Story pairing: Duncan/FemaleOC, Aerion Targaryen/FemaleOC, Daeron Targaryen/FemaleOC, Baelor Targaryen/FemaleOC, Lyonel Baratheon/FemaleOC, Maekar Targaryen/FemaleOC
Summary: The Courtesan’s of Ashford Tourney know the tastes of heroes and the weaknesses of villains. They know which knight trembles before battle, which lord misses his wife, which prince confuses cruelty for control.
Read chapter 8: Slay the Beast
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
The laughter shattered like glass as the pavilion flap was ripped aside, sending lanterns rattling on their chains. Heavy boots thundered across the rugs as the men filled the space, red dragons stitched across their surcoats. They were much less polite than the timid page boy who had come a few nights prior. They tore through silk curtains and overturned low tables, scattering cups and cushions alike. One girl shrieked as a bench was kicked aside. Another scrambled to gather her skirts as a mailed shoulder brushed past her without apology.
“Where is she?” one barked. "The blonde who belongs to the Prince."
The room’s warmth curdled instantly into tension. In her private corner, Tansy straddled across the lap of a noble lord. The thin straps of her dress fallen loose leaving her half naked in his grasp. His hands resting possessively at her waist claiming his Targaryen prize. She had been mid-laugh when the first curtain fell.
The nobleman sputtered indignantly. “You cannot simply-”
One of the guards seized him by the collar and shoved him backward onto the cushions. “Move.”
Maris surged forward, fury flashing in her eyes. “You will show respect in my house,” she snapped, placing herself squarely between them and the dais. A mailed arm shoved her aside firmly. She stumbled back a step, catching herself on a tent pole to stop her fall.
“You, get up,” the man growled. A heavy cloak was thrown at her. The noble lord beneath her had gone pale. His hands withdrew as though she had burned him. She rose, redressing and gathering the cloak calmly around her shoulders, concealing bare skin. Her movements were unhurried, as though she were the one summoning them rather than the other way around.
Around the chamber, men watched in silence. No one protested further despite their earlier ire. The dragon’s men had come. And when dragons called, no one pretended not to hear.
Maris stepped forward again, jaw tight. “She is occupied.”
“The prince desires her,” the guard replied flatly.
Tansy looked at Maris, trepidation in her eyes. "I'll go, it's alright," she said, drawing the cloak fully around herself and stepped down from the dais, bare feet silent against the rugs. The guard nodded once, satisfied, and turned toward the exit.
The pavilion’s music had died entirely. Even the drunkest patron now sat upright, suddenly sober. As Tansy passed through the centre of the chamber, every eye watched her go like a prisoner to the gallows.
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The chamber door closed behind her with a solid, echoing thud. Aerion sat on the low lounge near the hearth, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. His outer layers and chainmail had been discarded somewhere out of sight; he wore only a loose black shirt, unlaced at the throat. There was dried blood at the corner of his mouth.
“Come here,” he said, calmer than she had anticipated. She stepped forward, the heavy cloak whispering around her ankles. “Sit,” he added, without lifting his head. “At my feet.”
Tansy obeyed, kneeling on the rug before him, folding herself neatly back onto her heels. The cloak slipped slightly, revealing the pale line of her shoulder beneath. Her hair spilled forward like molten silver. She still looked like a queen, although a little diminished from her place of submission. His eyes drank her in but they lacked their usual sharp edge. She mistook this for disappointment.
“I’m still bruised,” she offered lightly, a faint, almost teasing lilt to her voice. “Not fit for you at the moment my prince.”
His hand moved to grip her chin, firm enough to silence her. He leaned forward, bringing his face close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath. “Don’t,” he said, silencing her. “I don’t care about bruises.” His thumb traced faintly along the edge of her jaw. “I want to fill my mouth with your name,” he continued, voice dropping lower. Rougher. “I want to eat you whole.”
The words did not carry the usual mockery. This was not their usual game. He was not seeking a fight tonight, the violence in the market had not satisfied him, but it stirred a different kind of arousal.
Her pulse fluttered, but she did not pull away. “Then say it,” she whispered.
His fingers tightened slightly. “Tansy," he teased, tasting her name on his tongue. The air between them felt charged, thinner somehow. Less choreography. More truth.
“You enjoyed hurting that girl,” she said softly, thinking of the poor puppeteer.
His eyes flashed. “She insulted me.”
“And you snapped bone for it.”
The fire cracked sharply in the hearth. For a heartbeat, it looked as though he might strike her. Instead, his hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her pale hair. He leaned closer until their foreheads nearly touched.
“I am not meant to be laughed at,” he murmured.
“I would never dare,” she replied just as quietly. She pulled from his grip easily, standing up between his knees, the firelight carving gold along the planes of her body, chains glinting faintly with each breath she took. The cloak dropped to the floor revealing the full extent of the savagery he’d bore against her.
For a moment, he savoured the site of her. Then his hands came up fast, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise anew. He pulled her down sharply, forcing her closer between his legs.
She caught herself against his shoulders, startled. “My prince-”
“Don’t,” he snapped again. The softness from moments before vanished like smoke. His grip tightened. He dragged her down onto his lap with bruising force, fingers digging into the tender yellowing marks already marring her skin. She winced, breath catching. “You think I forget myself?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You think you can stand there and soften me?”
“I-” she tried, but his hand shot up, striking her across the face. The sound cracked sharp in the chamber, her head turned. For a split second there was only ringing, heat blooming along her cheek, copper at the edge of her tongue.
She recoiled instinctively, trying to twist away, but his hand was already at her throat. Firm and unyielding. He shoved her back against the lounge, fingers spanning the delicate column of her neck, thumb pressing just beneath her jaw. “Don’t look at me like that,” he hissed.
Her hands flew to his wrist, trying to pry him loose. Panic surged, real, sharp, no choreography in it now. She kicked against his thigh, struggling to pull air into her lungs. This wasn’t the game, not her fake resistance. This was something else. He leaned closer, grip tightening. “I am not a puppet,” he growled.
Her vision flickered at the edges. Instinct took over as her hand dropped from his wrist and slid blindly toward his waist, toward the familiar weight she had felt a hundred times before. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger at his waist. She did not hesitate, drawing back and slashing in a desperate motion. The steel kissed his skin, a sharp line opened across his forearm.
Aerion swore and recoiled, grip breaking as pain cut through whatever storm had overtaken him. Air flooded her lungs and she clambered backward off the couch, hitting the rug hard. The dagger clattered somewhere between them. She scrambled immediately, heart hammering, crawling backward on hands and heels until her shoulders struck the far wall. As far from him as she could get.
He stood over her for a heartbeat, blood running bright down his arm, dripping from his fingers onto the floor. They stared at one another. Her chest heaved. One hand pressed protectively to her throat. The other searched blindly for purchase on the floor behind her.
His face was no longer rage but shock. She had never cut him before, never drawn blood. The fire crackled between them. She sat pressed back against the wall, throat still burning from his grip, Tansy bared her teeth at him like something cornered and feral. And for the first time since she had known him, Tansy looked like a wild beast that had chosen to bite back.
“If you touch me like that again,” she rasped, voice raw but steady, “I will fucking kill you.”
The words did not tremble. Blood slid from the cut on his forearm, pattering onto the rug between them. Aerion stared down at her, chest rising and falling hard. His eyes were bright not with amusement now, not even fully with rage. Something more volatile. Something startled.
“I could end you here,” he hissed, stepping forward once, looming over her. “No one would miss you.” The threat hung heavy in the firelit air. She did not look away.
“If I were that easy to kill,” she shot back, voice breaking just slightly on the edge of breath, “you would have done it already.” It was the truth and he knew it. Her cheek was flushed from his strike. Her throat mottled red where his fingers had pressed. Her chest rose fast beneath the sheer fabric. But her eyes… Her eyes were clear. He could kill her. They both knew it. But he hadn’t. And that was the thing neither of them could deny.
Silence stretched thin between them. The fire cracked sharply, sending a spark up the chimney. His jaw worked once. Twice. “You cut me,” he said, almost incredulous.
“You choked me,” she replied.
He looked down at the blood on his arm, then back at her. The sight of her against the wall wild, furious, breathing hard but still defiant did something to him he did not want to name. His mouth curved slow, dangerous. “You think I don’t like that?” he murmured. Her brows knit in confusion for half a heartbeat. “That you would rather die than submit?” he continued, voice lowering. “That you would carve your way out of my grip?”
"Do not touch me," she seethed as he stepped closer, crouching down before her.
“You are mine,” he said, not as a threat now, but as a statement of obsession. “Because you choose to stand there and spit in my face.”
Her heart was still pounding hard enough she could feel it in her throat. “I am yours,” she corrected harshly, “when I decide to be.”
Another dangerous silence. He studied her like a creature he had trapped and then discovered had teeth. He could end her and they both knew it. But she had been in his reach countless times before, vulnerable, alone and she was still breathing.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
He huffed a sharp breath almost a laugh. His little plaything. Not so easily replaced. He rose slowly to his full height, stepping back at last. “Get up,” he said, reaching his palm out toward her, blood running down his fingers.
Despite her instinct, Tansy placed her palm in his. And that, was what truly bound them.
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The night had not softened after their first struggle. Aerion had taken her with a force that was less about conquest and more about obsession as if proving to himself that she was still there, still solid beneath his hands, still defiant and alive. He tore through the fabric of her dress, tossing her to the bed. Tansy was less accustom to this purring beast. They had rarely crossed this line before. Their encounters had been about friction, about sparring, about bruises earned.
She sprawled across the sheets on her belly, arching her hips up toward him. His fingers pressed in under the curve of her pelvis, dragging her to the edge of the bed against him. His hand wet with saliva rubbed against her, slicking her entrance. She moaned softly under his touch, savouring one of the rare moments he rewarded her with softness.
When he entered her he was rough, concerned only with his own pleasure as he pounded against her. His hand wrapped around the length of her hair pulling her head back with a strangled cry. The blood from his arm dripping down onto the alabaster skin of her back. The chamber echoed with his grunting, her whimpering moan the sound of skin on skin. Her own hands screwed up in the sheets, eyebrows knit together as the warm tingling sensation built near crescendo. Then he shoved her forward and off him, leaving her empty and bare on his bed.
She turned to look at him in annoyance, a grin plain across his smug face. He pulled his shirt off smoothly, dropping down onto the lounge where they had first started. “Come here Tansy,” he called and she answered, slinking toward him with her own siren smile.
She settled into his lap, sinking him deep inside her again with a groan. His mouth dipped low to engulf her breast, his tongue gently lapping at her nipple. He liked the proximity, his hands could touch all the parts of her, smearing blood across her skin. He bit down softly then harder and she yelped reaching for his hair to yank his head back.
He looked up at her with glassy eyes his, lips softly parted. He wanted her to strike him, to cut him again, but he wouldn’t dare say it. She saw it, the devious gleam. She released his hair, ghosting her hand down his check before letting it rest on his throat. She squeezed slightly, a breathy moan escaping his lips.
“Good boy,” she cooed reaching down to capture his mouth with her own. Her fingers tightening firmly but not enough to bruise him. He grunted eagerly, thrusting into her with abandon. She tried to keep his pace, focusing on achieving her own release, her fingers moved rhythmically over her clit trying to race him to the finish line. But of course Aerion wouldn't let her have the satisfaction, the edge of her climax slipped from her grasp as he came inside her, stilling completely.
She let go of throat and stood from his lap. Bare skin flush and damp beneath the low firelight. Without invitation she made her way back to his bed. Flopping down unceremoniously on her side, one arm was folded beneath her head, the other resting loosely beside her. Aerion wordlessly joined her. Sinking into the spot behind her. He traced the lines of her back with his mouth, following the path of muscle and bone as though committing her to memory. Slow, wet heat trailing over skin that already bore the history of him.
His mouth pressed between her shoulders something in between apology and possession. He lay behind her, close enough that his breath warmed the nape of her neck. His injured arm rested across her hips. The cut on his forearm had slowed to a dark, sluggish seep, but it had not stopped entirely. Every time he shifted, every time his hand slid along her skin, a faint smear followed.
Against her pale back, the blood looked startlingly vivid, thin, rust-red streaks dragged across shoulder and waist where his fingers had traced. It marked her more brutally than bruises ever had. Accidental and Intimate. He noticed it when he drew back slightly, the firelight catching on the wet sheen along her spine. His own blood on her. The sight unsettled him more than it should have.
“You’re making a mess,” she murmured without turning, voice low and spent.
He looked at his arm, flexed his fingers experimentally. The cut had opened wider than he’d first thought. A shallow slice, but long. “You did that,” he said quietly.
“You were choking me,” she replied.
He reached for the cloth discarded near the bedside and pressed it against his forearm, wincing only slightly. The movement left another faint stain across the curve of her hip where his knuckles brushed. She rolled over, facing him. The blood streaked her collarbone now, her shoulder, faintly across her ribs, thin trails where he had touched her thoughtlessly. Against her translucent skin it looked almost ceremonial. As though she had been anointed in something dark.
Her eyes dropped briefly to his arm. “You should bind it,” she said.
“You cut shallow,” he answered.
Her gaze flicked up, cool despite the heat still lingering between them. “I wasn’t aiming shallow.”
That drew the faintest curve from his mouth. He took her wrist gently this time, lifted her hand, examining the faint tremor still in her fingers. “You meant it,” he said.
He did not release her. Instead, he drew her hand toward his mouth and pressed a slow kiss to her knuckles blood and all. The gesture felt strange in the wake of everything. Recognition.
“You look like a battlefield,” he murmured, eyes trailing over the streaks of red across her pale skin.
“You look worse,” she replied dryly.
He rose and retrieved the small basin near the hearth, soaking a clean cloth in cool water. He set both on the side table and without flourish, began wiping the blood from her shoulder. Carefully. The cloth moved across her back, lifting the crimson trails from her skin. The water in the basin darkened.
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“I know.” He wiped at her collarbone next, gentler than he had ever touched her before. The dragon’s blood, cleaned from the girls skin. When he finished, he pressed the cloth to his own arm again and tied a strip of linen tight around the cut, teeth pulling the knot firm. She watched him silently.
“You should have run,” he said at last.
“You should have stopped,” she answered.
Neither of them looked away. The scent of iron still lingered faintly in the air a reminder of how quickly their games could turn real. He shifted slightly, drawing her closer against him. Just aligning himself with her spine, fitting his body along the length of hers. He had threatened to devour her. Instead, he found himself unwilling to let her leave.
