Maekar grumbles, glaring down the table as Daeron orders a flagon of wine from one of the servants. 

“I know and I am already unfortunately sober,” he smiles, taking a deep swig. You bite your lip to hold back your laughter. They had found Daeron at an inn the night past, you don’t think your uncle has been able to get information about Aegon’s disappearance from him, yet. You’re certain it will be even more unlikely, considering how intent Daeron is on drinking himself to exhaustion. 

“Have you enjoyed the tourney?” Baleor directs at you, attempting to dispel the tension between father and son. 

You hum and look up from your meal to Aerion. He sends you a smirk that makes your blood boil.

“It is as all tourneys are,” you vaguely respond, wishing for your own goblet of wine right about now. Perhaps Daeron’s drunkenness is not a weakness of character but a sorry consequence of prolonged exposure to Targaryens. 

“That’s hardly an answer,” your betrothed interrupts. Baelor shoots him a tired look. “Give us your honest feelings, my love.”

You suck in a sharp breath and lean back in your chair. “Honest?” He nods and you grin.

“I am ashamed that the man I am to marry has been the only one to perform so poorly that a riot broke out. I am disgusted that I had to listen to an animal screech in pain while it waited to be put down. And I am entirely sick of lord Ashford’s gruel and soggy bread.” You shove your plate away and get to your feet. 

Aerion’s face has gone bright red, his hand tightening dangerously around his knife. Maekar lets out a tired sigh and pinches his brow. “You obstinate little-”

“Enough,” Baelor interrupts your betrothed. “Do not insult our host,” he chides you, making no mention of how you’d disrespected Aerion. Most likely because he knows it to be the truth. 

“Apologies,” you mutter, glancing at the man in question, who was staring down at his plate with flushed cheeks. “But I do recommend you spend more gold on your crops rather than elaborate displays of wealth for the monarchy. Excuse me,” you snap, storming from the room. 

They would not have an obstinate bastard to deal with if your uncle had simply granted you freedom after your aunt’s passing. No, instead, he swore to marry you to your cousin. To sate the itch Aerion seemed to crave for the old ways of Targaryen blood purity. Even if you were not pure. 

By now, you should be heavy with Aerion’s child. You should already be wed and tamed by marriage. But Maekar had sworn that Aerion would only marry you once you had been flowered. After long over a decade, you think Aerion would have caught on that you’d flowered when you were thirteen and had been hiding it ever since. 

Just this morning, your blood came. A servant had caught you burning the sheets. But they did not know of any such deal made, so you had hope it would not get back to your betrothed. 

Rushing down the steps of Ashford Hall, you wonder what you might entertain yourself with until Evenfall. Until you can see your hedge knight again. 

You stand in Lyonel Baratheon’s tent once more, hovering at Dunk’s side while he pillages the desert table. “Are you really going to be able to eat that all?” You wonder, eyes wide as you take in the three tarts balanced in his palm. 

Dunk gives you a proud grin, “‘Course-”

“Is that a fucking Targaryen in my tent?” Lyonel’s voice breaks through the revelry. He stands in the middle of the tent, eyes narrowed as he glares over at you. Dunk stiffens and shifts to stand in front of you. 

You place your hand on his arm and step around him. “Call me that again and you’ll lose your tongue. Won’t be the laughing storm much longer.”

Dunk whips around with an aghast look, but you pay him no mind. Lyonel is quiet for a moment longer before bursting out into laughter. The people in the tent laugh along with him, the liveliness returning as they go back to their drink and dance. “I have missed that barbed wit of yours.”

He strides forward and pulls you into a rough hug. You pat his back with a grin. “I’m sure you miss any wit out in those forsaken Stormlands of yours.”

Dunk’s eyes dart between the pair of you and he frowns. “You two know each other?”

Lyonel glances toward him, but ignores Dunk in favor of questioning you. “What’re you doing with my giant?”

“Oh,” you chuckle. “He’s your giant now, is he? I met him after he was introduced to the hospitality and grace of the Targaryens.”

Lyonel groans and shakes his head. “Your betrothed, then?”

“And his beast of a horse.”

You glance over at Dunk to see him looking bewildered. If not a little relieved that you’re not getting your tongue taken for speaking to a nobleman so brazenly.

“The monarchy likes to make a scene of visiting the lords and ladies of important houses. I have met Lyonel quite a few times during those tours.”

“Yes, and she’s the only royal I haven’t wanted to kill the moment I met,” Lyonel adds with a smirk, taking a swig of his mead. 

“How flattering,” you drawl, shooting him a sharp look. 

“Tell me, how is it that I have not seen you?” Lyonel questions, leading you over to his table. Dunk hovers behind you both, hand still laden with sweets. 

“I imagine you’ve been too drunk to recognize the face dancing with your giant.”

“And what an interesting dance partner he makes.” You hum your agreement as Lyonel throws himself down in his chair. “Entertain me, Waters, I grow bored of the same Lord’s prattling on.”

You shoot Dunk a sly look that he returns with a hesitant smile, cheeks now full of tart. With a slight laugh, you sit down, preparing to regale your Lord with whatever wild tales you might think of. 

“How long have you known Lyonel?” Dunk asks as he walks you from the tent and back on the path to Ashford. 

“Since I was a girl. Though I have grown up and I don’t think he ever plans on it.”

Dunk laughs and shakes his head, “I don’t think I’ve ever met such an interesting man.”

“I doubt you ever will again,” you tell him. You look back at the tent before tossing him a weary glance. “You know, I don’t think you’ve shown me your pavilion, yet.”

Dunk flushes, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. You worry for a moment that you were too forward. “That’s because I don’t have a pavilion, m’lady. I sleep under the stars as any proper hedge knight would. I have only a tree for cover.”

“Hm,” you let out a little laugh. “Trees leak.”

Dunk chuckles, glancing over at you with a soft smile that makes something inside of you melt. “That they do.”

“Would you show me, Dunk? This grand tree of yours. The night is far too young to return to the dragons of Ashford.” Dunk hesitates at the mention of your family, sending you a worried look. You offer a smile, nodding toward the path. 

“Alright,” he huffs out, only slightly reluctant. “But I’ll have you back before dawn,” he swears.

“Whatever you say, sweet knight.”

Dunk gives a firm nod and takes the hand you hold out to him, rough callouses a pleasurable change to your own smooth palms. You hold onto his arm as he leads you toward this tree of his.

It lies beneath a stone wall and isn’t half as large as you’d been expecting. But the trunk is wide enough for one to lie against and you suppose that’s all that matters. The rest of his camp is empty, his squire apparently quite enamored with the puppeteers at the tourney.

“Hm,” you hum, circling the base before resting with your back against it. “You know, I’m still not quite convinced that this is any better than a pavilion like Lyonel’s.” Dunk hovers a little way away from you, hands tight around the hilt of his sword as he watches you. He almost seems ashamed. 

“Dunk,” you frown, “I’m only teasing.”

“Yes,” he nods and lets out a strained laugh. “I know. But… you’re used to castles and- and grander things than a hedge knight has ever known.” He moves closer to you as you wait beneath the boughs of the elm tree. 

“Yes, and with gold and glory comes cruelty, entitlement, and some of the worst men to ever grace the seven kingdoms.” You step closer to him, reaching out for his hands. He releases his sword in favor of holding onto you. “Do you truly think I care for those things?”

Dunk finally meets your eye, and slowly he shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. 

“No, sweet knight, I don’t.” Your eyes dip to his lips for a moment and you see him do the same. It would be foolish, stupid, even, to do this. You could be damning him to Aerion’s anger and revenge.

But, it’s as you said, nobles are bad people. Selfish people. You never said you were any different. 

You push onto the tips of your toes and press your lips against his. It’s stiff, at first, hesitant on both your ends. Just as you begin to pull back, Dunk’s hand cups the back of your head, and he’s tugging you forward. You let out a slight gasp against his lips, clutching onto the front of his shirt as he walks you backwards. 

Your back hits the rough bark of the tree while his other hand squeezes at your waist. The pommel of his sword digs into your stomach and you grimace, trying to ignore it and instead focus on the feeling of his lips against yours. The taste of Lyonel’s mead that still coats his tongue. 

He undoes his roped belt with one hand, letting his sword drop to the grass in favor of tugging you even closer. Your body arches into his as he tilts your head, deepening the kiss. His thigh shifts, slotting between the loose skirt of your dress. You’re shocked by how brazen he’s being. You’d expected rejection, a claim that this was dishonorable to do as a woman promised to another. 

But Dunk seems to care not for propriety as his hands drop to your hips, urging them to action. You let out a little moan as you grind against the firm muscles of his thigh. The girth of him alone is enough to have your skin buzzing with pleasure. He’d once told you his master used to call him thick as a castle wall. The old man certainly had a point. 

The number of times you’d thought about mounting him is shameful to say the least. But you hadn’t actually thought it would happen. Certainly not under a tree, with nothing but the stars above you. Though you can’t say you’re complaining. Not as his lips leave yours, trailing down your neck and shoulder, before he drops to his knees before you. 

“Dunk,” you whisper, staring down at him with wide eyes. For once, he’s caught you off guard. 

“Would you allow me this, m’lady?” he asks, eyes wide as his hands skim the hem of your skirts. You cannot think of any reason you might say no. But you’re so flustered, you can hardly get the words out. So you simply nod, nails biting into the bark of the elm as he lifts your skirts to your hips. 

Again, Dunk exceeds expectations. You’d thought there’d be hesitancy, a sheepish look as he delved beneath your skirts. But your permission is all Dunk needed. He wastes no time in shoving your smallclothes aside, pressing his lips to your core and taking in your taste like a man starved. 

“Gods above,” you gasp, hands jumping from the tree to Dunk’s hair. He lets out a groan as your fingers tangle within the strands; the sound vibrates through you. Your head falls back against the tree as he lifts your leg onto his shoulder. 

His tongue flattens against you, swiping between your folds as his hand lifts to your core. One thick finger breaches inside of you, and your hips jolt against his face. His nose bumps against your bundle of nerves and you let out a gasp, chasing the shock of pleasure. A rumbling moan vibrates against you as you use him. 

You can’t tell who’s enjoying this more, you or the knight kneeling between your legs. But each buck of your hips incenses him further, until he’s stretching you wide with two fingers and you’re struggling to gasp out his name. 

The pleasure hits you in a wave, thighs twitching and tightening around his head as your hips convulse. He lets you ride out the feeling, never stopping his ministrations as you catch your breath. He only relents when you begin to slow, pushing his face away rather than pulling him closer. 

You open your eyes to the stars shining through the leaves of the elm. Perhaps he had a point about a tree being better than a tent. It is a much prettier sight than a roof of silk. “M'lady?” Dunk questions, thumbs rubbing lazy circles into your thighs. 

You glance down and nearly laugh at the sheen of your release on his chin. The way your leg is still hiked upon his shoulder. “Gods,” you whisper, rubbing your hands down your face as you slowly stand straight. “I hadn’t expected that,” you tell him honestly.

The man grows flustered, as if he had not just devoured you moments prior. “Was it too much?”

“No,” you’re quick to object. He gets to his feet and you smile. “Do you need any…”

You trail off as he begins to shake your head. Brows furrowed, you glance down to see a slight stain on his pants. If you’d thought him sheepish before, his cheeks are now burning a bright red. He can scarcely meet your eyes. 

“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever met a man to take so much pleasure from a woman’s,” Dunk says nothing, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at the ground. “Thank you, sweet knight,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he finally meets your eye again. “I wish I could stay with you a while longer, but,” Dunk nods his head and you offer a sorry smile. 

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks, almost eager. 

“Most certainly,” you promise. “Perhaps I can return the favor.”

His eyes fly wide and you let out a laugh, pushing away from the tree and him. “Until tomorrow, Ser.”

“Tomorrow, m’lady,” he says, giving you a soft smile that makes your chest ache. Were the Gods the type to spare any mercy, it would be Dunk you marry. Or a man like him. Not the dragon you are about to return home to. 

You offer a brief wave before making your way back to the path. Reluctantly traveling back to Ashford.

Suddenly, the idea of sleeping beneath a tree did not seem as silly as it once had. No, the thought fills you with a mourning ache of something you will never truly have. 

When you return to the keep, you race through the servant's entrance to your bedroom. It is not empty as you’d expected it to be. Aerion sits on your bed and you go still in the doorway, heart jumping to your throat. 

He tilts his head with a sharp smile. “And where have you been?”

You swallow thickly, fingers trembling around the door as your mind empties. No answer comes to you. After what just happened with Dunk, you’re too petrified thinking that Aerion might discover the truth. 

But Aerion does not wait for an answer. He gets to his feet, walking to your vanity and pouring himself some wine from the flagon the maid had left. “I was looking for you, so we might celebrate together.”

“Celebrate?” You finally find your voice again. But you’re still too afraid to step from the doorway. To be alone in this room with him. 

“Yes,” he turns with a wide smile that shows off his sharp teeth. He’s never looked more like a dragon.

“The maids here, love, are not as loyal as the ones at Summerhall. They tell their prince the truth because they know what’s best for them. And today, I heard that you have finally flowered.”

Your entire world stops. The elation from a night with Dunk is gone, scattered against the cold stone of Ashford. Aerion stalks closer and you wish you could run, but you have been frozen with terror. He knows the truth, now. You can no longer hide from your fate or run from him. He will never let you free. Not now. 

He stops just beside you, head dipping to your ear. You pray he cannot smell the events of the night on you. “When we return to Summerhall, we will be wed. Until then, you will remain locked in this room.” He pulls back, pressing a light kiss on the corner of your lips. “Wouldn’t want you to get any ideas of running away, would we?”

Aerion walks past you and lightly nudges you into your room. The door clicks shut behind him, and the lock falls in place after. But you just stand there, still. Sick with disgust and terrified by what your future now looks like. You are doomed. 

There is no escaping this.

Two nights follow with no word of what’s going on at the tourney. No news of when you might leave this place. You pace within your room like a caged beast. You have already tried pleading with the guard outside your door, but he will not release you. You wonder if Maekar knows what his son is doing or if he would even care. 

You think of Dunk, of the promise you’d made to return. You wished you had been able to keep it. You imagine how that night could have gone. You imagine a night where you convince him to run with you and you leave the Targaryens far behind. It’s a laughable idea, one that never would have come true. Especially not now. 

The lock on your door clicks and you tense, quickly running to grab your empty flagon of wine. A poor defense, but Aerion had left you with few options. But it is not your betrothed who finds you. It is his father.

“Uncle?” You question, the flagon dropping to your side. His face is grave, even more serious than it typically is. But beneath that, he wears a similar sadness to one you’d only seen when your aunt had passed.

“What’s wrong?” You question, and as wicked as it is, you pray he has come to deliver the news that Aerion perished during a joust. 

“Sit down,” he instructs. Frowning, you obey, taking a seat before the fire. He paces toward you, hands tucked tightly behind his back, but he does not sit. “I had not known that Aerion had you locked in here,” he tells you, cutting his eyes toward you for a moment. 

Reluctantly, you actually believe that to be the truth. “Baleor is dead,” he tells you, such a blunt delivery that you almost don’t believe him. 

“What?” you scoff, almost laughing. 

But he nods and does not laugh as if it were one big jest. “My son,” he shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “He got into a fight with a hedge knight over some puppeteer’s honor.” Your heart stills at the mention of a hedge knight. Your hedge knight?

“The knight demanded a trial, and Aerion invoked a trial of seven. Baelor died fighting for that knight. But that is not why I’m here.”

“Why?” You ask, but something in his face, something of the guilt he wears, tells you that you already know the truth. 

“I once thought that you might be the answer to Aerion’s madness. I know I was wrong. But I had little other choice.”

“You had plenty of choices,” you snap and he whips his gaze back to you. The glare he shoots you has you backing down, sinking further into your seat. 

“I will be sending him to the East,” he grits out. “Perhaps there he might finally calm.”

Your stomach drops. The East, the Free Cities, as far from Westeros as you’ve ever been. Further still from all that you’ve ever known. Stuck in a foreign city with Aerion. His father wouldn’t be there to hold him back, to protect you. 

You almost drop to your knees, beg for mercy, but Maekar is not done. “I release you, girl. You are no longer bound to my son. After what he has done, he does not deserve to marry you. And you do not deserve to be married to him. Consider yourself free from us, I know how much you’ve longed for that.”

“Uncle,” you get to your feet and he holds up his hand. He has no interest in empty platitudes. You nod, biting your lip so he can’t see you smile while he grieves. He turns to leave, but you stop him. “The knight, the one Baelor fought for. Who was he?”

Maekar scoffs and when he looks at you, you swear there is blame in his eyes. “The very one you brought to him. So he could be enlisted in the games.”

It was humming that Dunk awoke to. A foreign melody he’d never heard in Fleabottom. But it reminded him of the sort of songs the Sisters would hum to the sickly orphans. The type who wouldn’t make it through the night. 

His left eye was fuzzy, a smudged shape becoming clearer as he slowly blinked. The humming stopped abruptly and Dunk missed the sound already. It reminded him of how he used to feign sickness for an extra serving of bread for him and Rafe. How kindly the Sisters would bless him. 

“Calm, now, Dunk.” Her voice is soothing, low and calm. The type one would use to soothe a restless babe. “They’d told me that the maester hasn’t seen to you yet. I need you to be still.”

Dunk groaned and nodded lazily. “There you are,” she whispered. A stool scraped against stone, slippered feet padded away from him before quickly returning. 

The feelings of his body were slowly returning to him. The pain brushed against the edges of his mind. A burn in his thigh, aching, weeping pain through his stomach. A hundred other bites of agony, but he couldn’t feel them. Not fully. 

“I’ve given you milk of the poppy,” she tells him softly. “I was afraid you might not make it through the night.”

Dunk can only grumble, eyes rolling lazily about as he struggles to recall what brought him here to this kind voice and sweet melody. 

Something cool and damp presses against his forehead. A cloth that she pats down before her humming begins again. “Awake yet, Dunk?”

Another grumble and she lets out a laugh. “Consider yourself lucky. I do not think this is a world you’re ready to wake to.” Cold fingers press against the skin of his stomach, checking a wound there before she pulls his shirt back down. 

“Rest,” she instructs. “You will need all that you can get.” Dunk’s asleep before she leaves the room. 

Your uncle had told you that Baelor had taken up the Maester’s attention, though there was nothing they could do for a dead man. So you’d seen to Dunk’s injuries the moment you’d been freed from your room. You had been trained by your mother as a girl how to heal. A skill you kept up as you grew older. 

You weren’t as knowledgeable as a Maester, but you were decent enough to know boiling wine was the best thing for the large hole in Dunk’s side. A result of Aerion’s lance, apparently. You didn’t know how your former betrothed was ailing, but you intended to leave Ashford before you had to find out. 

As soon as you were sure Dunk wouldn’t die in his sleep, you’d left him. You’d packed what little belongings you had and bought a white horse to travel with. Before you left, though, you thought it wise to see Dunk one last time. 

He had been moved from Ashford Hall, back to his elm tree. You rode your new mare down the path, your bags attached to your saddle. Stopping at the stone wall, you slipped from the mare and jumped over the muddy rocks. 

You found Dunk slumped against his tree, staring out at nothing. He did not move as you approached, merely blinked, the light gone from his eyes as you sat beside him.

Your stomach twisted, unsure what you should even say to him. It has only been a handful of days, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since you’ve seen him last. 

“How’re your wounds?” You ask, fiddling with a loose thread on your skirt. 

“Were you there?” He asks, ignoring your own question. “At the trial?”

“Aerion had me locked in my rooms. A servant told him I’d flowered and he wanted to make sure I could not run before he wed me. I tended to you after, though. When the Maester could not see you, I did my best to keep you alive. ”

Dunk’s head lifts at that. He turns to face you and you offer a weak smile, but he doesn’t return it. “Probably saved me, he’s a shit maester.”

You scoff, “That he is.” You clear your throat and shift uncomfortably. “I came to thank you, Dunk. Were it not for you, Maekar would never have released me from Aerion. I am free now, because of you. I owe you my life.”

“You owe me nothing,” he grunts, turning his head to stare back into the distance. Something burns within you, pity or anger, you cannot tell. But this empty look in his eyes, the disconnect in his face, it does not sit well within you. 

With a short sigh, you press your lips to the only spot on his cheek that is not bruised. “Thank you nonetheless,” you whisper. He doesn’t even twitch. Pulling back, you get to your feet. “I hope I might see you again one day, Ser.”

You’re almost back to your horse when you hear him. “I don’t. I bring only pain and death to those around me.” You glance back at him but shake your head and mount your mare. You’ve only just received your freedom; you cannot risk staying here much longer. Not even for him. 

Weeks of traveling on your own have already proved far more interesting than any time spent with the royals. It reminds you of when you were a girl. When it was just you and your mother. Before her sister had found you and you’d been cursed to be trapped within one keep for the rest of your life. 

You still have the same mare from the Ashford tourney, though you’ve yet to settle on a proper name for her. She’s sweet, with a gentle disposition that’s far different from any other horse you’ve ridden. Perhaps something like Sugar might work. 

Leading her to the side of the road, you dismount. You tie her to a low branch on the closest tree and rush down into the forest. You lift your skirts, squatting as you make water beside a stream. Perhaps today you might finally settle on a destination for where you want to go. 

You’ve been riding aimlessly, but that doesn’t seem to be providing you with much luck. The number of bandits and sellswords you’ve come across this past fortnight has been worrying. You might have to part with some gold and invest in a decent dagger. 

“Sweetfoot!” The sounds of hoofbeats come to a stop along the road. 

You freeze from where you’ve squatted and glance over your shoulder. “Do you know this horse, ser?”

“Aye, but I sold her at the tourney. What’re you doing out here, girl?”

You frown, you would swear that you recognize those voices. Rising, you drop your skirts and rush back up to the treeline. A towering man stands beside your horse, petting her nose and smiling down at her. 

Gods above, is that… “Dunk?” You question, wary as you approach. He jumps back from your horse and his head whips toward you. 

His eyes widen as he takes you in, traveling up and down your body as his lips part quietly. “You?” He stutters out.

“Me,” you laugh, racing toward him. He pulls you into a tight embrace that you return eagerly. It has been far too long since you’ve seen a friendly face on the road. And you are more than relieved to see that he is far different from the broken man you’d left behind. 

“What are you doing with my horse?” He questions, puling back. 

“Your horse?” You glance back at the mare and frown. “I bought her at Ashford.”

But he’s no longer listening to you. He’s finally noticed the bruise along your cheek, the jagged cut decorating the bridge of your nose. His palm cups your chin, tilting your face as he runs his thumb lightly across the markings. “What happened?”

“Bandits,” you tell him. “Attacked me a few nights past. I was lucky to get away-” You cut yourself off as you finally notice the boy on the horse behind him. Your jaw drops and the boy’s eyes widen with recognition. “Aegon?” You squeak out. “Tell me there are no more Targaryens with you?”

You glance back at Dunk and he shakes his head, but his eyes are still trained on the injury. “No, Egg is my squire now. He’s traveling with me. Perhaps you should, too,” he mutters, frowning. 

“What?” You and Egg both demand. 

Dunk startles at the sudden tone of your voice and he backs up a step. “Well," he stutters, "you just said you got attacked. It might be safer for you.”

“Well of course it would be, look at the size of you. But are ladies really fit to be travling with knights?”

Egg rolls his eyes from where he’s seated. “Have you never read a fairytale?”

“Oi,” you snap, glaring over at him. “I’m the one who introduced you to damsels and knights, you little brat.” He shrugs, shooting you a smug grin that makes you feel like you’ve walked into a trap. 

“Then you know very well, with a knight is the best place for a lady to be.” Sometimes that boy is too smart for his own good. 

Dunk steps back with a smile. “He has a point. Besides, it’d be nice to travel with Sweetfoot again.”

You grin, already knowing your answer. “Just the horse, ser?”

Dunk flushes and shakes his head. “No, no, not just the horse. I mean it would be nice to be with you again, as well. Not again as in-”

“Relax,” you laugh, cutting off his rambling as you mount your horse. “I would be most grateful for you and your squire’s company. If you would have me?”

Dunk’s shoulders drop and he gives you a soft smile. “Of course I would have you.” The sharp smile you send him makes his cheeks burn red at the unintended insinuation. 

“Where are you going, anyway?” You ask Egg. 

He smiles, “I’ve never been past the red mountains. I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like beyond them.”

“So have I, what luck it is that we’ve found each other, once more.” You turn toward Dunk as he mounts his horse. “Perhaps the Gods favor bastards and hedge knights most.” 

Dunk smiles, but Egg cuts in. “And squires,” he adds with a huff, urging his horse past you both. 

“And squires,” you add with a reluctant smile. It seems your fate hadn’t been cursed as you’d once thought. You just needed to endure the dragons until your sweet knight came along to slay them.

a/n: I have little faith in my smut in this one but, hey, what about that plot?

Taglist: @lolabunnyworldss @juniebugg @kitkat1690

end. — I do not own the characters or the show A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

the view of the sun from your room in the red keep was quite different to how it looked from your childhood bedroom in kings landing. since you were a child, you had held a keen love and admiration for the skies and sun, especially when you rode on your dragon nyraxes alongside jace and his vermax.

you regularly asked aerion to join the two of you with his brightflame, yet he would always scoff and deny your request.

aerion poked his cheek with his tongue, creating a slight bulge of the cheek before laughing, "i am in no mood to watch you fly low to the ground, far too scared to reach the heights i do. poor sister, are you always so scared?"

a large exhale escaped jacaerys's lips, "she was simply asking, brother, must you always jest?" your brown-headed brother rested his hand on the small of your back, a silent reminder he was there to help. aerion simply shrugged and popped another grape into his mouth, busying himself with breaking his fast.

however, when you withdrew your regular invites, aerion took it upon himself to terrorise you. a yank of your hair, kick to the leg as you walked past him, a slick smirk gracing his face, daring you to fight back. you did not, jacaerys did. it was not uncommon for lucerys to burst into your chambers with the news of the two scrapping in the training grounds.

when you arrived, the scene was already crowded with aegon antagonising, aemond with his hands clasped behind his arms, helaena covering her ears and daeron simply observing.

the red keep was used to the chaos of having multiple prince and princesses within its walls. perhaps it was an unwise choice, but the liveliness was preferred by many, the voices of children, their laughter and yells through the halls being a familiar sound.

until it faded.

the passing of laena velaryon drew many nobles to the shores of dragonstone, sadly for sombre reasons. yet for your uncle aemond, it brought him to claim what had been missing from his side for far too long. unlike your siblings, and even aemond's own, you liked him. he was a quiet companion, the two of you thoroughly enjoyed reading together when you had the chance.

he trusted you with the secrets he would not dare share with aegon, or helaena, daeron, not even his mother, alicent. this bond you shared was the sole reason he decided on bringing you with him on his mission.

to claim vhagar.

when you had arrived he had been antsy, borderline upset. "what took you so long? you frightened me, i thought something had happened." you'd shaken your head and assured him you were fine, it had just taken longer than expected to escape aerion's hefty frame after he had insisted on being in your bed. much to jace's dismay.

the night had ended for aemond with gain, loss and a shift within himself.

the next few months had been a whirlwind with the passing of your father laenor, your mother's marriage to your great uncle, now father. you missed the red keep, helaena, and aemond. but on dragonstone, it was easier to breathe. not being constantly perceived by judgemental nobles, having to be proper all the time, and the privacy dragonstone offered was hard to not love.

and as your younger and older brothers matured, so did you.

your hair grew longer, body grew as well. especially in certain areas aerion never hesitated to touch or speak about, all in good fun of course.

"you are blood of the dragon, sister, and so am i. if anyone is ever allowed to touch you like this, it is me." his hands would linger where possible, accompanied by whispered threats and promises.

you would never admit the fuzzy feelings from his warm breath by your ear.

and where aerion was bold and unfazed by his directness, jacaerys was subtle and sweet.

"i found it by the shore, it reminded me of you, your hair, silver." your heart swelled with love as jacaerys placed a small, intricate seashell in the palm of your hand, you tossed it up into the air, noting its feather-like weight. "it is quite beautiful, i am flattered you thought of me brother, thank you." jacaerys's breath wavered at the sensation of soft lips pressing firmly at the corner of his mouth. turning his head ever so slightly, he asked, "may i?" a cold, shaking hand tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. the question lingered in the air, his quiet voice settling in your ears.

for once, you took action and brought his face closer to answer his question, the absence of words was replaced with the pleading in your face and eyes. imploring him to meet you halfway, which he did.

it was the first time of many.

soon enough, you and jacaerys snuck around dragonstone, hopelessly in love and wishing to never leave the others side. aerion had his suspicions, which he craved to prove true. he knew of his mother's willful blindness to your dazed appearances when emerging from the beach after 'reading' together, rhaenyra never expected you to have been like she was at your age.

he only needed to catch you in the act.

present day, the sun was high in the sky as you read to joffrey, aegon, and viserys. "are you paying attention? lest i tell mother you are preoccupied with pulling at the hem of your clothes, joffrey." the boy's hands withdrew instantly from pulling at the loose thread he had discovered.

"i am, i swear to you, sister!" joffrey's eyes fluttered to close as he anticipated your usual kiss to the crown of his head. "good, education is what makes you intelligent like your older brothers." against the floor sounded aerion's recognisable clacking footwear, "especially as intelligent as your oldest brother." it escaped your lips before you could stop it, the snicker at his words, to which he rose an eyebrow.

rising from the floor and dusting off your bottom, you kissed aegon and viserys's foreheads before turning to aerion, "you never come around for their lessons, why the change of heart?" everyone knew aerion was nowhere near an engaged and supportive brother like his twin.

he simply shrugged his shoulders as his fingers traced the large wooden table of westeros. it was not lit at the current moment, since it was not needed. aerion's eyes traversed your smaller frame, from your face to your chest and hips. "quite a shame little sister, a gorgeous body like yours not being used properly." you thwacked his arm out of anger, "do not speak in such a crude manner in front of your younger brothers, have some respect." your eyes bore into his, the fire he loved to bring out of you was rising.

"then perhaps we may take this to my chambers dear sister?" his thumb pressed against your bottom lip only for a second since you took a step away from him. "you speak to me as if i am a," the hesitance you retained made him lick his lips, "a what?" he goaded you into continuing.

"whore," you whispered in reply, wary of your younger brothers overhearing your conversation. "watch over them, i cannot stand to be around you at times." aerion leaned back against the wooden table, relaxed as ever, "we do not have to stand, i am more than happy to lie you down, untie everything for you, unless you prefer to ride,"

"aerion!"

the rest of the day was spent by jacaerys's side as you raved about the sheer disrespect you received every day from his twin. you laid by his side in bed, late at night and exhausted from prior activities. your hands were pulling at his bedsheets unconsciously, "in front of our younger brothers. how foul must one be to say such unseemly things around children?" finally meeting his eyes, you sought out his answer.

jacaerys simply stared down at your appearance. blooming bruises upon your shoulder and collarbones pleased him extensively, talking about his twin brother whilst you were in his bed did not. "my love, please let us speak of other matters." the coldness swiftly settled into his side as you sat up irritated by his lack of support, "brother please, do you not find his manners to be lacking?" a hefty exhaled left his chest.

he lazily brushed his curls out with the hand not on your hip. "it is unseemly, yes. but there is nothing we can do right now. let us enjoy ourselves."

"the two of you do seem to be quite content," aerion stood by the wall, the darkness of the secret passageway to his side led into jacaerys's room and cast a shadow on the left side of his face. flickering candlelight illuminated his right side, contrasting with the black originating from the passageway.

your hands reached for the sheets to maintain a semblance of modesty in the moment. jacaerys shifted from your side to reach for his pants and slide them on before standing, "brother," his jaw was clenched in irritation at his presence.

aerion stepped away from the wall, approaching his younger siblings, "my little brother and sister, how do you think mother would react if i-," the silver-haired targaryen grunted in pain as his back collided with the harsh, solid wall.

"you would not fucking dare," jacaerys pressed his forearm into his elder brother's neck, applying more pressure with every passing second. targaryen blood was no stranger to irritability, even at the smallest jest or slight. aerion and jacaerys shared the trait of being quick to rage.

aerion's head tilted back to rest against the wall, "c-careful little brother," the sentence was strained as he fought for air. "do not call me little brother, it's a minutes difference. and you will not tell anyone."

the pair had been entirely focused on one another, providing you a moment to pull on jacaerys's white linen shirt that fell to your knees. "both of you, stop acting foolish. someone will hear us." you tugged jacaerys towards you, effectively dragging him away from your brother.

it was far too easy for aerion to get the better of jacaerys, you needed to get a handle of them before the guards heard anything. "aerion, do not antagonise him. and jacaerys," your hand rested on his chest, "calm yourself, you are a prince, not some lowborn drunken fool."

aerion's hands snaked to grasp your hips through the shirt you wore, "and does he fuck you like a prince or as a silly little boy? i would help you feel like a woman," to his surprise, you shook him off of you. “you claim to both be men but are both petulant in nature. gods it makes me yearn for aemond.” he was rarely childish, but then again, it had been a while since you’d seen him.

both of them glanced to your in bewilderment and jealousy, aerion laughed at the comparison, “you’re bringing up that one eyed-,” you threw one of jacearys’s pillows before he could finish his insult, “do not!” you warned your brother.

his laughter waned as he swiftly picked you up and threw you down on the bed, “i was patient sister, when i suspected the two of you to be together, and even know when i caught you. but comparing that pathetic excuse of a targaryen to me? to your brothers?” instead of staring up at aerion’s wild face, you moved your head to see jacaerys.

his face held contempt.

aemond was nothing to him. you were his. his family, his little sister. how dare you?

“i think the both of us might finally agree on the same subject,” jace’s voice was low, venomous.