Sunflower 🌻

It was a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. The first few days you had paced it like a restless lioness, your silk slippers whispering over the cold flagstones. Boredom and a prickling sense of dread were your only companions. The dread had a name: Aegon. You had not been permitted to see him since the disaster at Rook’s Rest. The official story was a fall from his dragon, Sunfyre. A tragic accident of war. But the whispers among the servants, the haunted look in the Grand Maester’s eyes when he shuffled from the King’s chambers, and the very smoke that Aemond wore like a perfume told a different, more horrifying tale.

Defiance was a small, hard seed you kept hidden deep within you. And that seed demanded to see the truth for itself. You waited, patient as a spider, until Aemond was consumed by a meeting of the Small Council, where he would be playing at war with his maps and his figures, his cold voice a blade that cut through the dithering of old lords. You slipped from your chambers, a dark grey cloak pulled over your gown of Targaryen black, and took the servants’ passages. They were narrow, dark, and smelled of dust and rat droppings, a world away from the grandeur of the throne room, but they were safe from the eyes of the Kingsguard who answered only to your husband.

Aegon’s chambers were a tomb. The heavy curtains were drawn against the sun, and the air was thick with the sweetness of medicinal herbs and the sickly, underlying rot of burned flesh. The King, who had once been a golden, careless, laughing boy, was a figure of wax. Bandages swaddled him, leaving only a sliver of his face visible. What was not swaddled was a landscape of molten horror. His skin was a patchwork of shiny, puckered scars, weeping in places where the flames of his own brother’s will had kissed him deepest. He was not asleep; the milk of the poppy had pulled him down into a twilight world, but his visible eye, a cloudy, pained blue, was open and fixed on the canopy above. It tracked slowly, with immense effort, to find your face.

You didn’t speak. There were no words for this desecration. You simply crossed to his bedside. On the table, beside a dozen unguent pots, lay his crown crown of the Conqueror, with its square-cut rubies, the one Aegon had worn with such pathetic, desperate pride. You picked it up. It was heavier than you expected. You turned back to the bed, to the ruin of the man who was still, in name, your king. Gently, so as not to touch his tender, seared scalp, you placed the crown back on his pillow, next to his head. A silent act of fealty. A small, quiet rebellion against the usurper who had taken everything from him. He couldn't see it, not really, but perhaps he could feel its presence. A big, slow tear, leaked from the corner of his ruined eye, tracing a path through the ointment and raw, new scars.

“The light offends his Grace,” a voice said from the doorway, soft as velvet and sharp as a blade. “You would do well to remember that.”

You did not flinch. You turned, your face a careful, blank mask. Aemond filled the doorway, a tall, lean silhouette against the torchlight from the hall. He looked at you not with anger, but with a chilling, detached curiosity.

“Husband,” you said, your voice steady. “I only came to pray for the King’s recovery.”

He glided into the room, a wraith in black leather. “Is that so?” He came to stand beside you, so close the heat from his body seared you through your gown. He looked down at Aegon, at the crown you had placed on his pillow, and a small, cruel smile touched his lips. He picked up the golden circlet, turning it over in his long, clever fingers. “He looks so peaceful, does he not? A king at rest. A shame his rest is bought with poison and dreamwine.” He placed the crown back on the bedside table with a definitive click. “Our brother fell. At Rook’s Rest. You would do well to remember that story.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs but you kept your voice even. “Of course, my love. What other story could there be?” You had the sense, the primal instinct of a woman walking a knife’s edge. You could not know that Vhagar’s flames, on his command, had licked Sunfyre and his rider from the sky. You must pretend you only saw the terrible result of a tragic accident. To speak the truth was to court a fate worse than Aegon’s.

His smile broadened, but it didn't reach his eye. “What other story indeed?” He took your arm, his grip like iron, and steered you out of the chamber of horrors. He did not take you back to your own rooms. He took you to his, the Prince Regent’s chambers, a sprawling suite of dark wood, dragon heraldry, and the ever-present smell of smoke. He closed the door himself, the thud of the heavy oak sealing your fate.

Once inside, his demeanour shifted. The iron grip on your arm loosened and became a chillingly gentle hand stroking up to your shoulder. He began to unclasp the grey cloak you wore, his fingers lingering on the skin of your throat.

“I have told you, my sweet wife,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate purr that was infinitely more terrifying than any shout. “The Red Keep is not safe. Serpents slither through these halls. Whisperers. Poisoners. Traitors who would see our house fall. My traitorous mother has abandoned her post, her sacred duty, and now, more than ever, you must be my most protected treasure.” He let the cloak pool on the floor. “From now on, our chambers are your sanctuary. You need not leave them. You will want for nothing.”

Your blood ran cold. He was confining you again, tighter this time, to a cage within a cage. “Aemond, I am quite safe. I only went to the sept, and then...”

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your lower lip with a deceptive tenderness. “Do not lie to me. Not you. You are the one pure, beautiful thing in this den of rats. Everything I do, I do for us. For the future. Aegon is broken. A king of bandages cannot rule. The pretender, Rhaenyra, will be dealt with. Her brood of Strong bastards will be scoured from this earth. And then, my love…” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his breath a hot whisper. “I will take the crown. Truly. And it will be your gentle, perfect brow I will first place it upon. You will be my queen. And the sons you will give me, strong, silver-haired sons with fire in their blood, they will rule for a thousand years. Does that not please you?”

His words were poisoned honey, a lullaby of madness. While he spoke of this glorious future, his hands were methodically undressing you. He unfastened the jet buttons down the back of your black gown with an expert speed. The heavy silk whispered down your body, leaving you in your thin shift. You began to tremble, not from cold, but from a terror that was quickly calcifying into a desperate need to escape.

“You’re shaking,” he crooned, mistaking your terror for something else. “There is no need to fear. I will protect you. From everyone. Even from yourself, my sweet, foolish girl who wanders where she shouldn’t.”

He guided you to the vast bed, its hangings of black and crimson velvet. “Lie down.” It was not a request. When your legs hit the frame, you tried to pull away, a small, instinctive squirm of rebellion. “Aemond, please, I am tired, I just want to go to my own chambers and rest...”

The movement was so fast you didn’t register it. A flash of light, a whisper of steel on leather. A whisper of cold against your bare throat. He had his dagger, a beautiful, wicked thing of Valyrian steel with a dragonbone hilt, drawn and pressed flat against the pulsing artery in your neck. The cold of the metal was a shock that stole your breath and froze you utterly still. He did not press hard enough to cut; the edge was a promise, not yet an act. His other hand was still caressing your hip, a grotesque parody of a lover’s touch.

“Hush now, dōna ābra,” he soothed, his voice a silken, terrifying melody. Sweet wife. The endearment clashed with the steel at your throat, a dissonance that threatened to shatter your mind. “You are just a little fussy. Overwrought from your visit to my poor brother. I understand. Lie still for me. Let me care for you.”

He kept the dagger there, a motionless line of absolute control, as he used his free hand and body to maneuver you. He laid you back on the dark silk sheets, the dagger following you down, a new, metallic piece of jewelry against your collarbone. He loomed over you, his silver hair curtaining your faces, his sapphire eye and violet eye both seeming to glow with a feverish, internal light.

“You are my wife,” he murmured, nudging your shift up over your hips with the tip of the dagger. “My other half. You cannot squirm away from what you are. What we are. Dragonfire is our birthright. And I am the only flame that will ever keep you warm.”

He entered you with a sudden force that drove a gasp from your lungs, a sound that was half pain, half the sheer shock of his coldness. The dagger remained. It didn't cut, but it kissed your skin every time your body tried to arch away from the relentless, claiming rhythm of his hips. Each time an involuntary shudder of resistance ran through you, the blade would press a fraction more, a silent, deadly command to be still, to accept him, to abandon your own will.

Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes, silent rivers tracing into your hair. He leaned down and kissed them away, his tongue tasting the salt of your terror.

“Do not weep, my love,” he crooned, his own breathing deepening as he plunged into you, again and again, a man taking what was his by sacred and terrible right. “These are the birth pangs of a new dynasty. We will burn away the old and the rotten. We will purge the stench of Rhaenyra and her bastards. And from our union, a new order will rise, perfect and pure. Just be still. Stop this silly fussing. Accept your destiny.”

The Valyrian steel was a pool of moonlight against your heated skin. He fucked you with a profound, unholy reverence, speaking to you all the while in that sweet, maniacal tone, weaving a narrative of burning cities and subjugated kingdoms, of a crown he would place on your head while the kingdom bled, of silver-haired children playing in the ashes of the world. Your body responded with its own traitorous, animal logic, even as your soul shrank away and hid in some deep, unreachable corner of your mind.

When he finally found his release, he collapsed against you, his breath hot and ragged. The dagger finally, mercifully, moved away. He placed it on the bedside table with a click. He gathered you in his arms, pulling you against his chest, his body still joined with yours. He stroked your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“There now,” he whispered, his voice full of a terrifying, warped love. “Was that so difficult? You are my wife. My queen. Mine. And you will never, ever leave my side again. This is the safest place in the world for you. In my bed. Under my protection. Next time, you will not be so restless. You will learn.”

He fell asleep holding you, his grip an unbreakable manacle even in slumber. You lay awake in the suffocating dark, feeling his seed, warm and wet, trickle down your thigh, a definitive seal on his decree. The scent of smoke filled your lungs. Outside, beyond the walls of the Red Keep and the drowning silence of the room, you could almost hear the echo of a vast, ancient beast stirring in her chains, and the distant, imagined scream of a golden dragon, falling from the sky in flames. This was your life now. A captive wife. A future queen of ashes. And the silent, knowing, looming ghost of a presence of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the woman who was fighting for her very existence, was, you realized with a sudden clarity, your only hope left in the world.

Aegon wastes no more time listening to them quarrel, setting off in search of Y/N. He finds her in the library, as she often is. “Y/N,” he kneels before her chair. Closing the book and using his finger against the binding to hold her place.

Y/N looks up at him. “What is it?”

“There is something I must tell you.” From the time they were small, Y/N has been the one to hold his secrets.

“Speak it,” she squeezes his wrist.

“Only moments ago my father offered to betroth us, our mothers rejected the proposal. They want your hand for some River Lord and mine for Helaena.”

“No.”

Aegon cups her face in his hand. “Come away with me. We can build a new life, together. It may not be as lush, but it will be ours. You will still have your cakes as they please you, I swear it.”

“You would do that for me?”

“I would do more for you and worse.” Aegon smirks.

“Well…what shall I bring?” Y/N asks, ignoring the pang of guilt in her chest.

“Pack sparingly, a change of clothes or two. We’ll need gold and jewelry to trade; enough to get us started.”

“Where will we go?”

“One of the free cities,” he decides, “no one will be looking for us there. And it does not have to be forever, long enough for us to get married. If we’ve a child, they’ll have no choice but to honor our union.”

“Alright,” Y/N swallows.

“Go now,” he presses his lips to her forehead. “Meet me at the dragon pit in one hour’s time.”

The princess nods, nuzzling against him for just a moment before they break apart.

By the time anyone comes looking for them, Y/N and Aegon are long gone. Leaving behind only a note.

‘If you will not allow us to marry for love, we will do so elsewhere.’

King Viserys is so distraught at the news, he passes with the shock of it.

Rhaenyra takes her place as Queen, refusing to rename her heir.

————————————————————————

Life is different in Braavos, no maids, dragon keepers nor castle. Aegon cuts his hair up to his chin on the day of their wedding, freeing himself from the memories it holds.

There are rumors of course, about the town baker and his wife, the tailor, who may or may not be the long lost prince and princess. Their dragons do nothing to disprove these whispers, however they do stop them from reaching the Red Keep.

Years pass, news breaks that Y/N is with child, growing rounder by the day.

After a long day’s work, Aegon is exhausted, shucking off his boots near the door of their humble abode and bringing his wife an offering of sweets.

Y/N smells Aegon before she sees him, calling out from the kitchen, “what have you brought me today, husband?”

“What if it were for me, spoiled thing?” Aegon chuckles, lying his offering on the counter to wrap his arms around her. Their babe kicking at his palms.

Y/N reaches back, cupping his cheek. “Best turn about and fetch mine then.”

He smiles, pressing kisses to her shoulder. “How is our little dragon treating you?”

“Well enough,” Y/N sighs, stirring the broth. “I have not wretched this day.”

“That is good.” He pats her belly. “I brought you cake.”

“What kind?”

“Dinner first, my heart.” Aegon insists.

“Or I could have cake for dinner.”

Aegon sighs, as she leans into him.

“Please?”

“Very well.”

Y/N turns to face him, abandoning her cooking in favor of his kiss. “Thank you.”

————————————————————————

Bringing their love into the world is a long and grueling task, Aegon keeps her spirits up as best he can. Unfortunately there is only so much a man can do for a laboring wife.

Y/N is exhausted by the time she delivers the afterbirth, fighting sleep as she nurses their newborn daughters. A task she deems horribly painful in itself.

Aegon strokes her hair, whispering words of love and encouragement until the babes are satisfied. “You rest now, I will bathe them.”

His wife does not protest, allowing her heavy eyes to close.

Neither of the twins cry, until gods forbid he sets them down. “Shh,” Aegon hushes them, taking one in each arm. “Papa put you down for only a moment, surely you cannot be held at all times.”

The babe on the left yawns, stretching out her little arms. The babe on the right merely blinks at him.

Until they learn to crawl, Dahlia and Visera are indeed held at all times.

————————————————————————

By the time their sons are born, Y/N often tells stories of her family back in King’s Landing. Her mother especially, who she wishes to meet them.

Aegon returns from the dragon’s nest with two new eggs, one for each of their boys. “Stormborn and Sunfyre are thoughtful, they deliver us clutches in pairs.”

Y/N smiles, from their dragons came an egg for each of their children. “Let’s see.” She waves her husband over.

Their eldest son, Laenor, toddles toward him, pointing to the bright golden egg, “mine.”

“Ah, ah, hold on just a moment now.” Aegon says.

“Please?” The two year old pouts.

“Yes, alright.” Aegon sets the dark blue egg down beside his wife and youngest son. “We must be careful with it now, sit in Papa’s lap. We’ll hold it together, hmm?”

Laenor claps his little hands together, reaching up for his father.

Aegon backs up to the arm chair, holding the egg above his head, “climb up.”

Laenor furrows his brow, crawling into his father’s lap.

“There we are, my boy.” Aegon holds the egg infront of him, allowing Laenor to touch the egg’s scales.

“Look, Papa.” He points.

“I see, my love. Soon it will be a little dragon, just for you.”

Laenor squeals in delight, “Mama, look.”

“I see it, sweet boy. That is a lovely egg.” Y/N grins.

Dahlia and Visera play happily on the floor with their own dragons, still small enough to tote about.

At all of six months old, Aegon the fourth has no understanding of the word gentle, he slaps at the egg like a drum.

“Aegon!” Y/N can’t help but laugh, moving him away. “You must be kind to your dragon.”

“Him fly!” Laenor tells his brother, who merely stares back at him with a toothy grin.

“Yes, he will fly.” Aegon smooths down the curls at the back of his son’s head.

“When your uncle Joffrey, was born Ser Harwin took Jace, Luce and I down to the dragon pit to find the perfect egg.” Y/N recounts, with a far off look in her eyes. “He must be a man grown now.”

Aegon clears his throat, praying he does not live to regret what he murmurs next. “What if we went to visit your mother?”

“Well…” Y/N sighs, patting her son’s legs as he climbs over her. “We couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Aegon challenges, “it’s a short trip on dragon back.”

Y/N stares down at her hands, “my mother must be very angry at me.”

“My mother was never anything but angry with me.” Aegon chortles, “Rhaenyra will get over it.”

“Are you certain?” Y/N frowns, “I know how you detest court.”

Aegon nods, “for you, the world.”

————————————————————————

Word spreads through the streets of King’s Landing like wildfire. Princess Y/N and Prince Aegon have returned to them.

Daemon is the first of their family members to cross their path, all but dragging Y/N to his wife in the throne room.

“You wait here,” he barks at Aegon. Leaving him outside with the children. “Princess Y/N Velaryon,” Daemon calls upon their entrance.

Rhaenyra moves to stand.

The king consort leaves them to it.

“Your grace, I would first like to apologize for my long absence.” Y/N says, as her mother stalks toward her; expression unreadable.

Rhaenyra pulls her daughter into her arms, cradling the back of her head. “You must never do that to me again.”

“Mother,” Y/N cries, clinging to her like a child. “I am so terribly sorry.”

“Shhh,” Rhaenyra sways her. “We can still make this right.”

“I should like that very much.”

“You need only say the word and I will have your marriage annulled.”

“What?” Y/N withdraws, “no. You cannot annul our marriage, it’s been consummated…several times over. We’ve children.”

“Children?” Rhaenyra sucks in a breath.

“Two daughters and two sons.”

“Might I see my grandchildren?”

“Of course,” Y/N holds up a finger, dashing over to the throne room doors and inviting her family inside.

The children scamper in as Rhaenyra’s eyes well with tears.

Dahlia stares at her grandmother in wonder, while Visera clings to Aegon’s leg.

“This is my mummy,” Y/N tells her children, “remember how I told you?”

Laenor moves toward her first, waving his hands.

“Well hello, my prince,” Rhaenyra bends down to greet him. “Who might you be?”

He smiles, “up.”

Rhaenyra huffs a laugh, taking him into her arms. “That’s quite a name, Prince Up.”

“It’s Laenor,” Y/N says, bringing Dahlia closer, with their hands clasped together. “This is Dahlia.”

“Good morrow,” Dahlia smiles.

“Good morrow, Dahlia. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Rhaenyra beams, “if you could put in a good word for me with your sister, it would be much appreciated.”

“Visera is shy.” Dahlia whispers, “but she will come round.”

Aegon the fourth kicks his chubby legs, squirming about in his father’s arms as they approach the Queen.

“My goodness.” Rhaenyra turns to him, “what a warm welcome.”

The little boy squeals, as Y/N takes him from Aegon, freeing his arms for Visera, who hides her face in his shoulder.

“And this is Aegon, the fourth.” Y/N smiles, presenting him to her mother.

Rhaenyra grins, “hello, sweet boy.”

He covers both eyes, with his little hands, babbling loudly.

“You are a delight.” Rhaenyra reaches a hand out, tickling his belly. “I should like you all to join us in the grand hall for supper tonight. We will feast, in your honor.”

“Mother, we did not prepare clothes for a feast.” Y/N tells her. “But if you’ve material, I will make do. In these past years, I have learned to stitch quite well.”

“And I could assist in the kitchens.” Aegon offers.

Y/N’s eyes light up, “you must taste his baking, mother. It is divine.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. Not sparing a glance at her half brother, “you are my guests. I will have gowns and robes sent to your rooms. You will find everything as you left it.”

Y/N smiles, “we’ll see you for dinner then.”

The Queen nods, excusing them.

Y/N and Aegon lead the children away from the throne room, up the stairs toward Y/N’s old apartments. Meeting her younger brother and his heavily pregnant wife on the stairs.

“Sister?” Jacaerys blinks at her.

“Jace!”

“My love, might you find Luce and Joffrey?” Jacaerys asks of his wife. “Tell them our sister is here.”

“Of course, husband.” Baela leans in as his lips brush her cheek.

“You’re going to be a father?” Y/N grabs for his arm.

“I am a father.” Jace grins, “this will be our third.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Some seven years, sister.” Jacaerys looks to the children behind her. “And you,” he laughs, “have more to show for it than I do.”

Again Aegon is left standing off to the side as Y/N’s family fuss over her and their children. He is glad for it, surely. This is her dream, not his.

“Aegon?” Alicent gasps at the sight of him.

He turns to her slowly, “Mother?”

The Dowager Queen grimaces, “a word?”

“But of course.” Aegon steals one last glance at his wife and children before following his mother down the corridor. For a moment he thinks she might embrace him, until she grabs his face harshly between her fingers.

“What were you thinking?” Alicent seethes, “taking off like that? Putting your father in such a state of distress; his illness took him not even a day after receiving word that you stole his only granddaughter and heir to the throne.”

“Stole her?” Aegon huffs a laugh, “I did not steal her.”

“Did you not think for one second of the shame it would bring on your siblings, or me?”

“As you thought of my wants when you promised me to Helaena?” Aegon spits back.

“It was expected of you,” Alicent seethes.

“Only my supposed wrongdoings are ever clear to you.” Aegon scoffs, “so strike me for it, as you always do and let us be done with it. How dare I desire to marry the one person in the world who loved me?”

Alicent recoils as though he’s slapped her.

“Aegon?” Y/N calls for him, “where’ve you run off to?”

“I’m just here, darling girl.” Aegon replies, striding away from his mother.

“Is everything alright?” Y/N asks, holding a hand out to him.

“All is well, my dearest love.”

————————————————————————

Dinners at the Red Keep have not been this tense in years. Namely because the Blacks and Greens rarely break bread together.

Jacaerys’ and Baela’s children dance with their cousins as the quartet plays merrily, the six of them becoming fast friends.

Y/N laughs, pointing toward their eldest son. “Look, my love.”

Aegon leans his head closer to hers peering around his brother. Laenor spins round in circles until he is dizzy enough to fall over. When he is able to stand, he goes straight back to it. Aegon chuckles, “we’ll need to keep an eye on that one.”

“Without doubt.” Y/N remarks, bouncing Aegon the fourth in her lap. He grabs a fistful of her mashed potatoes.

“Oh my,” Aegon grabs his hand, wiping it clean with his napkin.

“You’d like dinner too, wouldn’t you?” Y/N says, turning the boy toward her.

Little Aegon coos at her.

Aegon presses a kiss to his son’s cheek.

“Won’t you excuse me for a moment,” Y/N addresses the table, “I need to feed him.”

“We’ve nurses,” Daemon offers. “You’re welcome to finish your meal.”

“That’s quite alright,” Y/N says, pushing away from the table. “We’ve survived without nurses thus far.”

Aegon catches her hand, “will you return or shall I bring the children up when they are through?”

“I will return, shortly.” Y/N squeezes his fingers before moving down the row of chairs into the hall.

Aegon clears his throat, as other occupants of the table eye him, warily. “Lovely meal.”

“Indeed,” Otto agrees.

————————————————————————-

Y/N wakes the next morn to rays of sun shining through the large window of her childhood bedchamber.

Aegon feels her begin to stir, tightening his hold around her waist.

“What did your mother say to you yesterday?”

“It is far too early to raise this matter, my heart.” He grumbles.

Y/N huffs, toying with his fingers. “She was awful to you, wasn’t she?”

Aegon presses his lips to her shoulder, “it matters not.”

“It matters to me.”

Days pass, Y/N does not press the subject. Though she does exercise every opportunity to glare at her mother by law.

They spend afternoons in the courtyard garden, with their children. Picking flowers to make crowns, finding shapes in the clouds.

“Just there I see a rabbit.” Visera tells her mother and father.

“Where?” Aegon cocks his head to the side.

“There’s the ears and there’s its tail.”

“Oh, I see.” Aegon spots it, “that’s quite a coat of fur on him, hmm?”

Aegon the fourth plucks petals from the wildflowers Dahlia weaves together, sighing as she does.

“What troubles you, my love?” Y/N asks, passing a hand over her silver waves.

“Everyone has been so kind and happy to receive us…though no one seems happy to receive father.” Dahlia says, taking one of the flowers and tucking it behind her Papa’s ear.

“That is the way of things, my darling.” Aegon smiles, sadly.

“We are happy to receive him.” Y/N insists. “Give father a big hug.”

Laenor sees the pile of bodies, throwing himself on top of his elder sisters.

“Squeeze him as tightly as you can and say ‘I love you, father.’”

“I love you, father!” Even Aegon the fourth chimes in, with a loud approving babble.

“I love you too.” Aegon tells his children, wrapping his arms around them.

“I think if no one is kind to you, we ought to go back home.” Visera whispers to him. “It needn’t be the way of things.”

“Too right you are, my darling.” Y/N breathes.

“Y/N, might I have a word with you?” Rhaenyra calls out to the courtyard.

“Of course, your grace,” she smiles, looking to her children. “Keep father company for me. I’ll return shortly.”

Rhaenyra leads her farther into the gardens. “When you were a girl, your grandsire and I would bring you here to watch the changing of the leaves.”

“I remember.” Y/N says, wistfully.

“I owe you an apology,” Rhaenyra takes her hands. “For many years, I thought Aegon stole you away from me. I blamed him, for the death of our father.”

“It was not his fault, mother.” Y/N insists, “I wanted a marriage for love.”

“I see that now.” Rhaenyra assures her. “He is a fine husband to you and a good father to your children. I should not have pushed so relentlessly to end your union.”

Y/N shakes her head, “all is forgiven.”

“Even in our years apart, you have remained my heir. As I believe you would be a great ruling Queen, if that is what you desire. I will provide your children places of high status in court. For Aegon, a seat at the small council.” Rhaenyra offers, “and of course, my sincere apology for the way I have acted.”

“You wish for us to stay?”

Rhaenyra cups her cheek, “very much so.”

Y/N looks down at her wedding ring. “I know Alicent has been unkind to him. I will not stay in a place where he’s treated poorly.”

“I will speak with her.”

“And…I fear Aegon holds little interest in the small council.” Y/N admits, “I hope that too is negotiable.”

“All things are,” Rhaenyra assures her.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a living beast of heat, noise, and light.

It roared with the voices of a thousand lords and ladies, the clatter of golden plates, and the soaring notes of minstrels hired to celebrate King Daeron the Second Targaryen’s seventy-second nameday. You sat with your family, the Lovelaces of the Reach, your house’s sigil—the checkered silver and blue—embroidered proudly on your father’s doublet. Your mother sat to your left, fanning herself languidly, and your younger brother was already in his cups, cheering at a juggler with his mouth full of roasted swan.

You had smiled until your cheeks ached. You had danced with a Hightower, politely declined a second dance with a young Rowan heir who stared at your neckline rather than your eyes, and received a very formal, very tedious compliment from a knight of House Webber about the "radiant dawn" of your hair. Your family was powerful, your father the Lord of the Uplands, and you, his eldest daughter, were a prize many in the Reach and beyond had already sought. You were pretty; you knew this. You were sweet; you tried to be. But being pretty and sweet at a royal feast meant being on display, and the weight of all those gazes had begun to press on your chest.

A bead of sweat traced a path down your spine beneath your silk gown, a lovely thing of pale blue that your mother had said brought out your complexion. The braziers were burning too high. The perfume of a hundred bodies was cloying. The King himself looked tired, you noticed, his crown slipping slightly on his wizened head, his splendid sons gathered around him. Somewhere in the recesses of the hall, you had spotted another prince earlier, lean and sandy-haired, slouched in his chair with a wine cup he was treating as a lifeline. He had not stayed long in your mind then, just a fleeting image.

Now, you needed air.

"I'm just going to find the privy," you whispered to your mother, a harmless lie. She nodded, distracted by a discussion of Myrish lace with Lady Flowers. You slipped from your seat, a small, graceful shadow in pale blue, and made your way along the edge of the tables, past the servants rushing with flagons, and out through one of the tall, arched doorways that led to the gardens.

The cool air hit you like a blessing. King's Landing stank of fish and smoke and humanity during the day, but up here in the royal gardens, the night breeze carried the scent of roses, lavender, and moonbloom. The sky was a deep, bruised purple, scattered with a diamond dust of stars. You walked a few steps down a gravel path, the crunch of your slippers the only sound, and let out a long, shaky breath. Here, away from the press of bodies and the demanding eyes, you could finally think. The darkness was soft, broken only by the distant torchlight bleeding from the hall windows and the silver glow of the moon. You wandered towards a marble bench nestled beneath a sprawling canopy of flowering jasmine, your heart rate finally beginning to slow.

That was when he ambushed you, though you would not have called it that at first.

The sound was sudden and graceless, a heavy stumble, a choked-off curse, the scrape of a boot on gravel. A man lurched out from a side path, a dark, flailing shape, and crashed directly into you. The impact was a shock of solid weight and the sharp, sweet reek of wine. You stumbled back with a gasp, but your hands flew out instinctively, grabbing his arms to steady him. Your fingers closed around the fabric of a very fine wool tunic. His hands, clumsy and hot, grasped your shoulders to right himself, his grip too tight for a moment before he seemed to get his feet under him.

"Oh!" The exclamation was startled out of you, your heart hammering against your ribs. For a terrifying second, you thought it was some drunken guardsman, a danger in the dark. But then the man straightened, and the moonlight fell upon his face.

It was a young face, handsome in a sharp, slightly dissolute way. The planes of his cheeks and jaw were clean-shaven, showing a faint, hungry gauntness. His hair was a shock of sandy blonde, falling in lank, uncombed waves to his neck, the color of pale honey in the silver light. But it was his eyes that seized your attention, they were violet. A bright, startling, lucid violet, and they were fixed on you with an unsettling intensity that seemed to cut through his obvious inebriation.

You recognized him then. The slouched prince in the hall with his wine cup. It was Daeron, Prince Maekar’s son, the one they called the Drunken.

"Your Grace," you breathed, releasing his arms as if you’d touched a hot brazier. You dipped into a curtsy, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm. "I am so sorry, I didn't see—"

"No," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp. He still hadn't let go of your shoulders. His thumbs pressed slightly into the bone, not painfully, but with a possessiveness that made you freeze. "No, the fault is mine. I am a clumsy fool. A drunk fool, as they all say." He chuckled, a hollow, mirthless sound. He finally released you, taking a half-step back that was still not quite far enough. He swayed on his feet, his eyes never leaving your face. "Are you hurt, my lady…?"

"Lovelace," you supplied, your voice a little steadier now. "Lady Y/N Lovelace. And no, I am well. Truly. Are… are you well, Your Grace?"

He stared at you. The question seemed to hang in the perfumed air between you. The distant music from the feast, a cheerful reel, felt absurdly out of place. The violet eyes flickered, something unreadable moving in their depths. A slow, crooked smile, surprisingly charming in its boyishness, spread across his lips. "Yes," he said, the word drawing out like a caress. "Very well. Better now, in fact. Much better, now that you're here."

A surprised chuckle escaped you. The line was so practiced, so brazen, yet delivered with such a strange, dreamlike sincerity that you couldn't help it. You felt a faint heat creep up your neck. He was flirting. A prince was flirting with you. It was ridiculous. He was obviously very, very drunk. "Your Grace s-seems to have found the Arbor vintage to his liking," you managed, aiming for a light, polite tease. You were shy, and your words came out a little softer than you intended.

"The Arbor gold is piss," he declared with sudden, startling vehemence. "It dulls nothing. Does nothing." He waved a hand as if dismissing the entire kingdom's wine stock, then staggered a step closer. His eyes roamed over your face, a slow, consuming survey from your brow to your lips. "But you… you are not nothing. You are exactly as you should be. You are just as I knew you would be."

Your smile faltered. A tiny, cold pinprick of unease touched your spine. "I… I do not understand, Your Grace. I don't believe we have ever met."

"We haven't," he agreed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. He lifted a hand, and for a heart stopping second, you thought he would touch your face. His fingers hovered near your cheek, trembling. "Not like this. Not with the day's sun on us. But I have seen you. Gods, I have seen you for moons now."

He said it with such a raw, ragged certainty that the pinprick of unease bloomed into a cold flower of dread. You took a small, instinctive step back. "What do you mean?"

He followed your retreat as if pulled by a string, closing the distance. The charmingly crooked smile was gone, replaced by a look of such intense, feverish focus that the beauty of his violet eyes became terrifying. They were no longer just bright; they were burning. He looked through you, past you, at some vision you couldn't see. "The dreams," he said, the word thick with dreadful meaning. "Every night, when I close my eyes, you are there. I am there. We are together."

He began to ramble, his voice rasping, his gaze taking on a delirious, unfocused shine. "I've seen us. I've seen your face, just like this, bathed in moonlight. I know the sound of your laugh before I've even truly heard it. I've seen you in my bed, your hair spread on my pillows. I've woken reaching for you, and you aren't there, and the emptiness is a pit I drown in. I've seen you in my arms, your belly great with my child, a son with your sweetness and my eyes. I was happy. You don't understand. You made me happy. The only peace I have ever known was you, in those visions. You are the only thing that quiets the dragon's roar in my skull."

He was speaking of a life you had not lived, a future you had not consented to, with the frantic, unshakeable faith of a zealot. The scent of wine on his breath was overwhelming, but it was the raw, desperate want in his eyes that stole the air from your lungs. The charming, clumsy drunk was gone. In his place was a man so completely unmoored from reality that he had built a world for the two of you, and he expected you to simply step into it.

Your mouth was dry. Your heart was no longer fluttering with shy amusement; it was a trapped, frantic bird beating against the cage of your ribs. "I… I apologize, Your Grace," you said, your voice a strained whisper. You couldn't manage the polite, courtly smile. Your face felt frozen. "I must… I must go. My family will be looking for me."

You turned, a sharp, desperate movement, your only thought escape. The gravel crunched beneath your slipper.

His hand shot out and clamped around your forearm.

It wasn't the clumsy, heavy grip of a stumbling drunk. It was iron. It was the coiled strength of a desperate man who had found his anchor and would not let it slip away into the dark. His fingers dug into the soft silk of your sleeve and the flesh beneath, a hard, unyielding circle of possession.

"Wait," he breathed, the word not a request but a command.

Before you could cry out, before you could twist away, he pulled. You stumbled back against him, your free hand flying up to brace against his chest, your palm flattening against the rapid, thundering beat of his heart. His other hand came up, his fingers plunging into the hair at the nape of your neck, tangling in the carefully arranged hair, tilting your face up towards his.

"Don't go," he murmured against your lips, his violet eyes swallowing the whole world. "Stay. You're finally here. Stay with me."

And then he was kissing you. It was not a gentle, questioning kiss from a would-be suitor. It was desperate, hungry, and punishing. His lips crushed against yours, tasting of sour wine and a terrifying, fervent longing. A scream had no time to form; it was punched from your lungs in a silent gasp as your back hit the cold, unforgiving gravel of the garden path. The jagged little stones bit into your palms, your spine, the bare skin of your shoulders where your gown had slipped. The scent of damp earth and crushed jasmine flooded your senses, but it was overpowered by him—the sour wine on his breath, the heat of his body as his weight settled on you, pinning you to the earth like a butterfly to a board.

He was on top of you. Prince Daeron. Your Prince Daeron, now, in the most horrible way imaginable. His lean body was deceptively heavy, pressing you down. He had thrown you in the ground. One of his hands was still tangled in your hair, now pulling painfully at the roots as your head was forced back against the gravel. The other hand was fumbling, clumsy but terrifyingly determined, at the bunched silk of your skirts, his fingers scrabbling at the fabric, hitching it up past your ankle, your calf. You could feel the cool night air on your stockinged leg and it was the most vulgar, violating sensation you had ever known.

"Please—" the word was a strangled, pathetic thing, torn from your throat. "Your Grace, stop, please—"

"Shhh," he hushed you, his mouth hovering over your throat, his voice a demented, gentle croon. "It's alright. It's meant to be. I've seen this. Just be still, my love. Let it happen. You want this. You came out here for me."

His words were a new kind of violence, twisting reality into his delusion. You didn't want this. You had come out here for air, for peace, and he was stealing both. Your free hand scrabbled uselessly at his tunic, pushing against the hard plane of his chest, but he was stronger than his drunkenness should have allowed, driven by a madman's conviction. The hand on your skirts found the bare skin of your thigh, and a sob of pure, primal terror wrenched itself from your chest.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thigh, nails scraping like claws as he yanked the silk higher, exposing the lace edge of your undergarments. The night air bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body grinding against you, his hips thrusting forward in erratic, insistent bucks. You twisted beneath him, legs kicking futilely against the gravel that scraped your back raw through your bodice, but he pinned your thigh down with his knee, forcing your legs apart.

"Mine," he growled, the word slurred with wine and madness, his free hand releasing your hair only to claw at the ties of his breeches. The fabric rasped open, and you felt the hot, rigid length of his cock spring free, slapping against your inner thigh like a brand. It was thick, veined, pulsing with his delusion fueled arousal, the tip already slick with precum that smeared across your stocking as he rutted against you.

No, no, this couldn't—your mind screamed, but your body betrayed you with shudders of revulsion. He shoved your undergarments aside with brutal fingers, tearing the delicate fabric, and the blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, probing the dry, unwilling folds of your pussy. You clenched instinctively, trying to bar him out, but he laughed—a low, unhinged sound—and thrust forward, forcing the first inch inside you.

Pain lanced through you, sharp and tearing, as your body resisted the invasion. He was stretching you, splitting you open without mercy, his lean hips snapping harder to bury more of his cock into your tightness. "Feel that?" he panted against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. "You're so wet for me, my love. Taking me like you were made for it." Lies. You were dry, aching, every brutal push grinding against your inner walls like sandpaper, but he didn't care, didn't notice, lost in his fantasy.

He pulled back slightly, only to slam in deeper, his balls slapping against your ass with the force of it. You cried out, the sound muffled as his mouth crashed over yours, tongue forcing past your lips in a sloppy, dominating kiss that tasted of wine and violence. His hand returned to your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, where he bit down hard enough to draw blood, sucking at the wound while his cock pistoned in and out, claiming you with each vicious stroke.

Your hips bucked not in pleasure but in a desperate bid to throw him off, but it only drove him wilder. He groaned, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours, his free hand mauling your breast through the silk, pinching the nipple until you whimpered. Faster now, his thrusts turned frenzied, the gravel digging into your spine with every impact, his cock swelling inside you as he chased his release, raping you under the stars with the conviction of a lover.

Your flailing hand, the one not pinned against his heart, struck something hard and rough in the flowerbed beside you. A rock. A jagged, fist-sized piece of decorative stone edging, half-buried in the soft earth. Your fingers closed around it with a strength born of absolute desperation. You didn't think. You couldn't think. You just acted.

With a guttural cry, you swung your arm up and smashed the rock against the side of his head.

The impact was sickening. A wet, heavy thud that juddered up your arm. Daeron let out a sharp, surprised grunt, his whole body jerking. His grip on your hair loosened, his weight shifting just enough. For a single, frozen heartbeat, he stared down at you with those bright violet eyes, and they were wide with a shock that looked almost, impossibly, like betrayal. Then they rolled back in his head, and he slumped sideways, a dead weight.

You didn't wait. You shoved him the rest of the way off, scrambling back like a crab in the gravel, your skirts tearing, your breath coming in ragged, animal gasps. He lay there, a dark, crumpled shape among the jasmine, a thin trickle of blood now visible at his temple. He was not moving. You didn't stay to check if he was breathing. You turned and ran, the bloody rock still clenched in your white-knuckled fist, fleeing the moonlit garden and the monster it had harbored.

—

The Tower of the Hand was a place of order, logic and the stern wisdom of Prince Baelor Breakspear. But on this night, its stately solar had become a pit of chaos, and you were at its center, still in your torn gown, the dirt and tiny cuts on your hands a testament, a silent accusation.

You were huddled in a high backed chair, a shawl someone had draped over your shoulders. Your mother was beside you, her arm a rigid bar of protection around your trembling frame, her face a mask of cold, terrible fury. Your father stood like a thundercloud in the center of the room. Lord Lovelace was a powerful man unaccustomed to being ignored or insulted, and his anger now was a living thing, crackling in the air.

"He ruined her!" your father roared, his face nearly purple, jabbing a finger at the two princes standing before him. Prince Baelor, tall and dignified, his Dornish complexion giving him a darker, more weathered look than his kin, held up a calming hand. Beside him stood Prince Maekar, Daeron’s father, a man built like a castle wall with a face of chiseled, simmering resentment. "He attacked my daughter! My only daughter! He has ruined her honor, her future! Who will marry her now? Tell me! Who will have her after your drunken, lecherous son dragged her into the bushes and—" He could not finish the sentence, his voice breaking into a choked sound of pure paternal rage.

Prince Baelor, stepped forward, his expression deeply troubled. "Lord Lovelace, I understand your fury. It is a righteous fury. No one in this room is unmoved by what your daughter has suffered tonight. But let us all speak with level heads, so that we may find a path forward that doesn't lead to a greater chasm between our houses." He was a good man, you knew. Everyone said so. He was trying to be one now.

"A greater chasm?" your father spat. "Your Grace, the chasm is already here! It is wide enough to swallow my daughter's entire future!"

Then Maekar spoke, and his voice was a low rumble of cold stone. "My son's story differs from your daughter's."

The silence in the room became absolute. Your mother's arm tightened around you. You looked up, your eyes red-rimmed, and saw Prince Maekar's hard, purple gaze looking not at you, but past you, as if you were a piece of faulty evidence.

"What?" your father whispered, the word a deadly, drawn out blade.

"Daeron tells a different tale," Maekar continued, implacable. The muscles in his square jaw flexed. He was a proud man, and the shame of this, of being called to account for his least-favorite son, had curdled into a dangerous defensiveness. "He claims that your daughter was not an unwilling victim. He claims she was waiting for him in the gardens. That she pursued him, and the encounter was… wanted. He says he is the one who was, in a sense, set upon."

A sound escaped you, a ragged, disbelieving gasp. "That's a lie!" you cried, your voice cracking. "A foul lie! I was escaping the feast, I was alone, he attacked me! I had never spoken to him before!"

Maekar's cold eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, the room was a battlefield of truths. "A maiden's virtue is a precious, fragile thing. And a young woman with many suitors might grow... ambitious. To catch a prince." The insinuation was a slap, a shimmering, poisonous thing in the torchlight.

"How dare you," your mother hissed, her voice low and lethal. "How dare you, a prince of the realm, slander my child in the same breath you defend her attacker."

Baelor raised both hands now, a sharp gesture for silence. "Enough. This is unseemly." He looked at Maekar, a deep, unreadable communication passing between the brothers. Baelor’s expression was one of profound disappointment, not just in his nephew, but in his brother’s stubborn rage. He was Hand of the King, and he had to weigh the good of the realm. A war of words between the Crown and a powerful house like the Lovelaces was a wound that could fester. "Where is Daeron? Bring him in."

The door opened, and a pair of household guards escorted him inside. You flinched violently, your body trying to curl into itself. He walked in under his own power, a stark contrast to your shattered composure. A small, neat bandage was on his temple, the white linen stark against his sandy blonde hair, now pushed back from his face, his eyes found you instantly. And in them, you did not see remorse or shame. You saw a dark, quiet, glittering calculation. Then, just as quickly, it was veiled by a mask of pained, honest confusion.

"Uncle. Father." His voice was quiet, a little hoarse, tinged with what sounded like genuine distress. He looked at your father, a deep, sorrowful bow of his head. "Lord Lovelace. There has been a terrible misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding!" your father erupted. "You animal—"

"My lord, please, hear me," Daeron said, turning his hands up in a gesture of supplication. He did not look at you. "I understand your fury. I appear before you as a villain. I am drunk, I am wounded, and a maiden is weeping. The story paints itself, does it not? But I beg you, look deeper." He touched the bandage at his temple, a wince of pain crossing his face. It was masterfully done. "Lady Y/N and I… we met in the gardens. It was not by chance. There were looks between us in the hall. You can understand. She is…" He finally looked at you, and his voice softened to a heartbreaking, honeyed tone. "She is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld. She confessed a desire to escape the feast, to find some air. She invited me to follow."

"No…" you whispered, shaking your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. "No, stop…"

"We talked. She was kind. So sweet. I was already in my cups, I admit this. Her sweetness felt like a balm." He was crafting his narrative, weaving a net of soft words. "There were… intimacies. Kind words. Promises. I believed her affections were true, she kissed me and pulled me onto the ground. And then, she grew... skittish, she heard some steps near us, she tried to leave, and I, a fool blinded by affection, tried to hold her, to calm her, and in her panic, she struck me." He gestured to the bandage again. "I do not blame her. The fault is mine, for I pushed my suit too fast, too ardently. I drank too much and frightened her. But I swear to you, by the old gods and the new, the affections were mutual before my clumsiness turned a tender moment into a terrifying one for her."

It was a masterpiece of lying. He painted himself as guilty only of too much love and too much wine, not of assault. And the worst part was, he could not be fully disproven. The story now had two versions, both with the same ending, you on the ground, him hit, you running. But his version made you a willing participant who panicked. His version made you a liar.

"He pursued me!" you screamed, your fragile composure shattering entirely. "He told me he had dreamed of me! He said he'd seen me in his bed, holding his child! He's a madman! He forced himself on me!"

Daeron flinched, a perfect portrait of wounded honor. "I may have spoken of dreams," he murmured, as if confessing a deep folly. "I am a Targaryen. We dream. I had a dream of a beautiful girl who would be my peace. And when I saw her, I was fool enough to speak of it. To hope, too soon. It is my curse. I did not mean to frighten her. I am not mad. I am only… in love."

The word hung in the air. In love. He was twisting the knife, claiming a sacred emotion as the root of his violence. Maekar’s grim face settled into a hard, believing mask. "You see?" Maekar said to the room. "A foolish, drunken attempt at courtship. Grossly mishandled, yes, and Daeron will answer to me for it. But not the brutal assault the girl describes."

"Your Grace, my daughter's gown was torn, her body bruised!, Her thighs are still darkened by blood!" your mother shot back, her voice shaking with rage.

"My son did not deny that he fucked her, but she was willing, your daughter should go bathe and pray," Maekar countered, willfully blind, desperate to protect his son's name, perhaps even believing the story because it was easier than the monstrous truth.

The arguing exploded again, a cacophony of raised voices. Your father's booming accusations. Maekar's cold defenses. Your mother's sharp, tearful interjections. And through it all, Baelor Breakspear stood with his hand over his mouth, his shrewd eyes moving between you and his nephew. You could see the war behind his brow. He didn't believe Daeron. A man that wise could see the cracks. But your word against a prince's? A public trial would tear the court apart, and what would it achieve for you? Your honor would be bandied about for the realm to gawk at. The Lovelace power was vast, but even they could not unmake a prince without shattering the fragile peace of the realm. He was weighing your life, your pain, on the scales of the kingdom.

Finally, into the loudest surge of the argument—your father bellowing, "I want his head! I want him sent to the Wall!"—Daeron himself spoke again. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise with surgical precision.

"I will marry her."

Silence.

Everyone stopped. You stared at him, your face draining of all blood. The horror of his statement was absolute. It was not a proposal. It was a sentence.

"Never," you breathed. "I will never."

Daeron turned to your father, and his face was a perfectly composed mask of duty and gentle remorse. "Lord Lovelace, we are at an impasse. You believe your daughter. I, knowing my own heart, must believe my own version of a night that went so terribly wrong. But whatever you believe, this is the truth: her honor is gone. This is my doing. And I am a prince of the blood. I am prepared to do the honorable thing. To restore what was… compromised. Let me make her a princess. Let me give her my name, my protection, everything I have. It is the only remedy that leaves no stain on anyone."

"He is a monster," you choked, turning to your father, clutching his arm. "Father, please. Don't make me. He tried to—he will do worse. I beg you."

Your father looked at you. He looked at Daeron. He looked at Prince Maekar, whose face was a thundercloud of resentment at the very thought of his son marrying into a family that had so publicly shamed him, but who also saw no other way to silence the scandal. He looked at Baelor Breakspear, who gave the smallest, most imperceptible of nods. It was the nod of a surgeon who must amputate a limb to save the body.

"It would… silence the scandal," your father said, the words dragged out of him, every syllable tasting like ash. He was looking at the political reality. A marriage. A royal match. It was, in the cold logic of Westeros, a victory snatched from disaster. His daughter, a Princess. But his eyes, when they met yours, were hollow with a grief he couldn't speak aloud. He was choosing the world's definition of honor over yours.

"Then it is decided," Maekar declared, his voice a hammer on an anvil, sealing your fate. He wouldn't look at you. He was drowning his own shame in a sea of cold formality.

"No!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat. "No, you cannot do this! He is a liar! Listen to me!"

But no one was listening anymore. Your mother was weeping silently. Baelor was staring at the floor, a good man who had just sanctioned a quiet atrocity. And Prince Daeron—your future husband—finally let his gaze settle fully on you. The mask of gentle remorse was still perfectly in place for the rest of the room, but behind the veil of his bright violet eyes, a spark ignited. A small, private, victorious flame. A flicker of triumph so pure and so dark it stole the very air from your lungs. He had lied. He had manipulated them all. And now, he had you.

Just as he had always dreamed.

—

The Stranger himself must have presided over your wedding, for no other god would claim such a union.

A moon had passed since that night in the Tower of the Hand. A moon of being a prisoner in your own life. Your father had not met your eyes since the decision was made. Your mother had held you as you sobbed, whispering that it would not be so bad, that many brides were frightened, that a prince was a great match. She did not believe her own words, you could hear the hollowness in them.

The wedding itself had been a lavish affair, the Great Hall of the Red Keep transformed into a garden of roses and lilies, the tables groaning under the weight of seventy-seven courses. The King had rallied enough strength to attend, a wizened, smiling specter who seemed to think this was a love match, a charming story of a prince smitten with a Reach beauty.

You had sat through the feast like a carved doll, your wedding gown a magnificent prison of ivory silk and Myrish lace, seed pearls sewn into the bodice in the pattern of your house sigil, a final, bittersweet tribute to the family you were leaving behind. Your face was a mask of serene beauty, because you had been trained since birth to wear such masks. But beneath the table, your hands were clenched so tightly in your lap that your nails drew blood from your palms. You barely ate. You did not dance. You did not speak unless spoken to.

And Daeron? Daeron was elated.

He had not touched a drop of wine the entire evening. He wanted to be present for this, he had whispered to you during the ceremony, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in to kiss your cheek after the septon's blessing. "I want to remember every instant of this night." It had sounded like a threat. Throughout the feast, he was the perfect bridegroom, attentive, smiling, charming your parents until even your father's frozen anger began to thaw into a bewildered sort of acceptance. He made jests with his uncles, accepted the congratulations of lords and ladies with humble bows of his head, and looked at you with such open, adoring devotion that several older ladies were heard to remark what a shame it was that the poor boy had been so misunderstood his whole life. Look how love had transformed him.

It was the court that was drunk, you realized. Drunk on the romance of it. Drunk on the pageantry. Only you could see the truth behind his violet eyes. Only you could see the hunger.

And now, the feast was over. The well-wishers had finally retreated. The bawdy jests of the bedding ceremony had been mercifully waived, Prince Baelor's doing, a small kindness that had done nothing to ease the dread coiling in your stomach. You were alone with your husband in the marriage chamber, a vast, opulent room in Maegor's Holdfast, dominated by a monstrous bed with posts carved into the shapes of coiling dragons. Candles flickered on every surface, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of incense, the cloying sweetness of roses. It was meant to be romantic. It felt like a tomb.

You stood in the center of the room, still in your wedding gown, your back to him. You could hear his footsteps on the carpet behind you, slow and deliberate. The predator who had already caught his prey and was savoring the moment before the kill.

"My wife," Daeron said softly, and the word was a caress that made your skin crawl. "My lovely, lovely wife. Do you know how long I have waited for this moment?"

You said nothing. Your throat was too tight, your tongue too heavy. You stared at the dragon carvings on the bedpost, tracing their snarling mouths with your eyes, trying to will yourself away from your own body.

His fingers touched your shoulder, and you flinched. He chuckled, a low, intimate sound. "Still so shy. It's endearing. But you need not be shy with me. Not anymore. We are one flesh now, in the eyes of gods and men." His hands moved to the laces at the back of your gown, and you felt the delicate pull as he began to work them loose, one by one. His fingers were steady, practiced. The silk loosened across your shoulder blades, and a whisper of cool air kissed your skin. "I have imagined this so many times. Undressing you. Unveiling you. I would lie awake at night, in this very bed, and picture it. The candlelight making your skin glow. The scent of your hair. The little sounds you would make."

He loosened another lace, and the gown sagged, the weight of it shifting. You clutched the bodice to your chest with both hands, a reflexive, futile gesture of modesty. He didn't seem to mind. He simply moved his hands to your hair, beginning to remove the pearl-tipped pins that held your elaborate coiffure in place. Each pin that fell was a tiny, metallic death knell.

"Do you know," he continued, his voice taking on a dreamy, confessional quality that you remembered with sickening clarity from the gardens, "do you know how many whores I have fucked in this bed?"

The word was a slap. Crude, deliberate, shattering the illusion of the gentle bridegroom. You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat.

"More than I can count," he answered himself, his fingers still working through your hair, freeing the locks so they tumbled down your back in soft waves. "My father sent me to the Street of Silk when I was five and ten, hoping it would make a man of me. Hoping it would cure me of my… peculiarities. My dreams,the measter told him it would make me grow out of them, that i simply had the mind of a child." A soft, humorless laugh. "It didn't work. But I learned other things. I learned the shape of a woman's body. The sounds they make when you please them. The sounds they make when you hurt them. I learned all of it."

He pulled the last pin free, and your hair cascaded fully down, a curtain of silk that he immediately gathered in his hands, lifting it to press his face into it, inhaling deeply.

"But here is the thing, my sweet," he murmured into your hair, his voice muffled, reverent. "Every single one of them… I chose because they looked like you."

The horror of it crawled up your spine like a spider. Your eyes were wide, fixed on the wall, but you could see it in your mind's eye years of him, a boy, then a man, haunting the brothels of King's Landing, picking through the girls like a merchant selecting wares. Searching for something. A shade of hair. A curve of a jaw. A pair of eyes that might, in the right light, look like yours. Before he had ever met you.

"Some had your hair," he went on, his hands dropping your hair and moving to the loosened gown, tugging it gently downwards. You resisted, your knuckles white on the bodice, but he was patient. He didn't force it. Not yet. He just talked. "or something close to it. A girl once, whose hair was almost perfect. I paid triple her price just to watch her let it down. But her eyes were wrong." The word was laced with contempt. "Others had your face, or something like it. Sweet. Innocent. I would make them pretend to be shy. Most whores can play a role if you pay them enough. But it was never right. It was never you."

He stepped around you, moving into your line of sight. You kept your eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to look at him, but he stepped directly into your gaze, forcing you to see him. His violet eyes were luminous in the candlelight, his face handsome and terrible, he looked like a young god, and a devil, all at once.

"I kept hoping I would find you one day," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper of raw, terrifying sincerity. "I would walk through the streets of this city, searching every face in every crowd. I would visit every brothel, every tavern, every corner of the realm in my dreams. I knew you were out there. I knew it. The dreams showed me your face, night after night. Your eyes. Your smile. Your mouth. A face like a promise. And every whore I took to my bed was just a prayer. A prayer that the next one would be you."

He reached up and gently, so gently, pulled your hands away from the bodice of your gown. You were frozen, paralyzed by the grotesque intimacy of his confession. The gown fell, a whisper of silk pooling around your feet, leaving you in your thin linen shift. The candlelight traced the curve of your shoulders, the line of your collarbone, the rapid, panicked flutter of your pulse at your throat. He looked at you as if you were the Maiden herself descended.

"And then you came," he breathed. "At my grandfather's nameday feast. I saw you across the hall, and I knew. I knew immediately. The dreams had not lied. You were real. You were finally, finally real." His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your eye. You flinched, but didn't pull away. Where would you go? "I watched you all through the feast. The way you smiled at that fool Hightower. The way you toyed with your wine glass. The way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Every gesture was a revelation. Every movement was exactly as I had seen it. And then you walked into the gardens, and I knew... I knew that was the moment. The moment the gods had ordained. The moment you would finally be mine."

"It was an ambush," you whispered, your voice cracked and raw, the first words you had spoken to him since the ceremony. "You followed me. You attacked me."

His smile was beatific, utterly untroubled by your accusation. "I call it fate. You call it what you will. The result is the same. You are here. You are my wife. And tonight…" His hand moved from your cheek, tracing down the column of your throat, over your collarbone, to the thin strap of your shift. He hooked a finger beneath it. "Tonight, you will be mine in every way. And so it begins."

He pulled the strap down over your shoulder, baring more skin. His eyes never left yours.

"The life I have dreamed for us," he murmured, leaning in, his lips hovering just above your own. "The children. The happiness. You will learn to love it. You will learn to love me. I have waited too long and sacrificed too much for any other outcome. You are my dream made flesh. And I am going to worship you… whether you want me to or not."

His lips crashed against yours, demanding and unyielding, his tongue forcing its way past your tightly pressed mouth. You twisted your head away, but his hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devoured you, tasting of wine and possession. The kiss was a conquest, his teeth nipping at your lower lip until you gasped, giving him the opening to plunge deeper.

You shoved at his chest, your nails scraping against the fine silk of his tunic, but he only laughed softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. With effortless strength, he scooped you up, your body light as a feather in his arms, and carried you to the massive bed. The dragon carved posts loomed like silent witnesses as he tossed you onto the feather mattress, the sheets cool against your heated skin.

The other strap of your shift followed the first, yanked down roughly, exposing your breasts to the flickering candlelight. Daeron's violet eyes darkened with hunger as he loomed over you, shrugging off his tunic to reveal a lean, muscled torso he climbed onto the bed, his weight pinning you down, knees straddling your hips.

"No," you whispered, but it came out as a plea, your hands pushing futilely at his shoulders. He captured your wrists in one large hand, stretching them above your head and anchoring them there with iron grip.

"Yes," he countered, his free hand roaming down your body, palming your breast and squeezing until you arched involuntarily. His thumb circled your nipple, teasing it to a hard peak, and he lowered his head to take it into his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking relentlessly, sending unwelcome sparks of pleasure shooting through you. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, hating how your body betrayed you under his skilled touch.

He released your nipple with a wet pop, trailing kisses and bites down your stomach, his beard scraping your skin. Hooking his fingers into the hem of your shift, he dragged the thin fabric up and over your head, leaving you utterly bare beneath him. The cool air pebbled your skin, but his gaze burned hotter than any flame.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "So perfect. My wife. My everything." His hand slid between your thighs, parting them despite your clamped legs. Fingers brushed your folds, finding you already slick—traitorous arousal from the unwanted stimulation. He smirked, dipping a finger inside you, curling it to stroke that sensitive spot deep within.

You gasped, hips bucking against your will as he added a second finger, pumping slowly, deliberately. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in firm circles that made your vision blur. "Feel that?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Your body knows what it wants, even if you fight it. Let me make you feel good. Let me show you the pleasure we've both been denied."

Tears pricked your eyes, but the building heat coiled tighter in your core, his fingers thrusting faster, scissoring to stretch you. He watched your face intently, adjusting his rhythm to chase every hitch in your breath, every tremble. When you clenched around him, he groaned in approval, free hand releasing your wrists to grip your hip, holding you steady as he worked you toward the edge.

"Come for me," he commanded, his mouth claiming yours again, swallowing your cries as the orgasm ripped through you. Your back bowed, thighs quivering, waves of unwanted ecstasy crashing over you. He didn't stop, drawing it out until you sagged, spent and shaking.

But he wasn't done. Shedding his breeches, his cock sprang free—thick and hard, the tip glistening. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head along your soaked pussy, coating himself in your release. "This is just the beginning," he said, eyes locked on yours. "You'll crave this. Crave me."

With one brutal thrust, he buried himself inside you, stretching you wide. You cried out, the fullness overwhelming, but he held still, letting you adjust, his hand returning to your clit to rub soothing circles. Slowly, he began to move, pulling out and slamming back in, each stroke angled to hit that spot again. His pace built, hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking under the force.

He fucked you relentlessly, one hand bracing beside your head, the other teasing your breasts, pinching nipples, tracing your curves. Pleasure built anew, forced from your body by his expert touch, his cock dragging along your walls with every deep plunge. You hated the moans spilling from your lips, the way your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him deeper.

"That's it," he panted, sweat beading on his brow. "Take me. Feel how good we are together." His thrusts grew erratic, but he held back, grinding against your clit with each hilt, pushing you toward another peak. When you shattered again, clenching around him like a vice, he followed with a guttural roar, flooding you with hot cum, his body shuddering above yours.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his cock still twitching inside. "See?" he whispered, kissing your temple. "You liked it. And you'll like it more tomorrow. My dream… our dream."

The bath was warm, steam curling through the air and clinging to the stone walls of your private chambers.

Outside, the last light of dusk painted King's Landing in shades of amber and rose, but here there was only the gentle lap of water and the steady beat of your husband's heart beneath your ear.

Valarr's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chest pressed against your back as you both soaked in the heated water. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses against your skin.

The tension of the day, of every day, seemed to melt away in these quiet moments, when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world could not intrude.

"You're quiet tonight, ābrazȳrys," he murmured against you, using the Valyrian endearment he favored when you were alone. Wife. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and you felt him smile as you shivered slightly.

You turned in his arms, water sloshing gently, until you faced him. His dark hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, and that striking streak of silver-gold caught the candlelight like spun moonlight.

You traced your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight roughness where his beard had begun to grow by evening's end, then down to where his pulse beat steady and strong beneath your touch.

"Just tired," you whispered. "I've felt... strange today. Queasy."

His brow furrowed immediately, the lazy contentment in his blue eyes replaced by sharp concern. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking gently across your cheekbone. "Strange how? Should I call for a maester? Is it your stomach? A headache?"

You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his chest as you leaned into him. The warmth of him, the solid reality of his love, it was the only anchor you needed. "Valarr, I feel a bit ill, not dying. Besides, you know what the maesters will say." You pulled back, offering him a wry smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "That my courses are late again, perhaps? They've said that a hundred times."

Something flickered in his expression, pain, quickly masked, but you knew him too well to miss it. He pulled you closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your wet hair with infinite gentleness.

"One day," he promised, his voice rough with emotion. "One day, yndys—"

"I know." You kissed his chest, just above his heart. "I know you believe that."

Two years. Two years you had been married to Valarr Targaryen, and your belly remained empty, your courses as regular as the turning of the moon. Two years without even a hint of a pregnancy, not even a miscarriage to prove that you could conceive. Two years of hope and heartbreak, of seeing the pity in kind eyes and the cruelty in cruel ones.

Two years of rumors.

---

The first time you heard them, you had been walking through the gardens, seeking respite from the stuffy confines of the Keep and the weight of courtly expectations. The roses were in bloom, their scent heavy and sweet, and you had thought to steal a moment of peace before the evening's duties called you back.

You rounded a hedge and caught the tail end of a conversation between two of your ladies-in-waiting. You recognized their voices—Lady Celia, young and pretty and recently wed herself, and Lady Jeyne, older and sharper-tongued, who had served in court since before you arrived.

"...two years is telling, isn't it?" Jeyne was saying, her voice carrying clearly through the afternoon air. "Not even a miscarriage. My sister miscarried twice before she birthed her first, and even that was considered unusual. But nothing? For two years? There has to be something wrong with her."

Celia's voice was softer, hesitant. "Perhaps the prince... perhaps he does not... I mean, if he cannot—"

"No, no, there's nothing wrong with him." Jeyne laughed, the sound ugly. "I've heard the serving girls talk. He's perfectly capable. It's her. Some women just aren't made for bearing children. It happens."

"But what will happen?" Celia asked. "To their marriage, I mean? The prince needs an heir—the realm needs an heir. If she's barren..."

You had frozen mid-step, your heart plummeting into your stomach. The words barren, annulment, new wife echoed in your mind, each one a knife. Before you could retreat, before you could compose yourself into the mask of a princess, a voice like winter cut through the air.

"Enough."

Valarr stood behind you, you realized. He must have followed you from the chambers, must have heard everything. His face was cold, controlled—the face of a prince, not the warm, loving husband you knew. But his eyes... his eyes burned with a fury you had never seen.

The two women went white as milk when they saw him. Celia dropped into a curtsy so low she nearly fell. Jeyne's face lost all its color, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"You will return to your families," Valarr said, his voice leaving no room for argument. There was no heat in it, no emotion, and that was somehow more terrifying than if he had screamed. "By morning. You will pack your things tonight, and you will be gone before the sun rises. If I hear so much as a whisper of such slander again—from anyone, about my wife—it will not be banishment they face. Am I understood?"

They fled. And then Valarr's arms were around you, his cold prince's mask crumbling as he held you close, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your hair.

"Pay them no mind," he begged you, his lips pressed to your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach. "They are fools. They know nothing. They are nothing. You are everything—"

"But what if they're right?" The words tore from you, raw and bleeding, before you could stop them. You pulled back just enough to look at him, to let him see the tears streaming down your face. "What if I am barren? What if I can never give you children, never give you an heir, never—"

He kissed you then, fierce and desperate, swallowing your fears with his lips and his love. When he finally pulled back, his own eyes were wet.

"Then we will have no children," he said, his voice steady despite the tears. "And I will love you just the same. I will love you until my last breath and beyond. I will love you in this life and the next and every life after that. You are mine, Y/N. Not for your womb. Not for your ability to give me heirs. For you. For your laugh. For the way you crinkle your nose when you're annoyed. For the way you hum in your sleep. For you."

---

The rumors never stopped, of course. They simply grew quieter, more insidious. You saw the looks at feasts, the whispers behind fans and goblets, the pity in some eyes and the smug satisfaction in others. You heard the murmurs of annulment and new wife and barren floating through the halls like poisoned butterflies.

But you also saw the way Valarr shut them down. A cold stare here, a sharp word there. Once, a lord who spoke too loudly at a feast about the "prince's unfortunate marriage situation" found himself assigned to the farthest, most miserable post in the Seven Kingdoms within the week. His wife wept. His children wailed. And Valarr watched it all with an expression of stone.

He never told you about that. You heard it from a servant who thought you should know how fiercely your husband protected you.

He protected you. He cherished you. And every month, when your courses came, he held you while you cried and then he held you while you made love, as if he could pour all his love into you and make the pain disappear.

"Next month," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with his own unshed tears. "Next month, my love. We'll try again next month. And the month after. And the month after that. For as long as it takes. For forever, if that's what it takes."

And you would believe him, because believing him was easier than believing the whispers. Because loving him was the easiest thing you had ever done, and being loved by him was the greatest gift you had ever received.

---

In the bath, with the warm water soothing your aching body, you tried to push away the queasiness that had plagued you all day. Probably something you ate. Perhaps the fish at supper had been off. Perhaps the heat was too much. There were a hundred explanations, and none of them were the one you had stopped allowing yourself to hope for.

Valarr's hands moved gently along your back, soothing, loving, tracing patterns on your skin that he had memorized long ago. His touch was reverent, as it always was, as if you were something precious and fragile and infinitely worthy of worship.

"You work too hard," he murmured against your shoulder. "You exhaust yourself with duties. You're up before dawn, you don't rest during the day, you attend every function, you smile at every lord and lady who looks down on you." His arms tightened around you.

"Perhaps we should retreat to Dragonstone for a moon. Just the two of us. No court, no duties, no whispers. Just us."

"That would only give the gossips more fuel," you sighed, leaning your head back against his chest. "The prince hiding away his barren wife. She must be even more defective than we thought, if he can't bear to be seen with her."

"Stop." His voice was gentle but firm, and he turned you in his arms so he could look into your eyes. "Do not let them live in your head, my love. They are not worth a single one of your tears. They are not worth a single moment of your peace. You are more than their words. You are more than their cruelty. You are mine, and I will not let them hurt you."

You opened your mouth to respond, to tell him that his love was enough, that you were trying so hard to believe him, that some days you even succeeded—

But the words never came.

Instead, a pain ripped through you—sharp, sudden, agonizing. It seized your lower belly, your womb, with such ferocity that a scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. Your body curled inward, hands flying to your stomach as if you could somehow contain the agony.

"Y/N?" Valarr's hands caught you as you doubled over, the water splashing wildly around you both. His voice was sharp with terror. "Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Pain—" You gasped, another wave crashing over you, deeper and more intense than the first. "Valarr, it hurts—something's wrong—"

He was already moving, lifting you from the bath with strength you forgot he possessed. Water streamed from both of you as he carried you to the bed, his face ashen with terror, his arms shaking but steady. He laid you down as gently as if you were made of glass, but even that small movement sent another spike of agony through you.

"Did I hurt you?" he was asking, his voice breaking as he knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering over you, afraid to touch, afraid not to. "Sweetheart, did I—was it something I did—in the bath, did I—"

You couldn't answer. Another pain, deeper than before, had you curling in on yourself, a keening cry escaping your lips. It felt like something was tearing inside you, something vital and essential, and you clutched at Valarr's hand with desperate strength.

He wrapped a vest around you, his hands trembling so badly he could barely manage the ties, and then he was on his feet and shouting—screaming—for servants, for guards, for a maester.

"NOW!" he roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "GET THE MAESTER NOW! RUN!"

---

The hours that followed were a blur of agony and confusion.

Maester Edric came, his face grave as he examined you. You lay in the bed, sweat soaking your hair, the linens beneath you, pains ripping through you at irregular intervals that made no sense to anyone. Valarr never left your side. He held your hand through every wave of pain, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered words of love and terror in between calling for answers no one could give.

"I can find nothing wrong," the maester said finally, his brow furrowed deep with confusion and frustration. He had examined you twice, three times, each time with the same result. "No fever, no swelling, no sign of injury or illness. Her stomach is soft, not rigid. Her pulse is strong. I... I do not understand."

"Then look again!" Valarr demanded, his voice cracking. He had not slept, had not eaten, had not left your side for a moment. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a wild mess, his tunic stained with your sweat where he had held you. "She is in agony—look again! There must be something! There has to be something!"

They gave you milk of the poppy. It dulled the edges of the pain but did not stop it entirely. You drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of Valarr's voice, of his hand gripping yours, of the whispered fears of servants who thought you were dying.

Dying. The thought floated through your poppy-fogged mind. Was this death? This endless, ripping pain that came in waves like the sea? Was this how it ended—not with a grand tragedy, but with some mysterious illness that even the maesters could not name?

"The Seven are taking her," you heard someone whisper—one of the servants, a woman who had served your household for years. Her voice was thick with tears. "It's a punishment. It must be. For something."

"Hold your tongue!" another voice hissed, but the damage was done.

You saw Valarr's face harden, saw the fury flash through his terror, but he didn't leave your side. He couldn't. He was trapped between his need to protect you and his need to protect your honor, and in the end, you were more important.

"Leave," he said quietly to the room at large. "Everyone except the maester. Now."

They fled. And then it was just you, and Valarr, and the maester who could do nothing but watch you suffer.

"There's something," you gasped during a lucid moment, when the pain had receded enough to allow thought. Your voice was barely a whisper, cracked and broken. "There's something—I can feel it—inside me—trying to come out—"

Valarr was instantly alert, leaning close. "What? What do you feel?"

"I don't know—" Another wave of pain crashed over you, and you screamed, your back arching off the bed. "Something—there's something there—I can feel it—please—"

A servant girl—who had been allowed to stay to fetch water and linens—hurried to look when Valarr gestured frantically. She lifted the sheets, peered between your legs, and then stumbled backward with a sharp intake of breath.

"Gods," she whispered, her face going white as bone. "Gods above—"

"What?" Valarr was on his feet, his heart in his throat. "What is it? What's wrong?"

The girl's face was white as bone, her eyes wide as saucers. She pointed with a trembling hand. "It's—my prince, it's a head—the princess is giving birth—"

The next hour was chaos and wonder in equal measure.

Maester Edric rushed back in, his composure completely shattered. More servants were called, women who had experience with birth, who knew what to do. Linens, hot water, cloths, all the preparations for a birth that no one had known was coming.

Through it all, Valarr stayed at your side, his face a mask of shock and awe and desperate fear. He held your hand through every contraction, wiped the sweat from your brow, pressed kisses to your temple and whispered words of love and encouragement.

"How?" he kept asking, his voice wondering and terrified all at once. "How did we not know? How did no one know?"

But you knew. You knew, even through the pain, even through the haze of milk of the poppy. Your courses had come—light, yes, irregular, but present enough that you had never thought to question. Your belly had remained flat, your weight unchanged, your body showing no signs of the life growing within. You had never felt the quickening, never felt the child move, never experienced any of the symptoms that every book and every woman said you should have felt. A hidden heir. A secret kept so perfectly that even the mother hadn't known.

"The babe is coming," the head midwife announced, her voice calm and professional despite the extraordinary circumstances. "My prince, you may want to—"

"I'm not leaving." Valarr's voice was steel. "I'm not leaving her. Not for a moment."

And then, with one final, agonizing push that tore a scream from your throat, a new cry filled the room.

Not your cry, a new voice, small and fierce and alive, cutting through the chaos like a ray of sunlight through storm clouds.

Silence fell. Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing, to stop moving, as the midwife lifted the tiny, squalling bundle.

"A boy," she said, her voice awed. "My prince, my princess... you have a son."

Valarr didn't look at the babe at first. He looked at you, his eyes streaming tears, his face pressed to your sweat-damp hair, his whole body shaking with relief and joy and a love so overwhelming it seemed to fill the entire room.

"You did it," he whispered, his voice broken and beautiful. "You beautiful, perfect, impossible woman—you did it. You gave me a son. You gave us a son."

The midwife approached, the babe wrapped in clean linen, still crying with the fierce determination of new life. "Would you like to hold him, my princess?"

You nodded, unable to speak, and they placed him in your arms.

He was small—smaller than you had expected, though you had no basis for comparison—and wet-faced from crying, with a tuft of in his tiny head. His eyes were squeezed shut, his little fists clenched, his cries slowly subsiding as he settled against your chest.

Valarr leaned down, one trembling finger reaching out to gently touch that tiny head. His face crumpled, and for the first time since you had known him, your strong, fierce husband wept openly.

"He's perfect," he managed. "He's absolutely perfect. Just like his mother."

You looked up at him, at your husband who had defended you against a kingdom, who had loved you when the world called you barren, who had held you through every disappointment and every fear and never once wavered in his devotion.

"I told you," you whispered, your voice broken but triumphant, a smile spreading across your exhausted face. "I told you there was something wrong with me."

Valarr laughed—a sound of pure, overwhelming joy, bright and free and wonderful—and kissed you with all the love in his heart. He kissed your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, each kiss a promise and a prayer and a celebration.

"Nothing wrong with you," he agreed against your lips. "Nothing but perfection. Nothing but miracle. My wife. My love. The mother of my son."

The news spread through the Red Keep like wildfire.

By dawn, the entire castle knew. The princess who was whispered to be barren had given birth in the night, to a healthy son, without anyone even knowing she was with child. The servants who had thought she was dying now spoke of miracles and blessings. The ladies who had whispered behind her back now hurried to offer congratulations, their faces flushed with embarrassment.

And in your chambers, as the first light of dawn crept over King's Landing, you held your son and watched your husband pace the room like a man possessed.

"A son," Valarr kept saying, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "We have a son. I have a son. We have a son."

"You've said that seventeen times now," you teased gently, though your own smile hadn't faded since the babe was placed in your arms.

"And I'll say it seventeen hundred more." He came to sit beside you on the bed, his hand reaching out to stroke the babe's cheek with infinite gentleness. "Have you thought of a name?"

You looked down at the tiny face, peaceful now in sleep, and felt your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost hurt.

"Aurion," you said.

Valarr's eyes glistened. "Aurion Targaryen. It's perfect."

"He'll need a cradle," you murmured, suddenly realizing all the things that would need to be done. "And clothes—we have no clothes for him. And a wet nurse—I don't know if I can—"

"Shh." Valarr pressed a kiss to your forehead. "All of that will be handled. Right now, you rest. You've done enough for one night." His voice cracked with emotion. "You've done everything."

---

The days that followed were a blur of visitors and well-wishers, of lords and ladies coming to pay their respects to the prince and princess and their miraculous son.

King Daeron II came himself, his aged face bright with joy as he held his first great-grandson. "Auriom," he said, testing the name. "A fine choice. First of his name"

Prince Baelor, Valarr's father, stood tall and proud, his nose wrinkling as he smiled "The boy looks the same as valarr did as a babe," he observed. "And he his mother's strength. He'll go far."

Even the rumors changed. No longer was there talk of annulment and barrenness. Now the whispers were of miracles and blessings, of the Seven's favor shining upon the young prince and his devoted wife. The same ladies who had once pitied you now sought your favor. The lords who had whispered of setting you aside now bowed low and offered congratulations.

You didn't care about any of them. You cared about the tiny life in your arms, and the husband who looked at you as if you had hung the moon and stars.

One night, a week after the birth, you woke to find the cradle empty and your husband standing by the window, holding Aurion in his arms.

You watched them for a long moment—Valarr, his dark hair messy, that silver streak catching the moonlight, swaying gently as he hummed a soft Valyrian lullaby to the babe in his arms. His voice was low and sweet, the ancient words wrapping around the quiet room like a blessing.

"Ōños iā hūrenkon qrinuntys," he sang. "Jemī iksis zālagon." Light and shadow, my little prince. Forever there is fire.

You must have made a sound, because he turned, his face softening when he saw you awake.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked softly.

"He was fussing," Valarr said, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. "I didn't want him to wake you. You need your rest."

You reached out, touching his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. "So do you."

He turned his head, kissing your palm. "I can't stop looking at him," he admitted quietly. "I keep thinking... what if we had listened to them? What if I had let the whispers sway me? What if I had let them convince me that you weren't enough?" His voice broke. "I would have missed this. I would have missed him. I would have missed everything that matters."

You moved closer, resting your head against his shoulder, looking down at your son together.

Aurion slept peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling, one small fist pressed against his cheek.

"You never wavered," you reminded him. "Not once. Even when I doubted myself, you never doubted me."

What would happen to Fossoway!Reader if one of her children turned out to be evil?

Are any of the children evil?

Fossoway!Reader would be so pissed when she remembers that Aerion named her baby boy Maegor

Grandfather Maekar and Baela

What color hair Fossoway!readers kids would has + What about length? + Would any of Fossoway!Readers kids have a strip of hair that was a diff color than the rest like their uncle Valarr?

Fossoway! Reader does not tolerate anyone speaking ill of Aerion

Grandfather-Granddaughter Days

Aerion would be trying so hard go prove one of his babies looks just like him

Maekar would be soft with his grandkids

Some random lord would try to put a wedge between Fossoway!Reader and Aerion

Baela would be the most outgoing toddler ever

If Valarr were still alive

Maegor would eventually grow up and be like “dad wtf you named me after someone that was Cruel and that everyone hated?"

Would Reader and Aerion be scared knowing of the alleged curse over the dark haired Targaryens?

Fossoway!Reader would confuse Aerion

Maekar learning Reader and Aerion named their daughter Dyanna and tearing up

Aerion and Reader's reaction when the kids don't want to play with Maegor + The silbings as protective siblings of baby Maegor

Reader and Aerion's reactions when their daughters begin to be courted

Maekar would milk the “old granddad” card so much

Aerion and Reader's reaction when they discover that Dyanna is with a Lannister boy

Maekar and Jacaerys <3

Aerion is miserable and pathetic when Reader goes to visit her homeland

Do Aerion and reader have a favorite child or do they try their best to not show favoritism?

Grandpa Maekar takes a nap and the children are worried that he is dead

More Jealous!Reader

Steffon vs Aerion

The kids are not interested in playing Cyvasse

Baela and uncle Daeron

Imagine Aerion drink the wildfire but "somehow" survive

Aerion and clothing

AU:Aerion becomes mad with grief after Reader's death

I'm evil and want you to have a visual image of Aerion looking like a madman in front of the court

Aerion was like, "a dragon doesn't burn, but if I die, at least I'll be with my wife again."

How would everyone react when Brynden is exposed for nearly killing Fossoway wife and do you think Aerion would kill him?

AU Aerion and Reader in Lys

Fossoway Widow!Reader: Raymun's mother, aka Fossoway!Reader's aunt, ends up having an affair with Maekar.

Fossoway!Reader catching Maekar and Fossoway Widow!Reader doing yk

Modern AU

Modern Baby Daddy!Aerion Headcanons

The relationship between Aerion and Fossoway!Reader would evolve into something romantic

Can I ask how Aerion is in the modern au?

Modern Aerion loses his mind when he sees that Fossoway!Reader follows Vallar on Instagram but not him.

Drop Dead

Modern fossoway! reader and aerion having a mini ailent crashout everytime they wait for a pregnancy test result

Will Reader get pregnant again before finishing college?

Modern Aerea loves to ragebait Aerion

Modern Aerea and Baela would rage bait Aerion by saying “wow I’m so hungry, I could eat that tall guy Duncan that mom had a crush on back in the day”

Figure Skater AU

The Fossoway!Reader universe as memes

the moment she arrived, aerion’s world shrank to the size of her tiny body.

the midwife handed her to him after you had held the baby, and he barely breathed, eyes tracing every feature. she had your lips, your face, your hands—these tiny hands that curled around his finger—but that hair. silver as starlight, fine and soft, glinting even under the dim candlelight.

“she’s beautiful,” you whispered, exhausted and smiling.

aerion’s voice was a growl, quiet but edged with awe. “she is fire,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. “a little dragon, born of you…and me.”

later, when the household slept, he would cradle her in private, rocking slowly, reading aloud from novels he had long since stored away.

the world outside could wait. she was all that mattered.

he read old valyrian lullabies, traced the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and patted her back until she drifted into peaceful sleep.

sometimes, he would just sit there for hours, watching, as though the gods themselves might try to steal her in the night. he muttered to the darkness, voice low and serious, “not while i breathe.”

months passed, and aerion noticed changes in you long before you did yourself.

he studied you from across the hall, silent and precise, reading the signs with an intensity that left you both unnerved and comforted. “another girl,” he said one night, almost to himself, watching you sleep. not a question. a certainty. and somehow, it didn’t matter to him now—no disappointment, no longing for a son. just…care.

he began to linger closer, offering teas or broth without asking, adjusting your pillow just so, brushing stray hair from your face. he never smiled in a way the servants could see, never softened for the world. but for you, in private, there was care in every gesture.

when the second daughter arrived, the house shifted again.

aerion’s eyes were everywhere, tracking their play, arranging the rooms, even ordering the trimming of sharp corners from tables and banisters. he corrected servants if they left toys strewn about, patrolled the nursery corridors like a silent sentinel.

he caught you watching him one day, hovering near the nursery doorway.

“come to bed, husband…they are only a door away…”

“they are safe,” he said, voice clipped, but when he glanced at the girls, his eyes softened imperceptibly. “and they will stay that way.”

by the time the second daughter toddled into her third year, and the first was old enough to sit in lessons, aerion’s protective streak extended to every corner of their lives. gardens, playrooms, even the castle corridors, he observed all of it with the careful scrutiny of a dragon guarding its hoard.

he patrolled outdoor play areas, silently calculating how to prevent scrapes and falls. he taught them sword practice, wooden, carefully supervised, of course.

and when one of the girls came to him, frustrated over a puzzle, he crouched to meet her gaze. “we do not give up,” he said firmly, voice calm but commanding. and then, softer, almost lost in thought, “not in anything, zaldrītsos.”

the girls learned quickly that aerion’s approval was rare, but when it came, it was a quiet, powerful gift. a nod. a small smile. a hand resting lightly on their heads. they treasured it like sunlight.

by the time the third daughter arrived, aerion’s need for a son had vanished entirely.

his silver-haired legacy would live through them.

three sparks of fire. three little dragons of his own making.

he held the newborn with the same intensity as the first, but now he no longer merely observed or protected. he reveled quietly in the fact that these girls- your daughters- were enough.

the girls were, quite simply, spoiled beyond measure, though never carelessly. they got what they wanted not just because aerion would not deny them, but because he delighted in their joy.

a new ribbon for the eldest’s hair? granted.

a painted wooden horse for the middle? delivered.

the youngest cried for a story by candlelight, and he stayed until the candle burned low, reading in that deep, steady voice that had lulled each of his daughters to sleep since birth.

“my love,” you would whisper, shaking your head as he presented yet another gift or indulgence, “you mustn’t spoil them so.”

aerion’s only response was to kneel beside you, his silver eyes soft but fierce, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “my girls deserve everything they desire, and i will not stand in their way.”

he would glance at you then, lingering longer than necessary, lips brushing your temple. “and as do you, my wife.”

when you became aware of another life growing within you, he was quieter than usual, but only in public. in private, he traced your belly with reverence.

“if it is another daughter,” you murmured one evening, almost teasing, “will you-”

“good,” he interrupted, voice firm but brimming with warmth. “my girls are strong. blessed. they will know love, strength, fire. and you…you are the heart of it all. i will not ask for more.”

he did ask for more, though not for himself, but for the family he had begun to treasure above all else.

another babe. another spark of light to fill the halls, to grow beneath his watchful gaze. he did not care whether it was boy or girl. but if it were another daughter, he would rejoice as though the gods had smiled upon him twice.

the household echoed with the laughter and chatter of his girls. they were sweet, clever, and bold- tiny mirrors of you in manner and mind, wrapped in the silver of his blood.

he taught them all high valyrian, their family history...they painted, read, practiced music, learned of the dragons, all under a father who never withheld praise when it was due and never allowed harm when it threatened them. he did not know how or why this newfound softness had found him, why he sometimes felt unworthy of such joy when he had once been so cruel. but he did not dwell on it. there was little time for dwelling.

sometimes he read to all four at once, though he was stern when they fidgeted or giggled.

the eldest perched solemnly on a high-backed chair, legs swinging, trying desperately to pay attention. the second squirmed in a cushion fort beside her, whispering jokes to the youngest. the third clutched her little dragon plush to her chest, wide-eyed, absorbing every word with a serious intensity that mirrored her father. and the fourth- tiny and insistent- kept trying to crawl into his lap, hands tugging at the book, squealing when she caught hold of a page.

aerion’s voice, deep and measured, cut through the chaos. “quiet,” he said sharply. “all of you. look at me. listen.”

there was a pause.

then he softened slightly, just enough to let them lean into the words. his hand rested lightly on the third daughter’s head, brushing a stray silver strand from her eyes. another settled on the back of the eldest, a silent anchor of approval.

the youngest, unable to contain herself, reached for the book again. aerion shifted, lifting her gently onto his knee, the weight of her small body grounding him as he continued to read. his tone remained firm, but his eyes were warm, filled with pride and quiet amusement.

“you will learn patience,” he said, turning the page with deliberate care. “as all dragons must.”

and you understood. he did not need a boy, not anymore. the girls were his legacy, his hope, and his fire.

and in the quiet moments, when the castle slept and the girls’ breaths were soft and even, aerion would sit with each one in his arms, humming old valyrian lullabies, watching their silver strands shimmer in the candlelight, thinking to himself that no one, not even the gods, could take them while he breathed.

there were times when he still lost his temper…

it had been a long afternoon. lessons, playing in the hall, and the endless chatter of four little girls had frayed even aerion’s legendary patience. he had tried to remain calm, pacing the hall with the eldest at his side as she recited her reading. the middle two were arguing over something, loudly enough to echo through the chambers. and the youngest…

well, the youngest had thrown her cup of water across the floor, giggling as it soaked the tapestry you had carefully placed earlier that morning.

aerion’s eyes, usually steady and controlled, flicked from one girl to the next.

no. enough.

“enough!” his voice rang out, sharp and commanding. the girls froze, eyes wide, as if the walls themselves had spoken. “all of you. this instant. stop.”

the eldest sat rigid in her chair, cheeks flushed, clutching her book. the second and third stared at each other, wide-eyed and guilty. the youngest looked up innocently, sensing the storm about to break.

aerion’s hands clenched at his sides. “i am your father, and you will respect this house, your lessons, and each other. do you understand me?” his voice carried the weight of authority rarely unleashed within these walls.

the girls murmured apologies, small and hesitant, but he was not finished.

he strode to the youngest and lifted her gently, though his eyes still held that intensity. “do you think i will tolerate chaos? do you think because i love you i will ignore your behavior? no. you will listen. you will act with care. you will act with respect.”

the baby did not understand his words, but she understood his tone. her eyes welled with tears, her little lip trembling.

the room fell silent. even the air seemed to hold its breath.

aerion’s chest rose and fell once more before he exhaled slowly. the tension eased, but the lesson remained. he lowered the youngest back into her chair, brushing a stray silver curl from her face.

“i will not repeat myself,” he said quietly now, voice steady.

the eldest nodded. the second sniffled. the third clutched her small blanket tightly. even the youngest sat subdued, aware that her father’s anger had weight.

with that, he straightened and left the room, leaving behind silence- and the lingering gravity of both his discipline and his devotion.

the next morning, the girls were unusually quiet.

aerion noticed it immediately as he entered the hall, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. the eldest sat cross-legged on the floor, arranging her books into neat stacks. the second and third were carefully straightening their puzzles and toys.

the youngest, entirely unbothered by the previous day’s storm, was tucked against your chest in the lounge chair by the window, nursing peacefully in the sunlight.

aerion raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “well?” he asked, voice even, though it carried enough weight to make all three older girls sit up straighter.

the eldest stepped forward first, holding out a small folded parchment. “father… i’m sorry for yesterday,” she said softly. “i’ll try to listen better.” her voice wavered, but her eyes were earnest.

aerion’s expression softened just a fraction. he nodded once. “good. i expect honesty, not excuses.”

the second and third followed. “we didn’t mean to upset you,” the second said. “we just… forgot ourselves.”

“you are forgiven,” he replied, voice steady but gentler now. “all of you. but remember- your actions have weight, even when you are little. that is all i ask.”

his gaze shifted then to you.

you sat comfortably by the window, sunlight spilling over your shoulders, the baby tucked securely against you. one tiny hand rested against your skin as she nursed, soft sighs escaping her.

aerion’s posture changed without him realizing it.

he uncrossed his arms and walked toward you.

the girls watched carefully. they knew this was the part where their father softened in ways he never did for anyone else.

he stopped beside your chair, looking down at the baby, then at you. his expression remained composed, but warmth moved unmistakably behind his eyes.

“she seems unaffected,” he murmured.

you smiled faintly. “she slept very well.”

the baby stretched lazily, one small foot pressing against your waist.

aerion’s hand rose almost unconsciously, brushing his knuckle over the crown of her head. slow. reverent. then his thumb drifted to your cheek, smoothing along your skin with the same quiet tenderness.

“you handled them gently,” you said.

“they required firmness,” he replied, though the edge from the night before was gone.

“they adore you,” you added.

at that, he glanced toward the other three girls, who were very obviously pretending not to listen.

four daughters.

a wife who steadied him.

“you see?” you teased softly. “you cannot stay angry at them.”

his mouth twitched. “i was not angry,” he said. “i was correcting them.”

you laughed quietly, and the sound settled something deep in his chest.

the baby finished nursing and shifted sleepily. aerion reached down and lifted her carefully from you, adjusting her against his shoulder with natural ease. he patted her back in slow, rhythmic motions, his gaze drifting toward the other three as they hovered nearby.

“breakfast,” he instructed calmly. “then lessons.”

the second groaned dramatically and his eyes flicked toward her.

“after breakfast,” he amended, “you may choose which lesson we begin with.”

all three girls gasped. “truly?” the third asked.

he gave a single nod.

you looked at him knowingly. “my love,” you murmured, amused, “you are spoiling them again.”

aerion adjusted the baby higher on his shoulder, perfectly composed.

“they apologized properly,” he said. “rewarding growth is not spoiling.”

the girls cheered softly and hurried toward the dining hall.

you rose slowly, stepping close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. he leaned into the contact without thinking.

“you are a very devoted father,” you told him quietly, and you meant it.

in the years that followed, the kingdoms would hear of the daughters of the prince and princess targaryen. they were known to be strong, beautiful, intelligent- the perfect union of targaryen fire and their mother’s grace.

they inspired awe not through conquest, but through presence.

and at night, when you rested your head against aerion’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart, you knew that in all the world there was no one who loved your daughters- or you- the way aerion targaryen did.

no boy could have carried what these girls would. no king, no heir, no sword could match their hearts, or the devotion their father poured into them.

Currently, you were standing outside of the door Aerion was sulking behind. You hadn’t yet announced yourself, carefully running through different lines of dialogue in your head that might soothe his temper, even if only slightly. maekar had told you to leave him alone and not bother, in that scoffing way of his, but you couldn’t. Daeron II’s court already scorned you for failing to appease your husband. Not aggressively, but their demeaning looks and empty attitudes were more than you could stomach after eight months, desperately lonely and far away from any warmth, kin, or land you were partial to. Hopefully if you managed to please your husband, he might permit you to visit your family back in Dorne. It was a risk you were finally willing to take.

You swallowed dryly, before rapping the knuckles of your free hand against the oak planks n front of you. One of your fingers accidentally knocks against the ornate ironwork that decorated the door, and you winced, bringing the graze to your lips. As you taste blood, you hear him talk through the barrier between you.

“I thought that I made myself clear. No one was to disturb me. Or has the help become treasonous as well?” Aerion's faceless voice made your chest squeeze with nerves. It was calm in that deadly, articulate way of his, but the slight rasp in his tone hinted at his anger. You felt like an idiot, like a lone sailor headed straight into the heart of a terrible storm.

“It’s your wife. Baelor insisted that you be seen to, but I didn’t want the vulgar anywhere near you. I have warm water, and a washcloth.”

There’s a terse pause, and you glanced down at your pinched expression in the water of the dish, before willing yourself to relax. “Come in then.”

So, you did.

The chamber swaddles you in heat. Directly across from you as you step inside, set against the far wall and half-framed by dark walnut screens, stands a great four-poster bed raised on a shallow wooden platform. Its heavy red curtains are tied back enough to show layers of cream linen and embroidered blankets that glow amber in the firelight. But it’s empty. At the foot of the bed rests a long carved coffer with a cushioned top, which also is unoccupied. To the right, a broad stone fireplace crackles beneath a soot-darkened hood, throwing flickering light over a pair of high-backed chairs and a small table scattered with candlewax and a silver cup half filled with wine. Tapestries prettify the cold stone walls, their reds and mossy greens dim in the shadows, while rushes and woven rugs soften the floor. The whole room smells faintly of smoke, beeswax, and cedarwood. It’s homeliness is disorenting , and for a moment you struggle to place your spouse in the unfamiliar space.

your eyes catch on him at last, his figure pale as moonlight beside the hearth. He sits slouched in one of the high-backed chairs, one elbow braced against the armrest, knuckles pressed against his bruised mouth in a posture that's an even mix of anger and petulance. Firelight slides uselessly across him, burnishing his white hair, sharpening the severe, elvish angles of his face instead of softening them, and highlighting the streaks of mud marring his skin. You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything as you approach him.

Aerion doesn’t even look at you. He never did- not unless he had to. He’d wanted a sister wife, a girl with pale hair and violet eyes and valerian blood. He reminded you whenever the moment allowed- how much he disdained you.

You set the washbasin down with a sharp clink against the table, and only then does his gaze snatch onto your face. silent, but sinister, his eyes glittering like knives, watching you as you dip the cloth in the water and squeeze it, letting the excess drip back into the pan.

“I could have had every one of those men killed, had it been my desire.” He murmurs, running his tongue across his teeth before turning to stare at the fire again.

“I heard the kingsguard are close to finding the man who threw the first stone.” You offered quietly, before bringing the damp linen to his cheek. He tilts his head back like a cat, and drops the arm that had been propping up his chin, indifferent and mentally far away as you wipe the dirt from his skin.

“Have someone send for me when they do.”

“I will.” You murmured. The cloth passes carefully beneath his lip, pinking slightly where it catches dried blood. He had such a pretty mouth, ruddy and full, but so bitter. “Though I think the man already regrets it.”

Aerion gives a soft sound at that, not quite a laugh. His eyes remain fixed on the fire. “Sympathising with the enemy are you?”

“Of course not” you quickly amend, feeling yourself beginning to sweat. The dastardly room was too hot, and your husband's icy temper was making you nervous. You knew if he sensed that he’d leap on your weakness, like a shark smelling blood.

“Courage is easy in a crowd, that’s all. Less so when it disperses and they remember who they raised their hands against.”

At last, his gaze shifts toward you again, sharp, pale, and searching. You can almost feel him weighing your words.

“I’ve been thinking all night. How could they? Act out in mockery, against a dragon”

You lick your lips, thinking carefully. “In Dorne, Sand dogs roam around in packs, surrounding larger mammals to bring them down. Perhaps simpler men act in similar ways.”

Aerion’s mouth twitches faintly at that comparison, though whether in amusement or contempt you cannot tell.

“Dogs.” He repeats softly, as though the word itself were distasteful. “A fitting comparison.”

You were silent at this, as you finished cleaning his face. Aerion was still in his armour- he’d been sitting and staring at the fire for hours then, until you’d come.

It’s when you move to leave, his hand lashes out, and his gauntlet bites into your wrist. “I haven’t dismissed you yet” he purled, before letting you go with a little shove. “Take off my greaves.”

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

For a moment you simply stare at him, wrist still throbbing faintly where the edge of his gauntlet had pressed into your skin. Then, carefully, you lower yourself onto the rug at his feet.

The skirts of your gown spill around you in heavy folds of rich orange silk, embroidered at the hem with twisting gold thread meant to resemble curling Dornish vines. Tiny seed pearls glimmer amongst the stitching whenever the firelight catches them. It had been one of the finer dresses you’d brought from Sunspear- intricate, airy, meant for lush heat and your open courtyards. You’d carefully chosen to wear it today when it was made known that Aerion would be jousting, hoping that together you’d be the image of desirability and power. And that if he lashed out, the people would remember you were different from him.

Your husband watches the fabric pool around your knees with narrowed, considering eyes.

Then, without warning, he lifts one leg and drops it squarely across your lap.

Mud flakes from the steel sabaton instantly, dark streaks smearing across the precious silk and mucking up the golden embroidery. The weight of his limb nearly forces your knees apart with its sudden pressure, and you choke back a noise of dismay.

Aerion says nothing.He merely leans back deeper into the chair, one pale hand resting against the armrest as he watches you beneath his lowered, white lashes.

You feel it rise despite yourself , that sharp pulse of upset at the sight of your ruined skirts, at the casual insult of it, at how deliberately he’d done it just to hurt you. Your fingers tighten once around the fastening of his greave before you force them loose again and carefully smooth your expression flat, but you hadn’t been fast enough to hide your feelings.

A faint smile ghosts across Aerion’s bruised mouth. “There,” he murmurs softly. “I knew my viper had some venom in her.”

Heat prickles behind your ribs. You lower your eyes before he can read too much in them and reach for the leather straps buckled behind his calf. The steel is still cold from the night air despite the roaring hearth, muddied along the edges where his horse must have kicked through the lists.

Above you, Aerion shifts slightly in his chair, studying you with open fascination now, as though your restraint was something entertaining.

“You hide your thoughts well,” he muses. “But I’m not stupid. You’re just like those hedge born wretches out there, thinking the same thoughts.”

God, how you wished that was true. In reality, your feelings were more complicated and more humiliating. You hated Aerion, and you feared him. But he was beautiful, intelligent, and when he interacted with you in public, he was courteous and attentive- if only to see the approving glances of his grandfather and the crown prince. And, he was your only hope, only link to Dorne.

“Youve not spent enough time with me to know what I think” you retort quietly.

“I don’t have to. You’re simple.”

“If that’s the case, then why did I come to your quarters and disobey your orders to do so?”

“You want something from me.”

You bit at the inside of your cheek, feeling frustrated nerves twist and maul at your stomach.

He tilts his head, and you don’t have to look at him to know he was smiling again. It changed his voice, as you set his armour down on the floor and moved to his other leg. “What is it?”

“I wanted to go back to Dorne, to visit my family.” You mutter.

Aerion’s expression doesn’t change immediately.

The fire snaps softly between you both. Somewhere deeper within the castle, a door slams, muffled by the thick stone walls. Then he gives a low hum through his nose, leaning further back into the chair.

“So that’s what this is.” His voice turns almost lazy again, sharpened by amusement. “That was your scheme. No loyalty, or concern for your husband’s injuries then? I can’t say I’m surprised. ”

You keep your attention fixed upon the second greave, fingers working carefully at the muddied buckles. “I..was concerned.”

“Yes, I’m sure you were.” He says it pleasantly enough to sting you.

The final fastening comes loose beneath your fingers. You ease the heavy black steel from his leg and set it beside the first piece of armour with a muted clang against the floorboards, and Aerion watches you the entire time.

“You miss it terribly, don’t you?” he murmurs. “The heat. The little orange trees. sprawling across cushions half-dressed, while old men compose songs about which sister warmed which bedchamber.”

You glance up sharply before you can stop yourself, something beginning to bubble up in your chest. “You’ve never been to Sunspear,” you say carefully.

“No,” Aerion replies. “But the realm hears enough stories, I think.”

His mouth curves faintly.

“Dornishwomen are famously charitable with their affections, aren’t they?”

“Some are. If they like their man.” You said pointedly, instantly gulping back your building ire. He was trying to rile you. Find an excuse to be crueler in turn, or simply make himself feel better after his own humiliation. You couldn’t rise to it.

Aerion laughs. It isn’t loud, nor particularly warm, but genuine amusement flickers across his pale face all the same, his quiet chuckling tickling your ears as it blended with the crackle and pop of the fire. The bruise at the corner of his mouth pulls slightly with it, and his eyes were on the frustrated, downward curl of your lips.

“Adorable . Perhaps I shall send for you more often- my own personal fool.” His words were dismissive and insulting, but he seemed more aware of you after that.

Heat prickles at the back of your neck, and you chew hard at the inside of your cheek again, begging yourself to stay demure. Westeros was so different from Dorne. Back home, you’d never let anyone speak to you in such a manner. You lower your gaze mutely and reach instead for the leather straps fastening his spurs.

The metal jingles softly as you unbuckle them from his boots. They’re finely crafted things, dark steel chased with pale silver dragons whose wings curl around the rowels. They were expensive and beautiful. Needlessly cruel-looking, and in those ways rather like their owner.

Aerion shifts while you work, stretching his legs out further before finally pushing himself upright from the chair. The sudden movement forces you to lean back.

Standing, he seems to consume the room entirely, though he didn’t cut a large shape. It was his presence that had gravity. The firelight catches across the blackened plates of his armour in restless orange streaks, tracing every sharp angle of the black steel and making his white hair glow. Without the chair swallowing his posture, there’s something unmistakably predatory about him again . less a sulking young man and more like Targaryen royalty.

Of course Aerion noticed your hesitation immediately.

“What?” he asks sharply.

“Nothing.” You sigh.

He gives you a clear look of doubt, before rolling his eyes in a way that was quite like his father. Aerion turns slightly then, presenting his side to you with idle expectation. One gauntleted hand rests against the pommel of the dagger still hanging at his hip.

“Undo the pauldron first,” he says.

You rise and step closer despite yourself, glancing down briefly at your ruined skirts. It still upset you.

The heat from both the hearth and his body presses unpleasantly against your skin as your fingers find the fastening beneath the shoulder plate. Up close, the armour smells faintly of horse sweat, leather oil, smoke, and (thanks to the paste in his pomander) ambergris and other warm spices- though he’d removed it for jousting.

The buckle of the shoulder plate proves stubborn, though, and Aerion watches you struggle with it from the corner of his eye, expression sharpening with faint amusement again.

“Are you trembling, little viper?.”

“I-I’m not.”

“You are.”

Your jaw tightens. “The clasp is difficult.”

“No,” he says vindictively. “You’re afraid of me.”

The words land with humiliating precision. Before you can answer, the fastening suddenly gives beneath your fingers. The heavy shoulder plate slips loose and you catch it awkwardly against your chest, just before it could crash to the floor.

Aerion chuffs as he watches you steady yourself beneath the weight of it.

“I think you’ve given everyone ample reason to be wary of you. But I…” you trail off as you set the Pauldron on the floor. If you tried to say you weren’t fearful, Aerion would want to make you afraid.

“I know better than to underestimate you.”

This soothes his ego enough that you can take off his second shoulder piece without any barbed words thrown your way, then his gauntlets, and bracers, before turning your attentions to his breastplate. He was still and pliant as you worked at him. Like a hawk permitting itself to being handled. You’d noticed, though, that he seemed bored once more. For some reason you felt a niggle of insecurity and anger at the thought. Would you ever win? You’d always hoped, foolishly, that there’d be some way into his good graces. You knew now that it was a stupid idea. He’d never let you go to Dorne, simply because he had the ability to refuse you. He’d never be kind, or gentle, or attentive in private, because he didn’t have to be. The only thing that excited him was mayhem.

The buckles fastening the breastplate sit close against his ribs. To reach them properly, you have to step nearer still, nearly chest to chest with him as your fingers work beneath the edges of steel and leather. The heat from both the fire and his body gathers steadily beneath your skin.

Aerion looks down at you with an odd expression you couldn’t quite place. Though what you could see was out of the corner of your eye. He was staring.

“What?” You snip.

Gingerly, Aerion takes your left hand in his, and lifts it up for inspection. Without his gauntlets he felt too human, his hands warm and calloused from writing and sparring, but still elegant enough for his station.

“What did you do to that knuckle there?” He asks with bemusement, eyeing the blemish.

You glance down at it, feeling heat rise to your cheeks despite yourself, and you shrug. You hadn’t noticed, but it had been bleeding down your finger in brilliant red traces. “I cut it when I knocked at your door.” His lips quirked at the mention of your clumsiness, but his eyes had changed though, somehow bright and dark at the same time as he eyed that small wound.

“What a pretty colour.” He muses to himself, and you seize up when he suddenly bowed his head, enough to take your digit into the heat of his mouth, for his tongue to swirl around it and lick up the pearls of blood dripping off of your skin. He stared right up at you with icy eyes, hard and challenging and glinting. And his tongue..

It felt like a snake rasping itself against you. you jerk back and let a noise of disgust finally slip past your lips, your resolve finally gone. Eight months of being overlooked and disdained by everyone around you. Eight months of humiliation and incessant poking by your husband as he waited for you to blow up, or crumble and grovel for him. You just couldn’t, not anymore.

“Enough!” You angrily shriek, clutching your hand. “W-you win! Is that what you want? I’m a pathetic whore that hates you and you’re a vicious bastard that hates me! I cannot pretend to tolerate you!”

Aerion goes very still. The crackling hearth fills the silence left behind by your outburst, sharp little snaps of sound ricocheting through the chamber. Your own breathing felt too loud suddenly, ragged and hot in your throat.

He begins to advance with a sudden purpose in his stride, and for one terrible moment, you think he might strike you. His pale eyes remain fixed upon your face, unblinking and strange. The faint smear of your blood still glistened wetly at the corner of his mouth, stark against the bruised pink of his lips. You watch his throat move once as he swallows slowly, and instinct immediately drives you backwards, but the backs of your legs strike against the edge of the bed before you can properly retreat. The carved bedframe digs unpleasantly into your thighs.

“You tear me in two, you know.” He says, tilting his head down at you as he keeps you stuck between him and the bed. He seemed brightly alive in that moment. “You’re far too pretty to be what you are. I almost enjoyed our bedding ceremony. If only you became round with our babe I'd never have to see you again.”

You swallow thickly, and when he reaches out to grasp your waist, you swat his hand away with a quick smack, but this only excites him further, and he crowds you till your breasts graze his chest , while his fingers claw at the laces of your bodice.

“I rile you do I?” You rasp. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me. The mighty dragon is scared to confront the fact that he’s the same as any other man.”

Aerion doesn’t reply, and all of a sudden his mouth is crashing against yours in a fierce kiss, yanking at your laces to gather you closer, the sound of fabric rustling hasty and charged. You taste the coppery tang of your blood on his tongue, and His loose chest plate thuds against your torso. one of his hands cups your neck, the rough pad of his thumb grazing your jaw. You’re stiff with surprise for a second, unable to think with the heat of his mouth on you.

“I’ll shut you up” he murmurs against your lips, biting down hard on the tender flesh so you whimper. “You wish I was unremarkable, but I know you want me too”.

At his words you come back to yourself, grasping the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck and yanking. Aerion lets out a soft groan, watching you darkly. “I hate you” you spit.

—-

“Go on, tell me how much you hate me again. Tell me.” Your husband demands. Though this time, the tone is very different. It’s shaky, and breathy, and almost desperate.

He has your face mashed against his pretty coverlet, right arm hooked around your neck as his left bracketed your torso underneath him. You could feel him everywhere- his lips on the shell of your ear, his hot breath washing down the line of your neck, the flexing of his soft, flat abdomen against your back and his cock spearing your insides, slamming into you hard again and again without pause or reprieve. You’d been prone like this for so long that your mind had floated away from you.

For a second you tried to speak, but it was hoarse babble. “I- I…nnhate you. I hate you! I hate you!” You cry, almost bellowing out of anger, arching underneath him despite yourself. The sloppy sounds of your flesh meeting was so obscenely loud- if anyone walked by his solar, there’d be no hiding what was happening.

“That’s right” Aerion croons, hooking his feet over your ankles and forcing you to spread open even more. The stretch of him burned so brightly, though he’d given you his fingers first, his tip carving itself into your inner walls.

The smell of apples, cloves, and cinnamon had flooded your nose, from where his forearm pushes the pomander ball you wore right into your throat, putting a hard and heady pressure on your windpipe.

“Even so. You’re going to take all my seed like the filthy whore you are, hm? This time, don’t waste it.”

you swallow back the drool building up in your throat, shuddering out a moan. He lit such a furious fire in you, that you almost believed he was a dragon too. The anger, the pleasure, the hurt and the want- it was far too much and somehow not enough.

When his mouth latches onto the flesh beneath your ear and bites, hard, you buck back against his pistoning hips with a keen. “Aerion!”

“Fuck” he seethes, and you can feel him pulse in you. You know it’s not long till he finishes, and you’re desperate to fall over that edge too, a knot of warm pleasure tightening up in the base of your belly. But would he let you? The man must’ve felt this desire, somehow.

“You want to cum? I won’t permit it. I take pleasure from you. -..won’t submit, I won’t give you anything” he rambled, tightening his hold on your throat.

“You’re mine, you hear? A toy. Nothing more.”

You writhed in frustration, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I’ll kill you!” You rasp, gaze rolling helplessly as his thrusts get sharper, his pubic bone jutting down viciously against the sappy folds of your cunt.

He lets out a rougher noise then, something husky and dark, and it’s so animal that it makes you clench unthinkingly. It was enough to push him over the edge.

Only when Aerion came was he finally, completely silent, hips stuttering once, then twice, before the stuffs you full- the hot spurts of his seed painting your insides pale and trickling down to smudge the tops of your thighs. You tilt your head just in time to see his expression- the elegant planes of his face were pink and pinched tight with his pleasure, and with his eyes closed and lips parted, he looked so beautiful. A flutter of something you didn’t dare to name stirred in your stomach, and you blink wearily with a keening sort of disappointment , your own hopes of orgasming torn away from you.

It’s only when you shift, attempting to ease the ache in your legs, do his eyes snap open. At that the moment of peace abd one sided bliss is lost. He sits up and back on his haunches, before he pulls out of you without ceremony.

“You can make yourself scarce now.” Aerion curtly declares, stretching the lilly white arch of his neck and rubbing it absently. “But I want you back here tomorrow by evenfall.”

…