Chosen Part X
dark!aerion x wife!reader
summary: your husband pushes you further, and you near your breaking point
tw: abusive marriage, heavy violence, dubcon, child abuse
wc: 12.5k
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Your father often told you stories of his friendship with the Targaryen prince.
Prince Maekar, the extra spare, the fourth son of King Daeron II, the prince who would most likely never inherit the throne.
Because of his birth circumstances, Prince Maekar was not required to remain in the Red Keep the way his older brothers were. He was given free reign on where to receive education, and entertainment. He often wandered outside of King’s Landing during summers.
The Prince became especially fond of Duskendale.
Your father, Robert Darklyn II, was born the same year as Prince Maekar. More so, he was born the same month, as well as the exact same week. During Maekar’s summer trips to Duskerdale, your father was placed along with him as his companion. Their friendship grew stronger every year.
“A brother through everything but blood,” is how your father described him.
During your childhood, Maekar continued to visit House Darklyn each summer. You would see him often, though you did not speak to him. Your mother was very diligent in keeping you and your siblings away.
“He is a prince,” she would say to you, “He has no time for entertaining an unruly child such as yourself.” Your mother would say these things with a laugh, but you did not think they were a joke. She did find you unruly. Out of all your siblings, you were the one scolded the most often.
“Sometimes, it is better to listen than to speak,” she would tell you, over and over. But it is a lesson you were slow to learn.
Maekar brought his sons to visit Duskendale very few times. Around the age of eleven, your mother tried to merge the families together in the dining hall for their visit. But your father decided your siblings were too disruptive, so you did not communicate with the princes any further.
When Maekar’s wife, Lady Dyanna, began declining in health, he requested your father’s presence at the castle, desperate for the company of the only man he knew he could trust. He spent several months as a guest at the Red Keep. You and the rest of your family would visit him for two days at a time every three weeks.
You did not care to keep royal company. Your mother let you wander outside if you had a guard with you, saying it was easier to keep you out of trouble if you were out of the castle.
As a girl, you enjoyed fishing. Most afternoons in Duskendale you spent near the water. During your trips to the Red Keep, you found yourself often seeking out the lakeside.
“It is not good for a girl your age to still be interested in these activities,” your mother would tsk. “It is high time you began learning embroidery.”
But sitting by the lakeside kept you quiet and out of the way, so when the family visited the Red Keep, they would allow you to do so.
Most days, however, you didn’t even try catching fish. You just wanted to linger by the water instead of by the royals. They made you wary. Especially the boys.
You did not like Maekar’s son.
Daeron Targaryen was the eldest of all the children. He made you feel unwell when he was around. His eyes tended to...linger. Though, he was quick in his looks, and part of you would always convince yourself you imagined it.
Until once, during a feast held to celebrate the birth of Rhae Targaryen, Daeron sought you out in a way that could not be ignored.
You had been standing behind your family’s table when he found you. You had neither seen, nor heard him. It felt like he had appeared out of nowhere.
“You are the only one of your family members to not be dancing.”
His voice started you, causing your shoulders to flinch. He laughed at it.
You smelt alcohol on him. He was only five and ten, four years your senior, yet he smelled like an old drunkard.
“I am not good at dancing,” you said to him, hoping that would send him off.
“Perhaps you should give it a try with me.”
You felt put under pressure. You were shy to answer, “Thank you, Prince Daeron, but perhaps another time.”
You felt wary when he didn’t make any move to leave.
“I insist.”
Your stomach dropped.
…Could he do that? Could he insist?
“I feel unfit for dancing at the moment,” you say, slow and unsure. “But thank you.” You shuffle back a step.
His hand falls on your shoulder, “I will help you.”
You pull yourself from his touch. “I must repeat my refusal, Prince Daeron.” You step back again. “Perhaps one of my sisters-”
His hand reaches out and latches onto you. A sharp gasp leaves your lips.
“Allow me just until the end of this song.” He pulled on you. “Try it with me.”
You panic, trying to push his hand off, “Wait-”
He yanks you, his drunkenness causing him to use more strength then he intended, making you stumble forward. “You will have fun, I promise.” A laugh. “I’m sure you will enjoy it.”
You try to pull away, but it only results in another yank. This time, you stumble so hard you almost fall. “Prince Daeron!”
“They are playing music from Darklyn, haven’t you noticed-?”
“Let go of her this instant,” a voice spits.
You are quickly released.
A hand darts out and grabs Daeron from the back of his collar, tearing him away from you.
“Dismiss yourself from the hall,” came the swift and stern voice of Prince Maekar, whose fist shook his son by the back of the shirt. “Take yourself to your chambers. Now.”
“Father, I was only hoping for a bit of fun-”
“Remove yourself immediately before you embarrass me any further.”
“No one is even looking this way-”
“Which I am lucky for. I would hate for more whispers of my drunken son being overly abrasive to our guests. Go wallow over dreams in your private chambers.”
Daeron ripped himself from his father’s hold. His face was tinted red from embarrassment. His eyes fell to you, then back to Prince Maekar.
“Worry not, father. I am done here anyway. Your guests are very...” His eyes fell on you coldly. “…unentertaining. I will take my leave.”
Daeron exits the hall. As he does, you feel he is too close. You take a step to the side, barely missing a brush of his shoulder.
“Lady (Y/N).” Prince Maekar’s voice is still stern. “Go find your mother. Do not loiter alone.”
“I did not mean to loiter, Prince Maekar,” you are quick to say. “My-My father said to remain at our table, so that is where I have stayed.”
He exhaled loudly, like he was annoyed. You were not sure if the annoyance was at you, or his son. “Regardless, it is time to find your mother.”
Your eyes fell to the floor. You give an obedient nod. “Yes, Prince Maekar.”
You hurry to find your mother, but you feel too embarrassed to explain what happened.
At the end of the night, Maekar called a meeting with your parents and explained things himself.
After that day, you were kept at home with your young siblings when your family went to the Red Keep during the summer.
********************************************
There is a specific sound your husband makes when he is displeased with something his father has told him.
It is a low grunt, mixed with a scoff.
You hear this noise at breakfast the next morning, as food is being served around the table, and wine is already overflowing for the men.
“Daeron has been spotted,” Prince Maekar announces to the family.
Aerion was audibly disappointed.
Valarr frowns, leaning forward. “Spotted where?”
“At a tavern. It was a brief sighting from a guard. They claim the moment Daeron saw them, he took off, and they were unable to catch him.”
Baelor asks, “What of Aegon?”
“No sight of him yet.”
Aerion let out a low hum, bringing his third cup of wine up to his lips. “Perhaps Daeron killed the little rat and that is why he’s hiding.”
It is hard, but you manage to control your face from physically reacting to his words.
Maekar glares. “You will hold your tongue from making any further comments.”
“Apologies father, I am only trying to soften the blow for when Aegon’s body is found.”
You have never seen someone rile up another person the way Aerion riles up his father.
Or, perhaps you have. Perhaps this is what it looks like when people say you push Aerion to the point of striking you.
The maids whisper of your ‘uncontrollably tongue’. Just this morning, when Aerion ordered them into the tent to apply your makeup and hide any lingering bruising, you heard them gossip about you beneath their breath. “She enjoys his rage,” you heard one say. “She does not care who pays for it.”
You hate them, you realized just today. You hate the serving girls. They pull your hair too hard when braiding, they yank the brush too hard when brushing, they pull your corset too tight because they are angry with you.
They take their anger out on you, yet they do not dare harm a single hair on Aerion’s head.
Aerion, the one who sliced one of their faces open. He is not punished for it, you are punished for it, even though you have remained merciful to them. You do not make sounds when they hurt you, because you know Aerion would react badly to it. You let them mistreat you without complaint, because you know he would strike them if you made a complaint. You have protected them, yet they still lie about you, spreading rumors that you are as sadistic as your husband.
Even here, in the breakfast hall, you notice the way the cupbearer refuses to meet your eye as she pours more water into your glass, yet she smiles at the Princes when she fills theirs. You wonder what lies Madam Pricher has fed her.
“The entire kingdom holds its breath for the safe return of Aegon,” Valarr says to his uncle. “I am sure if anyone finds him to be in trouble, they will give him shelter and food.”
“Yes, because Ashford is so respectful towards royalty,” Aerion hums. He holds his glass to be filled. Another cup of wine. His fourth. You become nervous. It is his fifth glass that brings out his more horrible behaviors. “The same animals that stormed the arena.”
Valarr eyed his cousin. “Hm. If only it were Prince Aerion who went missing, they would have stormed the streets in celebration.”
A small chuckles leaves Baelar. You quickly bite the inside of your lip. You glance at Aerion for his reaction, only to see he is again staring directly at you, his eyes casing your face. You wonder what would have happened if you had smiled. You recall his earlier threats of whippings, and pulling nails off. You recall the way he held your hand to a desk, and tried to cut your finger off. Your body turns cold, and you turn your eyes to your lap.
“I will not joke about the health of my sons,” Maekar grunts. “The guard who let Daeron out of his grasp has already been reprimanded. I have all others on high alert looking for them. They’re believed to both be in the city.”
You risk looking at Aerion’s cup. He is halfway though with the wine. You realize you may have less than an hour before his mood turns drunk and violent.
“(Y/N),” Maekar calls out.
Your eyes snap his way, startled by being spoken to.
“You have been wandering the city. Have you heard any whispers about the boys?”
You cannot help but look to Aerion, as he has specifically told you not to say a word during meals.
“She has heard nothing.”
“I did not ask you,” Maekar quipped.
“Have you heard anything?” Aerion tests you. “Speak if you have.”
You imagine answering him, and being punished with a breakfast plate being smashed over your head. You keeps your mouth shut.
“There,” your husband says. “She has heard nothing.”
Valarr scoffs. “Has anyone checked to see whether or not Lady (Y/N) still had her tongue? Or has he cut it out already-?”
Baelar makes a small tsking sound, and Valarr quiets.
Aerion straightens in his seat, his eyes narrowing the slightest on Valarr. “My cousin worries for you, (Y/N),” he tells you loudly. “Aren’t you lucky, to have the future king so concerned for your wellbeing?”
You try to take yourself out of your body. You clasp your hands together, and you try to think of how nice the day is outside. How the wind keeps it from being too hot. How the flowers are all in bloom-
“Show him there is nothing to worry about,” Aerion commands you. “Stick out your tongue for him to see.”
Your face flushes hot, eyes widening at the request.
“Go on,” Aerion says again. “Put his concern to rest.”
Surely, this was only a jest. Your husband would not make you stick your tongue out like some trained animal in front of his family?
Baelar sighs. “Aerion-”
“Valarr is worried, uncle, let us relieve him.” His hand falls to your knee, and he gives it a warning squeeze. “Stick your tongue out. Now.”
Everyone stares at you, even the servants.
Humiliation makes your hands shake. His hold tightens on your knee. Slowly, you part your lips.
“I did not say open your mouth,” Aerion says. “I told you to stick your tongue out. If not, he’ll accuse me of planting a false one.”
“That is enough,” Valarr tells him.
Aerion brings his hand higher to your thigh, and you feel a pinch on your leg.
There is no getting out of this. And you suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is mundane in terms of things Aerion could demand of you to do.
So you obey him. You stick your tongue out, keeping your eyes on the wall to try to suppress some of the humiliation.
You shut your mouth quickly when Aerion begins to laugh. “Satisfied, Valarr?”
You do not look at him, but his voice is softer now. “I did not ask for that.”
Aerion pushes out his chair. There is still laughter in his voice. “Come, (Y/N). We are done here.”
You rise from your seat as fast as you can. You follow after him, face still hot with embarrassment.
When you exit the dining hall, you see Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty standing near the exit. They follow behind you and Aerion as you leave.
Your husband walks with a new strut. He chuckles. “How utterly bashful he became. He should know better by now than to make comments about things that belong to me.”
As a woman, you should have not been offended anymore by being told you ‘belonged’ to someone. Yet, it still irked you. To belong to a man was one thing, to belong to this man was your greatest shame.
A sigh leaves his lips. “At least he decided to hold his outburst until after I was done eating. It’d be a shame if he continued day after day ruining our meals.”
He ruined the meal?
Of course.
Valarr Targaryen. The future king. He was the one who ruined the meal.
You walk under a shaded archway of the castle. You are relieved to be in the cold shadow of the building. You risk wiping the sweat off your brow. Aerion remains walking with a fast pace, and he is hard to keep up with.
When you round a corner, Aerion grabs you and pulls you to a stop.
You quickly shift around, looking for any of the Ashford guards. Aerion has ledged you in a spot that has none. Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty still trail along, but they linger further back as they notice Aerion has stopped.
Your whole body tenses as Aerion brings his hand up to cup your face.
What does he want? What the fuck does he want from you?
“You know that’s what he wanted, don’t you? He wanted to see you open your mouth on command, and that’s why I gave him what he wanted.”
You swallow. You give a quick, obedient nod.
“No,” he drawls beneath his breath. “You don’t see it the way I do. You think of him as the good son. The courageous heir to the throne.” His hand moves to grip your jaw. “He is not as innocent as he pretends. Best believe the only reason he thinks of your tongue is to picture it running up and down his cock-”
You rip yourself from his grip, disgust on your features.
Ha laughs again. “Don’t be so naive to think it false.”
You physically bite your tongue so hard it hurts.
He is quiet, as if waiting for you to say something. When you do not, he presses further. “Unless you know it to be true? And perhaps you find enjoyment in it?”
You grip your skirts in fists, and you glare at him. He waits again. But you know better now. You do not speak.
But is he unrelenting. As if he wants you to speak. Because he wants to correct you.
“It seems my whorish wife gets excited at the thought of other men stroking their cocks to the thought of her.” He notices the way you flinch at the brazen words. He worsens his behavior. “Next dinner, I should give them something to really look at. I should just order you to pull up your skirts and show them your cunt-”
You shove his chest away from you, disgust drenching you.
He breaks out with laughter. His laugh, which you hate most out of anything in the world, is what finally makes you snap.
“How dare you speak to me with such crudity?” you spit at him, unable to handle the seething rage you feel.
“Crudity.” The word amuses him. “My, my, how sensitive you are for someone that enjoys whipping naked women.”
You turn away from him sharply. “Ser Thenty, I wish to be escorted to my tent-”
Aerion grips your upper arm and yanks you back to him. He is still amused. “Settle, woman.”
“You are barbaric,” you spit at him.
A laugh. “Barbaric?”
“I am your wife,” you whisper in a hiss, trying to rip your arm from him. He does not let go.
“I am aware.”
Your rage seeps through your words. “Yet you debase me so openly.” Your fists open and close on the fabric of your skirt. “Is it not bad enough to have me humiliated in front of so many spectators in the city, you must do so in front of the royal family?”
“I forgot how much my cousin’s opinion mattered to you.”
Aerion is jealous of his cousin, you remind yourself.
So you taunt him with the things he envies.
“The opinion of the future king will always matter over yours-”
Aerion hits you so hard that you fly back against the stone wall, barely catching your balance on it. Pain hinders you as you clutch your cheek.
“That is your only warning,” Aerion says to you.
Your hair falls in front of your face. You let it stay so that you do not have to see him anymore.
You make a quick attempt to get to Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher, who stand at the end of the small courtyard, watching. You manage to stumble only a few steps towards him before Aerion’s finger grip around your arm.
“Barbaric,” he repeats. “You find your own husband barbaric. Do you know how barbarians behave?”
“Let me go,” you say, your voice feeling raw as you hold back the tears forming in your eyes from the stinging slap.
“I will show you what it means to be debased so publically,” he tells you. “So that next time you will be more appreciative of the husband you have.”
He yanks you towards the willow tree.
“Stop it,” you whisper. You try to pull back, grounding your feet in the dirt. “Aerion-”
He flings your body towards the tree.
Your blood freezes as you watch his hands fall to his belt, and he unfastens the buckle.
No.
No.
He did not mean to do that here.
He would not abuse your body here. In someone else’s home. In someone else’s courtyard.
He was more than barbaric. He was a barbaric, hateful, spoiled, evil bastard.
You take a quick step back as his belt is dropped to the ground, and he begins to unbottom his britches.
“Behind the tree,” he orders you.
You do not move.
“Or not,” he says. “Who am I to care if we have more onlookers?”
“This is the Ashford’s castle-”
“It all belongs to the Targaryens.”
Your hands are shaking again, and your eyes dart to a single guard you see up ahead. “They-They will not forget this disrespect if word of it reaches them.”
You could picture the gossip now. The uncontrollable Targaryen son fucked his wife publically in an Ashford courtyard.
His whorish wife, they would call you.
Your eyes sting as you imagine what else they will say. You look back at the guard. Will he watch?
“They will survive.”
“It will reach your father,” you tell him, flinching as he steps closer.
His voice remains uncaring as he unbuckles his top coat, carelessly letting the jacket fall to the ground. “Gods, whatever will I do if my father hears?”
This could not happen. Not out in the open. Not in such a beautiful place. “No, Aerion, this-this is unacceptable-”
“I know. It’s barbaric, isn’t it?” he taunted with another short laugh.
You are desperate as you call, “Ser Thenty!”
“They will wait behind the gate of the courtyard.” Aerion shoos them away. “Go. A husband requires privacy with his wife. You will wait beyond the gate.”
They obeyed. They both stepped on the other side of the stone wall as if you were not begging for help.
“Behind the tree. Now.”
“Okay,” you whisper, taking a cautious step back. “Okay. Okay.”
He nears you. You wait for him to come closer, and the moment he steps behind the tree with you, you dart out the small opening behind it. You force your feet against the ground and try to run to Ser Thenty.
Aerion snatches you fast, gripping your hair and yanking you back behind the treetrunm.
He is laughing still like he is having the time of his life. “How pitifully slow you are.” With a firm shove, you tumble to the ground. Aerion kneels over you. “The more noise you make, the more of an audience we will have-”
“Get off of me!” you scream at him.
You writhe on the ground, using all your strength to try to get out from under him. He pins your hands down with ease, and amusement covers his expression. “You can either give me your body, (Y/N), or I will take it. And believe me, I would have much fun in taking it.”
It was all just a game to him.
Your torture was a game to this horrid excuse of a man.
Fire burns in your veins. You spit in his face.
You hear half a laugh before you feel the blow to your face.
You shut your eyes tightly, the slap causing your head to spin.
Aerion’s hand moves down your legs, which you writhe and kick with all your might. He grabs your skirt and lifts it to your waist.
Aerion frees himself from his trousers, and with abruptness, and no thought to your dryness, he shoves himself into you.
The pain of the harsh intrusion causes you to cry out.
Your brain tries to shut itself down. Your mind tries to leave this place.
Your husband makes a low groan, his hands tightening on your dress, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
You should be protected. That is what Prince Baelor promised you. He said you would have a knight that protects you.
But Ser Thenty is useless.
You have no idea as to why he is not serving his purpose, so you flood your mind with ideas as to how to make him.
You can do nothing but scream. So you scream.
You open your mouth and scream as loud as you possibly, possibly can.
It works in the smallest of ways. It catches Aerion off guard, making him pull his face back. He reaches out and grabs a broken tree branch, snapping off the top, and shoving it against your lips to force you quiet.
An idea sparks immediately. Your hands flies out to feel the ground beside you. You find a different branch, smaller, but enough to grip onto.
You recall exactly where you stabbed Aerion nights prior. So you grab the small stick, and you jam it in the exact same spot.
“Ah!” Your husband hunches back. “You fucking whore-!”
You rip the stick from your mouth, and slam the pointed end against his face. You hit his cheekbone, and you see the blood as you shove him back from you.
Flipping over, you try to crawl out from under him. He grabs you, yanking you back to him. You reach for something new, and you find grab a rock this time. You turn and slam it against his forehead. You hope it kills him.
But he only hisses in pain, his hand finding your throat, squeezing it so hard you see stars. He lifts you up by the throat, and slams you back to the ground.
Your hand flies out again feeling for anything you can teach. Your luck reappears as you feel a large, fallen branch. It is almost too heavy to lift with one hand, but you are able. You bring it up and slam it against his face. Once. Twice. Three times.
He screams louder.
One hand still pins down your shoulder, so to get it off of you, you turn your head and bite his arm as hard as you can.
Aerion rips his hand away, and you force yourself out from under him. You snatch the large branch off the ground, and you slam it down to his body. Then again, and again.
You hear him laugh. A long, elated laugh. “I am going skin you alive, you stupid whore-”
You slam the branch down against his head. You scream as you do so.
Aerion catches your wrist, yanking you down and knocking you off your feet. It does not make you stop. You grab his hand, and bite his wrist once more, as hard as you can. When he rips it away, you raise the branch as high as you could and bring it down on his head.
You want him dead. You hit him again. You want him dead. And again. You want him dead and gone and burning in hell-
“Lady (Y/N)!”
The scream was so loud that your whole body jolts, your heart sinking to your stomach.
“Get off of him now!”
You flinch so violently the tree branch drops from your hands. You fly to your feet and whip around.
Ser Donnel of Duskendale stands with a face red with anger. “Get away from him, you stupid girl!”
Your body quivers as you grip onto your dress, patting yourself down and making sure you are not exposed. “Ser-Ser Donnel-”
“Step away from the Prince!”
You take fast steps away from your husband.
Aerion had been right, your screaming had eventually drawn a crowd. There are more than a dozen guards near the entrance of the courtyard now, Ser Donnel’s harsh command the only thing keeping them from entering.
Your body stays tense with panic, but a different kind now. You are no longer fearing for your safety, you are fearing your punishment.
They are going to punish you for this. Oh god, they were going to hurt you for this. You wanted to burst into tears.
“H-He was-” You gulped. “He was-”
“Quiet, woman!” Ser Donnel hollers at you. He kneels in front of your husband. “Prince Aerion, do you require a maester?”
A lazy smile formed on his face. “Not as much as I require my dagger. Hand it to me so that I am able to slice that bitch’s throat open.”
“Ser Donnel,” you choke, “I was only defending myself-”
“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps at you. “I just witnessed you beating the royal prince with a tree branch. Have you any fucking idea what this will cause for you?” He grabs hold of your husband. “Allow me to assist, my prince.”
He raises Aerion into his feet. Your husband sways, before resting an arm against the tree trunk, leaning over, and puking out red wine. Ser Donnel wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“He forced me behind the tree,” you try to say rapidly. “He-Ser Donnel-He was forcing himself on me, and-” You choke on your own panic. “He would not stop, I did not know what else to do.”
There is a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. You see his anger subside the smallest amount, but his voice stays stern. “Yet it is you who will face punishment for this.”
You fall apart, breaking down right then and there.
“Quiet,” the knight orders you.
Aerion wipes his mouth, but stays resting on the tree with his eyes shut, wincing as he places a hand over his torn stitches. “Shove a fistful of dirt in her mouth to silence her.”
You wish you had the speed to grab Ser Donnel’s sword and kill Aerion with it.
Tears stream down your face. “Please, do not tell his father,” you beg the knight.
Ser Donnel places a hand on your jaw, turning your head back and forth. “Prince Aerion caused these markings?”
You did not know what your face looked like, but you assumed the slap to the face, hitting the ground, and having branches shoved into your mouth did some visible damage.
You shake from your crying. “I beg of you. I beg of you, do not tell Prince Maekar.”
“Prince Aerion, what was the cause of this?”
“My wife is excited by bloodshed-”
“He is lying!” you say to Ser Donnel. “He is a bastardly liar-!”
Ser Donnel hisses, “Hold your tongue!”
You had been trying.
All day, you had been trying your absolute hardest to hold your tongue. You stuck out your tongue on command, in front of the soon to be king.
You tried to hold your tongue but Aerion wouldn’t let you.
He escalated and escalated and escalated and you wish you had the strength to have driven that stick into his skull.
“I must take you to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar at once.”
A sob escapes your throat. “No-”
“You have been warned about this,” Ser Donnel spits beneath his breath. “What did you think would happen?”
“He will not understand,” you cry.
“You will put yourself at Prince Maekar’s feet, and you will beg for his forgiveness.” Ser Donnell snaps. He gestures for the guards to move forward. “And if he is merciful, perhaps you can save yourself from the same fate you saw after your incident with Prince Daeron.”
The incident with Prince Daeron. Your body still shudders at the memory from your maiden years.
“No,” you say again. “Please. Aerion-” You suddenly grasp onto your husband’s hand. “Aerion, do not let your father hear about this.”
Aerion drags his hand over his mouth, and he catches a drop of blood that comes from a cut just above his mouth. “And why should I defend the whore who so viciously attacked me?”
“Please,” you cry again. “I am sorry. I will never dare do something like that again. Aerion-Aerion, I-” You search your mind for anything you think might trigger some form of sympathy.
You recall how calm Aerion was in his armor tent, how tender his words became when you massaged him.
So you force yourself forward, clinging to him, burying your face in his chest. “I beg for you to forgive me.”
You dare not look at his face. You keep your face against his chest, gripping his shirt like he is your hero rather than your tormentor.
“Do not let him force me inside, my prince. Please, I am sorry.”
There is a moment where you hear nothing, and you can only imagine Aerion is exchanging words with Ser Donnell through looks alone.
“Lady (Y/N) is my lawful property,” Aerion eventually speaks. “What she does is no business of my father.”
“Prince Aerion,” Ser Donnel urges. “I must warn you, he may hear about this through gossip either way. There are guards witnessing this, and they will tell tall tales if no disciple is given to her.”
“The disciple comes from me, not my father. She is mine, not his.”
You can feel Ser Donnel’s agitation. Yet he holds back any further comment besides, “Very well.”
“Come, (Y/N),” Aerion commands, pulling you away. “Let us return to our tent.”
You cannot bear to meet Ser Donnel’s eye. Aerion holds your upper arm, and he leads you out of the courtyard.
As you pass the entryway, your blood freezes as you see Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher waiting exactly on the other side of the archway.
Standing there.
As if nothing was happening.
As if they had not so clearly heard you screaming.
They begin to follow after you, as if nothing had happened.
*******************************************
You do not return to the Red Keep until the death of Lady Dyanna.
Your entire family makes the journey as soon as your father hears the news.
Never in your life had you seen a grown man weep until the day you arrive at the castle, and Prince Maekar greets you father with tears still in his eyes.
The Prince loved his wife. And your father loved your mother. You were raised with this belief-that husbands and wives loved each other. It was a kind thought in the cruel world.
“You will be on your best, most respectful behavior,” your mother told you all before the funeral. “The Targaryens are grieving. They should be met with empathy and compassion only. Does everyone understand?”
Your siblings were obedient. You tried to be too.
Yet, when your siblings were sent out to begin their walk to the funeral cathedral, you were the one held behind.
“It is very important to your father that you remain silent today,” your mother tells you with both hands on your shoulders. “Can you do this for him?”
“I do not speak out of turn,” you tell her.
“Yes, but...a proper girl must bite her tongue even when insulted. Do you understand?”
You did not. Yet, you replied, “Yes, mother.”
“Be respectful to the princes. Even Prince Daeron-”
“Prince Daeron is the one without respect-”
“(Y/N),” she criticized. “He lost his mother. The only words you should speak are condolences.”
“…Yes, mother.”
She gave a heavy sigh. “Go and behave. I believe in you.”
The funeral was a somber event. The princes lined the front of the building as people drawled on about the will and plan of the gods.
When it was time to leave, you followed after your siblings to the front of the building. “We will offer our sorrows,” your father tells you.
You walk along with your siblings, each of them offering condolences to the princes as they passed.
Maekar’s children are there, even the babies held by wet nurses. You divert your eyes as you pass the sons, as to not make eye contact with Daeron.
You stand next to your father as he passes his friend. “She was a beautiful, kind mother, Maekar. The kingdom will miss her.”
You do not know how it tumbles from your mouth, yet it does. Maekar stands so tall, so noble like. You are so young, you are not smart or well versed in how a kingdom works.
Stupidly, you try to console him by saying, “She would have been a well loved Queen-”
Your father’s hand clamps down on your shoulder, silencing you. “Forgive her,” he says quickly. “She is ignorant to titles.”
“All is well,” Maekar dismays. “She...would have done wonders as a queen.”
You are pulled away, and your father hisses, “What were you thinking? Maekar is a fourth son, he will never take the throne, his wife would have never been queen.”
“That is not certain-”
“Go to your mother,” he demands. “You will stay by her side for the entirety of the feast.”
“Why is there a feast?” you ask him. “You said the castle is in mourning-”
“Enough. Go with Ser Donnel,” your father commands you.
Ser Donnel, one of the guards from your home in Duskendale, was now a knight of the Red Keep. He was still loyal to House Darklyn and was the escort to your father during his visits.
“Little Lady (Y/N),” Ser Donnel greets you with a short laugh. “Your father has already warned me to keep my eye out for you.”
“Take her to the feast. Ensure she does not linger with any company,” your father commands him.
You are sent away with a knight like you are a criminal at risk of escape.
******************************************
What fucking use is he?
What use is that pathetic, empty-headed, cowardly, bastard of a knight.
There is rage in your eyes as you stare at Ser Thenty from across the room.
The feast was lively tonight. The first week of jousting had officially ended, and there was a city wide celebration thrown.
Aerion forced you along for it, despite your body aching from the earlier incident.
“You had been right not to involve my father,” Aerion had told you when the two of you got back to the tent. “He would have punished you publically. I will not.”
Aerion had settled on a…martial punishment.
It was brutal, but it was bearable. And you were grateful that he did not break any of your fingers as he so often threatened to.
You got off easier then you would have had Prince Maekar gotten involved.
“You were lucky for Ser Donnel arriving,” your husband told you. “I would have walked you back to the tent stripped naked had you hit me one more time.”
No, he wouldn’t have. That was something you were learning.
Aerion could not stand the thought of someone else seeing you naked. Your body belonged to him, and he wanted it to be only for him.
He would even force Ser Thenty to face the wall when he had his way with you.
Ser Thenty, who did nothing.
He was tasked to protect you, yet he would stand by and listen to you scream.
He would have allowed Aerion to continue to rape you right there in the courtyard. He heard you screaming and crying and begging for help, yet him and Madam Pricher stood by as if nothing happened.
You were wrong. Ser Thenty was not a good knight.
He was as evil as every other man.
You hated Ser Thenty.
You hated Madam Pricher.
You hated your husband.
You hated everyone at this feast.
Everyone was dancing and laughing like it was the time of their lives, and you were practically chained to your chair and living on the mercy of a tyrant.
You had nothing to look forward to. Nothing to keep you at peace.
Just...nothing.
Depression hits you with a numbness. You did not think, you only stared ahead, no thoughts in your mind. You sat empty headed and hoped you would die in the upcoming year.
You were numb to the point that when a cupbearer filled your cup with wine, you drank it.
And you kept drinking. You kept your cup to your lips, because it kept your husband from speaking to you.
Until Aerion suddenly snaps at you, “Slow down. You will be sick tonight if you continue that quickly. And I will not have patience with a sick woman.” He takes another chug of his own wine bottle, then wipes his face with his sleeve like an uncivilized child. “Pull yourself together or everyone will think low of you.”
Your insides twist. “They already think low of me for being your wife.”
“They would think low of you for being anyone’s wife, you do a horrible job at it.”
You stare blankly at the dancers that perform in the middle of the room. Aerion seems quite taken with them, yet part of you wonders if he only watches the women because he knows it get under your skin.
Aerion’s family sits far away from you two. You understand why. You take a moment to finally get a good look at Valarr, as you have never been able to before.
He is handsome, and perhaps that is why Aerion is so worried about you speaking to him.
Though, in another life, you would have found Aerion as the most handsome man in the world. But his attractiveness was ruined when he first opened his mouth.
Your eyes dart to Ser Thenty as he circles the room, before coming to Madam Pricher, who rests against the wall behind you.
“I will return in a moment, Madam Pricher,” you hear him tell her.
“Very well. Be swift.”
You glance behind you, and you see him leaving the feast hall.
Your anger blooms once more, spiking your heart rate.
“I feel as if I will vomit,” you tell Aerion.
“Hm.”
“I must step outside for air.”
“Convenient timing,” you hear him say, a hint of irritation in his tone. But your husband is angry about everything, always, so you do not care.
The room spins when you rise to your feet. You hold yourself still for a moment to make it stop.
You walk swiftly after Ser Thenty. He goes outside. In suspected privacy, he begins to lower his pants to urinate against the tree.
“Ser Thenty!”
He flinches, and quickly tucks himself away and recomposes himself. “Lady (Y/N), where is your chaperone?”
Anger bites in your voice, frustration deleting all your hesitation. “Is it not supposed to be you?” you accuse. “Were you not the one Prince Baelor charged with maintaining my safety?”
“What?” Ser Thenty fastens his pants as quickly as he can. “You should not be out here. Return to the feast inside.”
“What purpose do you have?” you drawl, the wine draining you of all common sense you had about decency. “What is the point of you following my husband and I if he is able to do whatever he pleases? Strike me whenever he pleases? Rape me whenever he pleases-”
“Lady (Y/N),” he cuts off sharply. “We are not meant to converse alone.”
“And you are not meant to witness my torture, you are meant to prevent it!”
“I apologize,” Ser Thenty tells you. “But there is little for me to do. Aerion is a Prince of the seven kingdoms. No matter my orders, I am forbidden from harming him.”
“So I was right in my doubt of you? You cannot do anything because you are a small, cowardly man?”
His tone loses patience. “You must return inside. We cannot be caught out here without a chaperone.”
You did not care for a chaperone. The wine gripped your heart and rid you of your common sense.
Your hand shoots out and you grab Ser Thenty, gripping his arm with a tight squeeze. “Are you not ashamed of yourself for this-?”
He shoves you, hard. So hard you stumble, your anger faltering as your mind reminds you this is a man capable of harming you.
“Do not touch me,” he snaps at you. “You know what your husband will do if he sees such a thing.”
“Of course I know what he will do! You are the one who ignores his actions-!”
“You are alive, Lady (Y/N). You are alive, without any broken bones. I am completing my duty.”
“You are a liar as much as a coward!” you scream. “You sat and did nothing as I called to you!”
“I would have went to you immediately if you were in actual distress, my Lady.”
Your heart spikes with blood curdling anger. “You walked away as my husband raped me!”
“He is your Lord husband,” Ser Thenty tells you. “A man cannot rape a woman that belongs to him.”
And there it was.
There was the answer right there, all along.
You do not get protection from a knight like a man would.
Because you are a woman, meaning you belong to someone.
Why would an object be valued over their owner?
Tears sting your eyes at the frustration of this life.
“You are a craven bastard!” you cry. “And I hope you are tortured in the pits of Hell for all you have allowed to be done to me!”
Heads are turning from the guards outside. More eyes have fallen on you too.
Ser Thenty appears flustered now, less bold under the attention.
“I am going back to the feast,” he tells you. “You should try to sober yourself. You are likely to upset your husband this night.”
You suddenly bend down, pick up a rock, and throw it at the coward.
Ser Thenty ducks it, his eyes widening.
You hear the insult he whispers. “Unrestful cunt.”
He leaves you alone with only the guards that pose along the tent.
You do not want to return inside. Inside is Hell. Outside is Hell. Everything is Hell.
So instead, you drop yourself on the ground with your back against the tree.
You hide your face, and you break down.
*******************************************
You pick at the food on your plate boredly as you watch the nobles dance their way around the hall. “Has a fourth son of a king ever become king himself?” you ask.
Ser Donnel stands beside your chair. He gives a nod as his eyes scan the room for trouble. “Aye. A few times in history. Though, is it not too common.”
“Could Prince Maekar be king one day?”
“It is possible. Though, not too likely.” He glances at you with curiosity. “For what reason do you ask?”
You lean back in your chair. “My father is angry that I told Prince Maekar his wife would’ve been a good Queen-”
“He told you not to speak,” came your sister’s voice from beside you. “You always have such stupid things to say-”
“Be silent,” you snap at her. “I am talking to my knight.”
“Your knight?”
You ignore her and say to Ser Donnel, “It would have been possible for Lady Dyanna to have been queen one day. And if she had been, she would have been well loved. What I said was not incorrect, why must I always be punished for speaking?”
“Because you don’t speak properly,” your sister tells you. “Mother says that is why they will have to arrange your marriage. You will never be courted because you are loud.”
“You will never be courted because you are nosy-”
“Girls, settle,” Ser Donnel chides. “We must keep respect on a day like this.”
“How is any of this respectful?” you ask. “People are drinking and laughing. They are meant to be crying.”
Your sister huffs. “You are still so very loud with your opinions-”
“Enough of you.” You push yourself to your feet. “I will be retiring for the night.”
“Your father requests you remain here until the feast is over,” Ser Donnel tells you.
You lean back in your chair with a heavy sigh.
“Prince Daeron is dancing,” your sister comments.
You say, “Prince Daeron is drunk-”
“(Y/N),” Ser Donnel chides again.
“He is stumbling,” you say. “He has stepped on his partner’s feet several times. She looks as if she is in pain from him. Should you not put a stop to it, Ser Donnel?”
“His mother has passed. Let him grieve how he needs to.”
A frown forms. You watch Prince Daeron, unimpressed.
Finally, the song ends and the girl he danced with rips herself from his grip and flees off the dance floor.
He is not able to find another partner by the time the next dance starts. So he returns to his table and slumps down in a chair beside his brother, Prince Aerion.
Prince Aerion is different then the others. There is a glare on his face as his eyes take in the events of the room. You wonder if he finds it all disrespectful as well.
His eyes continue to cross the room. Then, without warning, his eyes dart to you.
Heat rushes to your face and you quickly look away. You wonder if he noticed you staring. You risk a glance back, and see Prince Daeron whispering something to him. Both of them look at you. You quickly stare at the table, and try to convince yourself you did not see them.
But then the horrid unthinkable happens. You hear him.
Coming from your left, you hear his voice. “Lady (Y/N).”
Your head turns. Prince Daeron stands there, drunk as always, a smile too wide for his mother’s funeral feast.
“I was hoping to have that dance with you now.”
You look at Ser Donnel first, and it is clear this has caught even the knight off guard.
“Prince Daeron,” you slowly begin, “I am…still not well at dancing-”
“I do not mind.” He holds a hand out. “Shall we?”
His eyes are glazed over from drunkenness. You risk glancing at his shoes, which look heavy, and you imagine them stepping on your feet.
“I am very sorry, Prince Daeron, but my father has ordered me to stay seated-”
“Dance with the prince,” your sister urges you. Her voice drops to a whisper. “It is his mother’s funeral. Why are you being so cruel?”
You are jolted as Daeron puts a hand on your chair, pulling it out. “Exactly. It is my mother’s funeral. You would not reject me for a dance at this time, would you?”
“I-” Before a word gets out, he grabs your arm, and pulls you up out of your chair.
“Prince Daeron,” Ser Donnel speaks, “You appear unsteady.”
“I am perfectly alright.”
“I think it would be best if you took a break.”
“Your concern is noted.” Daeron’s hand remains on your arm. His head jerks towards the dancing. “Shall we?”
You do not know what to do.
So you try to think of what your father would advise. He would surely tell you to be respectful, and not to embarrass him.
Placing your hesitation to the side, you agree, “Perhaps you can accompany me for…one dance.”
As you are taken to the dance floor, you feel a sweeping nausea that you must suppress.
Daeron is an awful dancer. He refuses to use any proper dance moves, and he refuses to let you do any either. Instead, he pulls you into him. Your body hits his with a startled gasp, and his hands fall to your waist. He sways with you, though his swaying feels more like stumbling.
Your closeness is inappropriate. Your eyes dart around, fearing your father will see it.
At least those around you look sympathetic rather than judgmental. They know you do not want this dance.
“I have not seen you in so long,” Daeron says to you.
You turn your head as you speak, the alcohol on his breath almost too strong to bear. “My father prefers traveling on his own when he visits the Red Keep.”
“No,” he mumbles. A short shake of his head. “I have not…seen you. I saw you so often before. It’s as if you are…hiding from me now.”
You do not understand him, and you do not want to.
Moments pass without anything said.
“I am very sorry about your mother,” you tell him, because you do not know what else to say. “I cannot imagine your grief right now. I will pray that you are able to get through it.”
“Yes, my mother.” A light smile. “She would have made a very good queen.”
Your shoulders slouch, and you think he is mocking you.
Until he says, “One night, I saw my father on the throne with the King’s crown on his head. He did not believe me.”
It confuses you. “You…saw him?”
“Dreamt of him.”
You do not know what to reply to that, so you say nothing.
A larger smile rises to his lips. “You know, my brother-” He pauses, and laughs. He does not continue.
The music comes to an end. You try to take a step back from him. He does not let you.
“Once more,” he says.
It would embarrass your father if anyone saw you argue with Daeron, so you stayed where you were, and allowed him one more dance.
“You are ten and three now?” he asks you.
“Yes. Ten and three.”
“Have you become a woman yet?”
The question startles you. Your face flushes hot. “P-Pardon?”
“Have you bled yet? And entered womanhood?”
Yes. You began bleeding almost a full year prior to this. But it was not his place to know. You refuse to meet his eye. “No.”
“You would not lie to your Prince, would you?”
You glance around the room to try to see if your father is watching. “We mustn’t speak of such things.” Your voice wavers with your desperation to get away from him.
“Why not?”
You feel choked with embarrassment. “It-It is improper.”
Your eyes search for Ser Donnel.
“And what of maidenhood?” he asks. “Are you still a maiden? Or have the men in Duskendale already seen to that?”
You try to rip yourself from his hold. He holds you tight.
“That is an abhorrent, s-sinful thing to ask,” you tell him. “Let me go at-at once.”
“It is a simple question.”
He grips tightens on your waist so hard it makes you shout a panicked, “Ser Donnel!”
Heads begin to turn your way.
Daeron keeps a tight hold on you. “You needn’t be embarrassed. It is only a question-”
“Let go of me,” you try again, but with no resolve. You feel hot and unable to breathe.
He pulls you against him harder. “Take it as a compliment that your beauty has stirred such scandal among royal princes.”
“Please, let me go,” you have resorted to begging. “I do not wish to dance any longer.”
“He speaks as if he already owns you, can you believe that?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yet he mocks me for my behavior. He mocks me as if I do not have the power to ruin what he wants.”
His drunken ramblings mean nothing to you. “Please, my prince, my mother will worry if she-”
Daeron leans down, and he places his lips against yours.
A hard, painful, brute of a kiss. His face slams so hard against yours that the inside of your lip is cut from your own tooth.
You are struck with panic. Instinctively, you stomp your foot down onto his, you shove his chest away, and you slap him in the face as hard as you can.
The hall falls hauntingly quiet. The band has stopped playing, all conversations cease in an instant.
You have struck the King’s grandson, and everyone has seen it.
********************************************
“What has happened, Lady (Y/N), are you hurt?”
It is Ser Donnel that approaches you.
He has heard your cries from his post at the front of the feast, and he recognized them. Hearing you crying so often in your childhood, the tears ring as familiar as your voice.
You hide your face from him.
“Lady (Y/N), please, tell me. Has someone hurt you?”
“You know who hurts me,” you whisper.
“Do you require a maester?”
The words cause you to cry harder. “I require a divorce!”
“Lady-”
“I require a jousting accident that makes me a widow!”
“You should not say these things aloud,” Ser Donnel tells you.
“I do not care who hears!” you weep. You place your face in your hands and cry harder. “I wish for a window to jump out of and end my misery!”
A somber sigh leaves the knight. His hand falls on your shoulder. “The days will get easier, my lady.”
“No, they will not!” Your tears stream down your chin. “They get worse every day that passes! My husband ripped me from my home and forced me into marriage! Then he threw me into solitude for months! Now he has decided to use every waking minute to break my soul!”
You are so swept up in your emotions that for the first time in your life, you have no room to be embarrassed. You are a horrible wreck of a crying woman and you do not care.
“I am doing nothing but awaiting my death!” you scream with hot tears leaving your eyes. “I hate that evil man! I hate him! I-I-!” You cut yourself off by choking on your own son. You bury your face further in your hands. “I wish to never see his face again!”
Ser Donnel is silent. You cry beside him as if he was a confidant. You did know if he was, if anyone was, but you appreciated that he did not force you back to Aerion.
“I will write to your father,” he eventually tells you. “I will have a letter sent this very night, letting him know that there is…concern to be raised about your treatment. I will request his immediate visit to the Red Keep. He is sure to get there by the time we return from the tourney.”
“Aerion will have me dead by then,” you sob. “He will have sliced my throat and thrown my body to the wolves-”
“He will do no such thing, Lady (Y/N).”
“You have no idea what he is capable of.” You choke on your own tears. “He wants me dead, Ser Donnel. He wants to rip me to pieces and burn me to ashes.”
“He does not.”
“He despises me.” Your words are muffled. “And he wants every person to know it.”
“Have I not told you what he wants from you?” Ser Donnel asks. “He wants an obedient woman-”
“He does not!” You finally pull your hands from your face. “He riles me! You do not believe me, but he does! He wishes for me to speak out of turn because he wants to punish me in the most despicable ways!”
“Aerion was most insistent on your wedding. He would not go through such great lengths only to have you die by his hand.”
His words cause a stir in your body. They begin to sober you. “…What great lengths?” you whisper.
Ser Donnel seems to hesitate, as if unsure if he is spilling a secret.
“Aerion claims I was chosen by him,” you say. “But-My mother said it was his father who insisted on such a marriage between houses.”
“Prince Maekar, nor your father, would have ever wanted the houses bridged through Aerion.”
“What?” You do not understand, and the confusion makes your head ache even more. “Why-Why then was the marriage permitted?” Why were you given to that monster?
Ser Donnel glances towards the knights at the entry way. He lowers his voice. “…It was not permitted. Not by Prince Maekar, not by your father. Aerion went to his grandfather, the King, for permission.”
Your blood runs cold. “…The king?”
Ser Donnel seems uncomfortable now. “I fear I have said more than I should have.”
He stands, and you quickly reach out to grab his arm. “No. No, don’t go. Why did he go to the King-?”
“I have no authority to answer such questions,” he tells you.
“My life is on the line, Ser Donnel-”
“It is not,” he insists sternly. “Lady (Y/N), if your husband meant to kill you, do you think he would have spared you from facing his father after your violent actions against him this morning?”
“My violent actions were justified-”
“I have no doubt they were. He has always been a cruel boy, and I’m sure he wants you scared, but he does not want you dead. You will live through this. But be better about it.”
“What am I to do?” you ask him with a pitiful cry in your tone. “What will make him stop?”
“Perhaps obedience is not all he wants,” Ser Donnel tells you. “He is a jealous man, as I am sure you’re aware. He wants a good wife, but perhaps most of all a wife who knows she is his. Let yourself belong to him.”
Belong to him. Belong to Aerion. Is that not death itself?
Another long sigh from Ser Donnel. “I am sorry about this marriage, (Y/N). I warned your father about this. I told him that your sisters were the ones who were wifely, that you were the more troublesome. He had said himself that you were not meant for any marriage, with any man, especially not a man that is so…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “But it is done now. And I will ensure your father is made aware of your mistreatment.”
You stare at him, his words falling heavy on you. “…My father said I was not meant for marriage?”
He looked at you as if he pitied you. He probably did. “Do not lament over such things. Come, step inside. It is time to return to your husband before he notices your absence.”
*******************************************
Your mother holds you against her, pleading, “I will send her home immediately, my Prince. You will never see her here again.”
The hall is quiet, sounded by only harsh whispers that have spread through the room like fire.
“I apologize for her, she will be punished-”
Prince Maekar silences her. “Do not speak.”
Your body trembles, and your mother holds you tighter.
Maekar talks only to your father. “Your daughter has struck my son.”
“She will be punished for this greatly.”
“Mama,” you whisper, “He forced a kiss upon me-”
“Do not speak!” Your father shouts at you, his anger louder than Prince Maekar’s.
You hide your face in your mother’s dress.
Maekar’s voice is so cold it gives you shivers. “Your daughter has struck my son on the day of his mother’s funeral.”
Another man steps up to speak. You do not know, nor recognize him. “Perhaps this should be settled privately.”
“Perhaps not,” Maekar spits. “It was done publically.”
“She is a child, brother, and your son is not known for being gentle with girls.”
“The consequences of a woman striking a royal are stated clearly in the law book.”
Murmurs break out in the dining hall.
You’re confused by the voices jumping around. You keep your eyes shut tightly.
“Seven whippings.”
You hug your mother tighter. “I am sorry-”
“Shh,” she shushes.
“Please, my prince,” you hear your father say. “She is a stupid girl, but she is not a traitor to the crown. Give her a chance to correct this.”
There is more whispering done by your father and the prince, but you are too far to hear it.
Finally, Maekar announces, “A compromise has been made. She has the chance to bend the knee to Daeron. Here. Now. Bend the knee and ask for forgiveness.”
“(Y/N),” your mother whispers, pulling you away from her. “(Y/N), go to your father.”
You look around to see the crowded room stares directly at you. You walk to your father with shaky steps. Your eyes clouded with tears.
“Kneel down before Prince Daeron,” your father tells you. “Apologize for your sins and beg him for forgiveness.”
Your lips quiver. “Kneel?”
“Kneel.”
You finally lay eyes on Daeron again. He is slumped along a chair, but rises to his feet with a look of smugness. “Beg for forgiveness,” he says, “And maybe I will give it to you.”
The amount of people watching you makes you feel sick.
Your eyes return to your father. “...He was improper to me-”
“Kneel and apologize,” your father stresses through gritted teeth. “I will not ask again.”
Taking hold of your shoulder, he forcibly turns you and forces you towards Daeron.
“Kneel,” you are instructed again.
You stare at Daeron.
And suddenly, the worry you feel-you fear you feel-is replaced by nothing but complete and utter outrage.
How dare he?
How dare he rip you from your seat, force you against his body, ask about your womanhood, and force a kiss on you?
This drunken, perverted bastard disgraced you.
And you were meant to apologize to this fool?
You would not.
To apologize would mean to say you were wrong. He was wrong. He deserved more than a slap, and you will not claim you are sorry for it.
You whip back around to your father. “I will not bend the knee to him.”
Prince Maekar’s eyes grow wide with anger.
Your father spits, “Get on your knees-”
“He spoke of the most abhorrent things,” you announce. “He asked about my bleeding, and my maidenhood, and he forced a kiss upon me-”
“(Y/N)!”
“He forced his hands on me, and I will not apologize for defending myself against him!” you cried to your father. “He does not deserve any apology! I do!”
Maekar snaps at your father, “She will kneel, or she will be whipped.”
You speak before your father does, “Then I will be whipped!”
And so it was.
Maekar grants his friend the sole favor of allowing your father to whip you himself.
So right there, in the middle of the feast hall, in front of nearly every noble in the realm, you are bent over a table and whipped seven times.
*******************************************
Ser Donnel coaxes you to your feet. He leads you inside, ushering a nearby servant to wipe your eyes and fix your powdered face.
The servant returns you to your seat beside your captor.
“You were gone for a long time,” Aerion comments. His eyes are on the entertainment, but all his attention seems focused on you. “Where did you go?”
“I was only getting fresh air.”
“With whom?”
“Myself. And two guards.”
“Which guards?”
“I do not know the names. I did not speak to them.”
“You were out for so long without speaking?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” He snaps a finger in the air. “Madam Pricher.”
You feel a coldness as she steps forward. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”
“Who was my wife outside with?”
“I only needed a moment alone-“
“She followed Ser Thenty out, Prince Aerion.”
His eyes finally settled on you. “Did she now?”
The urge to begin weeping fell upon you again.
“Ser Thenty,” he all but snapped. “What business was so important you had to discuss it with my wife?”
The knight’s eyes dashed between the two of you. “She followed me outside, my prince. I did not ask for it. I corrected her immediately and excused myself, reminding her there should never be a time we are alone without a chaperone.”
Aerion’s hand moves towards you. You flinch, even though he merely places a gentle hand on your wrist. “You so often forget the rules I have placed for you.” His thumb brushes your skin. “What was so urgent that you needed to run after him like a whore left unpaid?”
You stared at the table in front of you, wishing you could sink into the floor.
“Answer me or I’ll beat it out of him.”
The threat of harm caused Ser Thenty to quickly say, “She felt I was not doing my job properly. I disregarded her and returned inside immediately.”
Disregarded.
That is exactly how you felt.
And it made you feel so cold.
But the chills truly hit your body when Ser Thenty added, without prompting, “Ser Donnel is the one she was out there with.”
Your heart skips a beat, your head snapping in his direction to stare at him with widened eyes.
“There were other guards nearby, but they were sitting out of range of being heard,” he continued. “I do not know what they conversed about.”
You stare up at Ser Thenty with eyes of horrific betrayal.
He has thrown you to the wolves to save himself.
You watch as your husband’s eyes darken. You try to quickly tell him, “He was only consoling my distraught mood-” You hiss in pain as Aerion’s hand snakes up the back of your head, tugging tightly on your hair.
His thumb brushes the back of your ear, his fingernail pushing deep against the skin. “And what secrets were being whispered into my wife’s ear by dear Ser Donnel?”
“There were no secrets-” You flinch, your mouth shutting as you feel the sliver of something sharp on your skin.
Your husband’s dinner knife. It is in his hand, pressed against the back of your ear. Your hands fly to push him arm away. “Aerion-”
“Place your hands on the table. If you cause a scene, you will not like the outcome you find.”
Your hands are trembling now, yet you force them flat against the table. You look around, desperate for someone to have noticed already, but it seems nobody has.
“Shall I take an ear?” Aerion taunts you. “To punish you for continuously not listening?”
You shut your eyes tightly. “Nothing was done, the-the guards can vouch for me,” you quickly spudder out.
He gives a short, unconvinced, “Hm.”
Your whole body flinches as you feel the sting of a small cut against the back of your ear. Your hand flies out instinctively to try to push him away, “Aerion-”
“Hands flat on the table.”
You force yourself to do so. But he presses harder. Your eyes sting with tears from the sharp pain.
Aerion leans forward, his face painstakingly calm. He brings his lips to your ear. “Was I not the one who saved you from Ser Donnel’s wrath just this morning?” he asks you. His voice mimics being emotionless, yet...something was there. You could hear something in that tone, whether it was jealousy or hatred, you did not know. “He would have ripped you from my hands and delivered you to my father to be whipped.”
You try, once, to get out of the situation. “Ser Thenty, he is hurting me-”
He presses the knife harder. A sharp cry leaves your lips. It turns a few heads of those sitting beside you. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. The small batch of blood you felt now becomes a trickle down your neck.
“You think he wants to spare you from this?” Aerion scoffs. “Do you think Ser Thenty does not see what a disrespectful cunt you are?”
“I am sorry.” You do not know what else to say.
You feel defeated by this world.
There is no more fight left in your body, it is just...pain. It is always pain, and it will always be this way.
The tears in your eyes begin to spill over.
“I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”
That is all you do anymore. Beg for forgiveness.
Your stomach churns with how sick you are of all of this.
“I-I did not call on Ser Donnel.” You try to keep your voice quiet and even. “He saw me in distress, because I was weeping. That is all. We spoke of my father. I-” The blood trickles down to your shoulder. “I would never call on him.”
His hold on you barely loosens. “You will repeat every word that was said when we return to the tent.”
“I will. I will repeat every word.” You are desperate for relief of this pain, so your hand moves to his thigh, and you clutch the material of his trousers. “I am sorry, husband, I did not mean to disrespect you, I-I know better. Forgive me.”
He is quiet a moment, but he finally pulls his hand away, the knife leaving with it. You shudder a long breath of relief.
He places a napkin in your hand, and pushes it against your ear. “Pull yourself together. The tears make you look so ugly.”
You hope you bleed out and die.
The edge of Aerion’s knife is coated in your blood, and it has dripped down to his wrist. He brings the knife to his mouth. You feel sick as you watch him draw the knife along his tongue, ingesting the crimson red until it is gone.
“Go clean yourself off,” he tells you. “The tears and blood will be gone when you return.”
You swallow. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”
You push out the chair quickly.
When you turn around, you see those two bastards just staring at you.
Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher watch you like nothing has happened. As if they were not your protectors that have been carelessly witnessing your torture.
A rage builds in your soul and you are unable to swallow it down.
You have been held hostage by your husband, living only by his mercy. And this pitiful excuse of a knight seems to think you deserve it? That it is your role of wife, that being beaten without complaint is you staying in your place?
Perhaps Ser Thenty would see his sins for what they were if he were the one forced to survive Aerion’s rage.
He threw you to the wolves. Did he not deserve for the same to be done to him?
“Ser Thenty,” you announce. There is an expression of guilt on his face. But you have seen enough guilt. That will not save him now. “You have failed me.”
His shoulders slouch. You hear the slightest chuckle from Aerion.
You wish to wipe that smile off your husband’s face with violence. But you have no violence that will harm him.
So you aim to harm that pathetic heart of his.
You steady your breath, your hand still holding the napkin to your ear.
“But you are my favorite knight,” you say. “So I forgive you.”
Ser Thenty’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. You can see your husband’s head turn to stare directly at you now.
With Aerion’s eyes on you, you take a step toward Ser Thenty, you raise yourself higher, and you place a kiss on his cheek.
The squealing of Aerion’s chair is so instant and loud it makes you flinch away.
Then you flee. You take off out of the dining hall, walking quickly down the hall as the door shut behind you.
Suddenly, there is screaming. More than one person screaming.
You heard Madam Pricher’s voice. “Prince Aerion! Prince Aerion, please-”
There is commotion so loud that all you make out is more screaming. Then the door slams open again, and billowing footsteps follow as guests storm out of the hall.
People are leaving-no, evacuating.
You walk fast, but there are people running now. They hit your shoulders as the crowd begins passing you.
One hand still covers your ear with a napkin. As the screaming grows louder, you raise your other hand, and you cover both ears.
********************************************
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