#luceryslvr

- A Wife?

description: first post, be gentle 🤍

inspired by "It Ain't Me, Babe"

a young second wife, a stoic widowed prince, and the son who actually sees her. angst, cheating, forbidden feelings.

reader is 16-17. maekar is... maekar.

warnings: age gap (teen reader / adult Maekar), political marriage, emotional neglect, cheating, mention of consummation (not explicit), dead wife mentions (dyanna), grief, Aerion being Aerion, slight obsession, pregnancy, birth, angst, no use of y/n, brief mentions of nsfw, no mention of a house - sorry if I forgot any

word count: ~5.3k

note: no proofreading, we die like Baelor (too soon...). constructive feedback welcome, mean comments will be fed to Aerion.

As a little girl, you always dreamed of a grand wedding, a dreamy marriage, a loving husband—like the one your parents surprisingly had. As nobles, it's an uncommon fate. One you weren't lucky enough to receive.

No. In the end, you got married for duty. For politics. Just at the age of six-and-ten.

But it was good, on the other hand. Married to a prince. Prince Maekar, to be exact. Widowed. Six children—well, only four young ones who truly needed a motherly figure in their lives.

You didn't mind the younglings. They adapted to you quickly and were a lovely bunch. You enjoyed their company and they yours, due to you actually paying them mind, giving them your attention and fixing anything up for them, from classes to playtime.

Your father, a great nobleman, was known amongst the royal family and seen as a trusty ally. Thus, a marriage between your houses was issued.

Why Maekar of all? still crosses your mind sometimes. With enough young princes in the family, why were you wed to a stoic widower old enough to be your father, with six children some older than you yourself?

The wedding was a private yet grand affair. It was fun, and you enjoyed it besides Maekar seemingly not being too enthusiastic about the whole thing.

You danced with your parents, your siblings, Maekar's younger children, the Laughing Storm and any other nobles that thought could keep up with your youthful joy. The food was delicious, the wine good, the music lively. It all made you forget that your husband didn't actually enjoy being there or in fact, married.

Then came the wedding night. The consummation part.

Your mother had prepped you the best she could without terrifying you, explaining the basic details. Your handmaidens helped you prepare for the ceremony with kind smiles and care.

Once you were alone and your now-husband finally arrived, the nerves started up. He didn't say much. Just a few labored breaths and a deep exhale.

"I'm assuming you are inexperienced? Do not worry. I'll try to be careful."

And he was true to his word. It was duty, he had to do it, especially because his brother Prince Baelor and your father were outside the door listening but he took his time. Helped you. Not cruel, but not truly caring either.

The next night, he didn't return. Nor the night after that.

He performed his duty and then went to his private chamber, leaving you alone in a complete new chamber in a different place.

Summerhall.

Moons passed, and you grew into a rather handful routine. With no pestering husband and only the younglings to watch after, you didn't have much issue. Of course, Aerion always had some remarks. And Daeron, poor Daeron, at least he had you as a shoulder to rest on, an ear to tell to.

Breakfast on the morrow was quiet in general, besides the bickering of the youngest two, Aegon being bothered by little Rhae about another tea party of hers. Supper was another story.

Maekar sometimes dropped a certain name.

"Dyanna, could you pass—" A throat clear. A moment of stiffness. "—pass the wine, please."

He didn't correct himself. Didn't apologize. Just brushed over it as if it hadn't happened. You, being the dutiful wife, did so. A tight-lipped smile, the wine in your hand, you passed it. But the dimness in your eyes did not go unnoticed not by Maekar, and not by Daeron and Aerion, who were far from oblivious.

Some moons after that, Maekar was talked to and pressured to try again for a babe. An heir. With you. Despite already having four healthy sons, the realm wasn't so reluctant to let the matter go especially as you were so young and fertile, they said.

It got to his head. He drank over his limit. Took more than he could stomach.

That night, he came to your chamber. Performed his clouded desire. His duty. Rutted in you while another woman's name fell past his lips.

"Dyanna…" he moaned.

But you weren't Dyanna. And you never would be.

A husband who merely tolerates you. A pitiful young thing cast aside with no love, no care, and no babe. Having to take it in. What else could you do?

On the early morrow, before dawn broke, you got dressed and asked the guards to take him to his room. No one was to speak of the matter.

Maekar didn't remember the night anyway.

And you had to accept that the only reason your bed was warm was because you were mistaken for a ghost.

As the weeks passed, Aerion would show up in areas you were. He either said too much or said nothing at all, both equally intriguing, and not in a pleasant way. As if it was some twisted game, it was Aerion after all it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

You were in the garden, smelling and touching the flowers, when he once again appeared. This time around what got you was what he actually said.

"Father barely spares you a glance. So young. So fragile. So beautiful." He tilted his head, almost pitying. "What a pity, having to marry such an old man who couldn't be bothered. He says my mother's name as if he forgot your own. Is that how little he sees you?"

He smirked.

"Tell me, stepmother… does he call my mother's name when duty forces him to breed you?"

That got you. A shiver ran through you. Your hand froze by the flowers.

He chuckled as he realized he wasn't far off.

"Ah. So he does?" A slow, cruel smile. "Poor thing. And I would've treated you better, you know?"

His hand reached for your face. He slowly caressed it with the back of his fingers. Your breath hitched.

"My poor, beautiful stepmother." His voice dropped lower, almost tender which made it worse. "If you do end up with child, I do hope he spares that one a glance. Let alone acknowledge that you birthed it and not his deceased wife."

After a moment of shock you had regained yourself. You slapped his hand away.

"My marriage is none of your business, stepson. You shall not concern yourself with such frivolous matters."

He didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. Instead, his smirk widened slower this time, almost appreciative.

"There she is," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "I wondered if you had any spine at all beneath all that quiet resignation."

He took a step back, but his eyes stayed on you hungry, amused, dangerous.

"Enjoy your flowers, stepmother. I suspect they're the only thing in this castle that blooms just for you."

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone in the garden with shaking hands and a heart pounding far too fast.

In recent days? Weeks? Moons? You had lost track.

You had gotten trouble sleeping. A midnight stroll to clear your mind soothed the war in your head. On these nights, you often found Daeron in the same spot where you would find your own clarity — a beautiful overlook with a great view of the moon.

You would pour into each other. He about his dragon dreams. You about your loneliness.

You had gotten closer. Finding comfort in one another.

Some nights, you talked until the moon began its descent. Others, you sat in comfortable silence, simply existing in the same space, neither willing to be the first to leave.

Daeron drank more than he should. You drank less than you wanted to.

"You should go to bed," he said one night, though his hand found yours on the stone ledge between you. He didn't pull away. Neither did you.

"So should you." "I don't sleep well." "Neither do I."

He laughed softly a sad, breathy thing. "What a pair we make. The drunken prince and the lonely wife."

"The forgotten son and the ghost bride," you countered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. Just once. Then he let go.

"Go," he said, but it sounded like stay. You stayed.

Neither of you spoke of the way your shoulders touched. Neither of you mentioned how his breath hitched when you leaned into him. Neither of you acknowledged that this, this was the closest either of you had felt to warmth in months.

Some things didn't need words. Some things were too dangerous to say out loud and some actions could have consequences.

You leaned in. You knew you shouldn't, but oh — it was Daeron. How could you not?

Gazing into his beautiful, saddened eyes, lower to his lips which still had a bit of wine on them then to his eyes again. He was doing the same.

He leaned closer. And you didn't hold back. You fully leaned in and kissed him.

His lips were soft. Softer than you had expected. But what could you expect? You only knew the harsh lips of your husband. These were different. They actually wanted this. Your lips moved together instead of trying to finish a duty faster.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was warm, shaky.

"We shouldn't," he whispered, but his hand cupped your cheek like he'd never let go.

"I know." Yet neither of you moved.

“Please…"

It came out as a whisper. You weren't even sure what you were asking for. More? To stop? To stay?

Daeron seemed to understand anyway.

He kissed you again even softer this time. If that was even possible, slower, like he was memorizing the shape of your lips. When he pulled back, his thumb traced your jaw.

"Please what?" he murmured against your skin.

You couldn't answer. So you kissed him instead.

And for once, neither of you thought about duty. Or Maekar. Or the consequences waiting in the dark.

There was only this. Only him. Only the moon and the wine and the aching, terrible, beautiful truth that you had finally found someone who kissed you like you mattered.

"Not here," he breathed against your neck. "Come with me."

You should have said no. You followed anyway.

You didn't remember who moved first. Only that his hands were trembling, or maybe that was you. The moon hid behind a cloud. The wine lay forgotten. And when morning came, neither of you spoke of what had happened under the stars.

The corridor was empty. You almost made it to the corner when you heard it, a soft click of a tongue.

Aerion leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching you with half-lidded eyes. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look angry. He looked like he'd been waiting.

"You're up early," he said, voice lazy. "Or perhaps... not early enough?" You kept walking. He fell into step beside you like it was nothing.

"Didn't take you for the type to sneak around, stepmother. Though I suppose loneliness makes people... adventurous."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He hummed. "Of course not."

You turned a corner. He followed.

"Daeron's lucky," he mused, almost to himself. "Soft-hearted fool that he is. Always getting what he doesn't deserve." A pause. His voice dropped. "I wonder what it would take for you to look at me like that."

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. He was closer than you expected.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His eyes dragged slowly down your face, to your lips, your neck, lower then back up. He didn't bother hiding it.

"Don't worry," he murmured, stepping back with that awful, beautiful smirk. "I won't tell. I prefer watching, anyway."

He turned and walked away, tossing over his shoulder:

"Sweet dreams, stepmother. Try not to wander into the wrong chambers next time."

As the moons passed, your belly swelled. Whether the babe was Maekar's or Daeron's was unbeknownst to you. It was as if the gods were playing a joke on you, a sick joke. But perhaps you deserved it? Actions always had consequences.

Aerion watched with a knowing smirk, his pale eyes following you everywhere, saying nothing but everything with that curl of his lips.

Daeron's gaze lowered whenever you entered a room, as if Maekar could read his mind and figure out what had happened. He couldn't look at you. Couldn't look at your belly. The guilt was eating him alive.

And then there was Maekar. Still the same. Cold. Distant. Oblivious. Three people knew the truth of the circumstances and he was not one of them.

The younger ones were excited, at least. A new sibling, they whispered. Perhaps a nephew or niece if they only knew.

You carried the weight of the lie in every step. And still, your belly grew.

But you and Daeron didn't grow distant. If anything, the secret pulled you closer. He still came to you in the quiet hours, his hand resting on your swollen belly with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He enjoyed the private moments the ones where he could pretend the babe was his, where he could whisper to it and feel it kick beneath his palm.

But the question lingered. Was it his sibling? Or his own child? His flesh and blood.

Neither of you spoke it aloud.

Maekar, for his part, had become more attentive. It was strange, almost unsettling. He still wasn't warm, not truly, but he tried. Gifts appeared in your chambers. Your favourite sweets. A new cloak lined with fur. He would sit with you some evenings, though he never knew what to say. You suspected it was only due to the babe. The heir he still wasn't sure he needed.

Beside that, he was still the same.

Then there was Aerion.

He barged into your chamber as if he had the right to be there, just because he knew. Because he'd witnessed something he shouldn't have. You never knew when he would appear. He never knocked.

"Now imagine it was mine," he murmured one afternoon, his hands sliding over your belly without permission. "A third option. That would've been something."

His face found the crook of your neck. He placed light pecks against your skin, one after another, and you froze.

"Ah, Mother," he breathed against you, that awful smirk in his voice. "What have you gotten yourself into?" That would ring through your mind for time to come.

The labour came in the middle of the night, as if the babe knew it was a secret that belonged to the dark.

Maekar was summoned. He came, of course duty demanded it. He stood by the door, stiff and useless, while the maester and handmaidens rushed around you. He didn't hold your hand. Didn't offer comfort. Just stood there, watching, waiting for his heir.

You screamed. You couldn't help it.

And through the pain, you thought you saw Daeron's face in the doorway, but he was gone before you could be sure. Or perhaps you imagined it.

Aerion, you knew, was not there. But you could feel his presence anyway. That knowing smirk. That whispered "imagine it was mine."

Then, a cry.

Sharp. Healthy. Alive.

The maester lifted the babe, and the room held its breath.

"A boy," the maester announced.

You barely had a moment to breathe before the pain surged again.

"There's another — "

The second cry was softer, smaller, but just as fierce.

"A boy. Twins, my prince."

Maekar stepped forward. Looked down at them.

The firstborn had a tuft of silver-gold hair. Classic Targaryen. When his tiny eyes opened, just like Maekar’s. Pure.

The second had sandy hair. Darker. Like Daeron's. Like some of Maekar's other children from Dyanna. His eyes opened too also Maekar’s?, but a shade darker.

Maekar stared at the second boy longer than the first. You held your breath.

But he simply nodded. "Dayne coloring," he murmured, almost to himself. "My sons have inherited it before."

He didn't question it.

He didn't look at you.

He just turned and walked toward the door, pausing only to say: "Rest. We'll name them in the morning."

And then he was gone.

You held your sons to your chest one silver, one sand and wept.

Because you knew.

The sandy-haired boy had Daeron's eyes.

As the night wore on and whilst the castle was asleep, or so you thought.

A soft knock. Three taps. His signal.

You should have told him to leave. Instead, you whispered, "Come in."

Daeron slipped through the door like a shadow, closing it softly behind him. His eyes found the cradle first. Then you.

"Twins," he breathed, crossing the room. He stopped beside the cradle, looking down at the two small bundles. His hand trembled as he reached for the sandy-haired boy.

"He has my coloring," Daeron whispered. Not a question.

"He has your eyes and hair"

Daeron's breath hitched. He lifted the babe carefully, cradling him against his chest. The boy stirred but didn't wake.

"I'm sorry," Daeron murmured — to you, to the babe, to the gods. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't." Your voice was tired but firm. "I don't regret it. I regret nothing."

He looked at you then, truly looked, and you saw the tears glistening in his eyes.

"I'll never claim him," he said quietly. "You know that. He'll never know."

"But you'll know."

Daeron pressed a kiss to the babe's forehead. Then he crossed to you and pressed one to yours.

"I'll know," he agreed. "And I'll love him from the shadows. Both of them. Always."

The door opened without a knock.

Aerion stood there, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable. He looked at Daeron. At the babe in his arms. At you.

No smirk. No mockery. Just... watching.

"Brother," Daeron said, voice tight.

Aerion said nothing. He walked to the cradle, looked down at the silver-haired boy, then back at Daeron.

"Two," he finally said. "You've been busy, stepmother."

"Leave."

"I will." He didn't move. His eyes lingered on the sandy-haired babe, on the color that wasn't Targaryen, wasn't Maekar, wasn't his father.

"I came to offer names," he said quietly. "But I see you already have company for that."

He looked at you. Just looked.

“Sweet dreams, mother."

Then he turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

No threat. No smirk. Just the quiet weight of knowing.

Daeron stared at the door long after it closed.

"He knows," he whispered.

"He’s always known"

Daeron let out a shaky breath.

"I should go…" "Stay," you whispered. "Please."

He stayed.

Dawn crept through the curtains, pale and grey.

You had dozed briefly, just enough to feel more tired than before. Daeron had slipped out an hour earlier, pressing one last kiss to your forehead and a longer one to the sandy-haired babe's head.

"I'll love them both," he had whispered. "Always."

Now you were alone.

A knock. Firm. Measured. Maekar.

"Come in."

He stepped inside alone no maester, no septa, no servants. His boots were soft on the stone floor. He stopped at the foot of your bed, looking at the cradle, then at you.

"How are you?" The question caught you off guard.

"Tired," you admitted.

He nodded slowly. "The maester said it was difficult." "It was. You were there."

A pause. He seemed to be searching for words, a man lost in a conversation he hadn't prepared for.

"Did you rest?"

"Some."

Another pause. His eyes flicked to the cradle again.

"May I?"

You blinked. He was asking permission.

"Of course."

He walked to the cradle, looking down at the twins. The silver-haired boy. The sandy-haired boy. His expression was unreadable but softer than usual. Almost... curious.

"They're small," he observed.

"Twins often are."

He nodded. He reached down hesitantly, carefully and touched the silver-haired boy's cheek with the back of his finger. The babe stirred but didn't wake.

Then he looked at the other. The sandy-haired one. Daeron's son.

He studied his face. His coloring. His tiny features.

"He looks like..." Maekar started, then stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind."

Your heart pounded. What did he almost say?

But Maekar didn't elaborate. He simply straightened up and turned back to you.

"Names," he said. "Have you thought of any?"

"Vaegon," you said. "For the firstborn."

"Vaegon." He tested it on his tongue. "And the second?"

You thought of Daeron. Of his tears. Of the way he held the babe like he'd never let go.

"Vaemon."

Maekar nodded once. "Vaegon and Vaemon."

He stood there for a moment longer, looking at you. Then, stiffly, he said:

"You did well."

It was the closest to a compliment he'd ever given.

He walked to the door, then paused.

"If you need anything... send word."

And then he was gone.

You held Vaemon to your chest, the sandy-haired one, Daeron's son and watched Maekar's retreating back.

He never sees me, you thought. Not really.

Perhaps that was a blessing. If he saw you, truly saw you, he would have to see the truth in Vaemon's eyes. In the way Daeron looked at you. In the thousand small betrayals hidden in quiet corners.

But Maekar didn't see.

He never did. He never would… you were always just his dutiful quiet young wife, you could never.

You pressed a kiss to Vaemon's forehead, then reached for Vaegon.

Two sons. Two secrets.

And a lifetime of keeping them both.

end note: first time posting on here, always just a reader 👀 started off with ideas and then felt it going a bit downhill idk if I like it guys 💔 let me know what you think