jester.

SOUR WINE, SWEET TORMENT

(PT 1.)

Dark!Daeron Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary :A frantic carriage ride through the night and a dark obsession that cannot be reasoned with. Trapped inside a rattling wooden box with a feverish, wine/soaked prince, you realize he is no longer fighting his nightmares, he has bacome them.

WC:3.6K

ADULT CONTENT NOTICE: This is a heavy, yandere-themed work with strict age restrictions. Minors are not permitted to read. Please check the content warnings below before continuing.

WARNINGS: Dark Romance, Toxic Obsessive Behaviour, Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sexual Content/Degradation, Toxic Comfort, Anguish, Forced Affection.

129 AC

The young prince looked down into the cup held tight between his hands. His fingers, rough and calloused from the harsh bite of sword-hilt and rein, softly traced the chased silver of the stem. Within the chalice lay the Arbor Gold, catching the dim candle-light of the hall. He stared into the amber depths of the sweet wine, his eyes fixed upon the swirling reflection as if it held some priceless treasure known only to him. A heavy silence hung over him, a stillness so deep it felt like the moments before a strike. He was a man upon a hunt, tracking a beast through a dark forest, reaching out into the shadows for something that remained just beyond his grasp.

He was thinking of a lullaby. A wench. A melody that belonged to a woman’s voice. soft as velvet, yet laced with a honeyed, seductive pull that tugged at the very core of him. It was a voice calling him home, calling him into the dark. It was a voice driving him mad, preventing him from sleeping at night. A voice that rose even louder in his head when he drank so much wine he felt fit to vomit. Magnificent. he would think. So magnificent that he would touch himself desperately in the dark. For years, it had remained the only prophecy in his dragon dreams that refused to come to pass. A phantom promise.

No. he thought, his jaw tightening as he stared into the wine. It will happen. The old gods or the new, or whatever cruel powers wove the strings of fate, would not deny him this. He waited, a restless hunger gnawing at his ribs, counting the agonizing bleed of days until the dream finally became flesh.

An uncontrollable, beastly urge seized him then, clawing its way from his gut to his throat. He could not sit still; he could not bear the silence. Highborn ladies of the court or common serving girls scrubbing the hearth it mattered naught to him. He was in no state to weigh birth or blood. Sometimes he would think, he would think until his head throbbed with a violence that threatened to shatter his very skull; he would trying to picture you in his mind. While standing amidst the gloomy walls of the Great Council, where the realm expected him to perform his royal duties, he would find himself dreaming of you. Even in the dim corners of low taverns, as he hid from the clamor of the crowd and sought refuge in his cup, his mind belonged to none but you. He felt a longing for a woman he had never known, a yearning both fierce and passionate.

He cornered them in the dim corridors, commanding each one to speak, demanding a word, a sentence, anything. “Speak.” his voice would command, sharp as Valyrian steel. He was a starving dragon, unable to find his prey. Yet the moment their lips parted and the sound spilled forth, a profound revulsion would wash over his features. It was as if he had looked upon some foul, misshapen creature instead of a woman. A bitter disappointment tasted like ash in his mouth, but he masked it behind a mask of cold royal disdain. "Begone," he would spit, dismissing them with a harsh flick of his wrist before they could see how deeply the wrong voice cut him.

In Oldtown, he leaned heavily against the latch of a door in one of the narrow, fog-choked alleys, collapsing into a wretched tavern. He was trapped in the very heart of a dragon dream he could never fathom,,,breathing it, living it, feeling the raw truth of it. Dead drunk and spent, his hand could no longer hold the weight of the heavy wine bottle. He groaned in sheer agony, murmuring the melody that constricted his very soul, savoring the taste of the words. It was a pleasure no wine, no, nothing in the Seven Kingdoms could ever give him. Of course, none dared open their mouths to a prince of the dragon’s blood; in the dark, narrow streets, the royal guards watched their prince with anxious eyes, poised to intervene at a moment's notice.

Suddenly, slender and delicate fingers wrapped around the prince’s arm. Daeron spun around as if struck by lightning, his vision blurred and hazy with drink. though he could not see her clearly. “Y-your Grace… you come here often,” she whispered. “My father makes this wine. If it pleases you—sha-“

The young prince jolted awake, nearly sober in an instant. His eyes locked directly onto the woman before him, his lips trembling. He felt trapped in the twilight between wakefulness and shadow, a blur where reality bled into his fevered dreams. It was enough to drive a man mad. All at once, his entire body felt ablaze; a sudden knot formed in his gut, as if he were falling into a great void, as if every bone in his body had been shattered. He hovered on the edge of a laugh, resembling a lion poised to strike. His bloodshot eyes turned nigh on pitch-black.

A few tears slipped softly and stealthily down his cheeks. For a fleeting heartbeat, he could scarce believe it, yet the truth struck him with absolute certainty. It was her. the woman he had sought so blindly, the one for whom he would have brought himself to beg, heedless of all pride and reason. The very object of his desire stood right before him. So beautiful it was, so intoxicating, the drunken prince thought. Yet he was entirely master of his mind; he knew with absolute certainty that it was not the dregs of the wine making his senses reel, but the exquisite sight of her right before him. She stunned for a moment, she was struggling to make sense of the sight before him. “What have I done?” She thought, horror seizing her chest. The man standing before her,,,,,the prince, looked utterly broken, shattered into pieces by a grief and madness she could not begin to fathom. “They will have my head for this.” she thought, panic gripping her chest. realizing the sheer audacity of grasping the arm of royalty, she sought to pull away, but this time it was Daeron who would not permit it.

“I did not wish to trouble you,” you murmured, your voice dropping lower, thick with adrenaline, Your lips went bone-dry in an instant, and you found you could not swallow, the breath catching tight in your throat. “but I found no other opportunity. Forgive me, please.”

He stared at the hand you had tried to pull away, then lunged forward, catching your arm in a grip so tight it bruised. “No, no… I want to hear it again. Speak,” he commanded, as if desperate to be certain, his voice was so venomous, so utterly full of desire, Yet he came so close to falling to his knees before you. —that you wished you could simply wither away into nothingness his voice shattering the silence of the night, nigh on a shout.

“I-I am sorry, I only wished to take your counsel—” you pleaded, utterly lost, not knowing what else to do.

A beastly, ragged laugh tore from Daeron’s throat. “Ah… I knew you would come to me. It was you,” he muttered. Both of his hands clamped around your wrists, squeezing as if to prove to himself that you were flesh and bone, that you truly existed. “What manner of vile witch are you?” he snarled, his eyes wild. “Did you cast a spell on me, you little whore?”

His breath, sour with wine and sharp with spice, fanned across your face. You could fathom none of it. Your only intent had been to earn a few more golds for your father's wine. Your eyes welled with tears, blurring the terrifying sight of the prince before you. Trying to mask your terror beneath a fragile smile, you faltered, “Your Grace. I shall never cross your path again. Let me go—”

Another loud, roaring laugh burst from Daeron's lips, as though he were trying to savor the very taste of every single word you uttered. He was savoring the very taste of your voice. fragile thing she was, and full of fear—scarce like the vibrant, living echo that had haunted his slumbers. Yet he knew, with a certainty that burned in his bones, that it was her. A dragon was never mistaken. Beneath the radiating, unnatural heat of his Targaryen blood, your body began to tremble all the harder.

His breath, sour with wine and sharp with spice, fanned across your face. You knew not what to do; you had to return, and swiftly. Where this sudden courage had sprung from, you could not fathom. Your mind spun as you scrambled to untangle his words. Daeron drowned in the frightened depths of your gaze, tracing the lines of your face, intuitively searching your features for an answer.

"You are inside a dragon dream," he rasped, his voice thick with a dark, unmasked malice. "Fate brought you here. You belong to me. You will pay the price for the torment you have inflicted upon me all this time. Have you any notion of how long I have sought you?"

A muscle twitched beneath his eye—the look of a child who had finally reclaimed a lost toy but his gaze burned with the fires of the abyss. There was no drunkard left in his countenance, only a grim seriousness that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. Strands of brown hair clung to his sweat-sheened skin. The heavy, spiced reek of his breath made your stomach turn.

Without waiting for a reply, Daeron released one of your wrists only to snare your waist in a vice-like grip, hauling your frame flush against his own. What had become of the staggering creature from mere moments before?

"Your Grace, you mistake me for another, I beg of you... have mercy" you pleaded, straining against his hold. Your voice shook, a fragile, broken sound, and he relished the very tremor of it. He looked upon you with a dark, heavy hunger, his eyes wandering across your face, tracing the curve of your cheek and the line of your brow as if marking every lineament of his prize. But his grasp was unyielding, rendering escape a stark impossibility. "I have done you no wrong! I swear it, this is the very first I have laid eyes upon you!" The words tore from your throat, frail and trembling. You dared not lift your gaze to his face. To meet those burning eyes was to stare into a dragon’s maw, a dark abyss that threatened to swallow you whole. Yet his iron grip forced your feet onward, dragging you stumbling over the damp, uneven cobblestones. With every relentless step, the warm, lantern-lit sanctuary of the tavern receded deeper into the winding alleyway, swallowed by the creeping shadows of the city until it vanished from sight completely.

The thought of your father pierced your chest like cold steel -the sheer, ruinous weight of the mistake you had made. Yet there was no halting, no turning back. You were driven forward, steps forced by the grim reality that marched just paces behind you. At the prince’s unspoken command, two White Swords followed in your shadow, their heavy white cloaks catching the faint moonlight, their armor clanking with a terrifying, rhythmic finality.

You parted your lips to speak, to reason with him, but the words withered in your throat as he cut you down with a single, chilling truth. "This beauty shall exist for me, and me alone” he murmured, his voice as unyielding as Valyrian steel.

A cold dread settled deep in your belly. Your mind raced backward, grasping at straws, desperately searching for some forgotten sin. What have I done? you thought, panic fluttering like a trapped bird beneath your ribs. What could I have possibly done to make a man who has never before laid eyes upon me crave me with such terrifying, ruinous hunger?

While you drowned in your own thoughts, a horse-drawn carriage loomed out of the darkness ahead. The prince shoved you forward, his hand heavy against your hip to force you inside. Your foot caught on the high wooden step and you stumbled, but before you could fall, his fingers found your thigh, gripping your leg with iron strength to hoist you into the cabin, His fingers trailed over your skin in a soft, mocking caress. The sheer, dizzying speed of the prince’s changing moods left your mind reeling. Only moments before, he had spat words coated in venom and malice; now, a tender, loving smile graced his lips, and he gazed upon you as if you were the only thing in all the Seven Kingdoms truly worthy of sight.

The transformation filled you with a deeper, more profound horror.

Your fingers knotted tightly into the fabric of your skirt, pulling your limbs inward, trying desperately to occupy less space, to shrink away from the massive shadow he cast. But there was no escaping him. Daeron slithered across the velvet bench, closing the distance between you until you were pinned like a cornered beast. He looked down at you, his features warped by a quiet triumph whose meaning escaped you entirely.

For a long, agonizing spell, a heavy silence settled within the carriage. There was nothing to be heard but the distant, muffled clamor of the city outside and the thick, ragged rhythm of the prince's breathing. He reached out, He was manhandling you, his fingers digging like iron claws into your flesh as if he meant to bruise you, to bite and devour you whole. He had no mind to master the burning, savage beast that raged inside his chest; he let it run wild. To watch you flinch, to see you thrash like a caged bird beneath his heavy shadow, to hear the soft, broken cries tear from your throat,,it had driven him past the brink of all madness. his hand surprisingly steady as he brushed the tangled strands of hair away from your neck, exposing the pale, flawless expanse of your skin. It was already flushed pink from the biting night air. His thumb traced the delicate hollow between your collarbone and your neck, a slow, lingering stroke. A violent shiver racked your spine. You closed your eyes, a single, desperate prayer echoing in your chest over and over again you only wanted to go home. He meant to map you, to claim every inch of your flesh with his eyes alone, devouring you with a slow, agonizing scrutiny. A fierce hunger burned beneath his gaze, raw and barely contained, as if he were a starving man holding himself back from a feast by a single, fraying thread of will.

A thousand possibilities raced through his fevered mind, each one more chaotic than the last. He seemed to be sorting through his memories, replaying every dragon dream he had ever suffered those restless nights where he had never seen your face, but had only ever heard the phantom echo of your voice.

He moved closer still, his breath a searing brand against your skin, before he pressed a tiny, fleeting kiss just behind your ear. It was as light as a moth’s wing. “Could you weave a slumber song?" He asked softly, almost hungrily.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight as stone. "No, Your Grace. I... I do not know how."

His gaze drifted downward to your throat. Your pulse was fluttering so violently, so loudly, you fancied the sound of it filled the entire carriage. His eyes followed your lips, finding the soft expanse of your neck while his hand cupped the back of your head, pinning you in place. Your hands found his shoulders of their own accord, a desperate urge rising within you to push him away, yet your body refused to obey, frozen by fear or perhaps by a sudden, fierce rush of excitement. Never in your life had you been this close to a man. He paused for a second, his eyes closed, his nose brushing against your delicate skin. You wanted to flinch, your entire body twitching as he inhaled your scent, utterly losing himself in the dark emotions that consumed him. The unnatural, radiating heat of his Targaryen blood burned through his fine linen, pressing against you like a localized sun. When his mouth found your skin, it wasn't just the touch of a man—it was the scorching, feverish brand of the dragon lords themselves. His breath fanned across your collarbone, so intensely hot it felt as though it might blister your flesh, a silent testament to the ancient, terrible fire that coursed through his veins. He began to bite, wet and sweet, his teeth grazing your flesh until it burned. The sudden, blistering heat of his breath sent a sharp, unexpected ache straight between your thighs. You wanted to slide your hand between your legs, but you couldn't.

"Do not lie to me” he rasped against your skin. "How else did you mean to snare me?"

"Your Grace—I truly do not understand what you—"

Before you could finish, his other hand tangled deep into your hair. He gripped the strands tight, twisting with enough brutal force to make your scalp sting, and yanked your head back to look him in the eyes.

As the carriage lurched violently over a stone, he leaned forward, closing the tight space between the velvet benches until the air grew suffocatingly thin. His voice drifted out, cutting through the steady, maddening rattle of the wooden walls.

"Cease your whimpering” he muttered, his fingers trailing idly along the cold leather strap of the window-blind. The chaotic fire of the dragonlords danced behind his blood-tinged gaze. "For years, you dreamed of this. To be with me, to share these shadows... Why do you tremble now?"

The carriage swayed again, throwing your shadow against his, but he only reached out. His fingers gripped your chin with a sudden, bruising finality, forcing your face up to meet his crimson stare. His smile only deepened, dark and triumphant against the backdrop of the thundering hooves outside.

"Tell me... who in the Seven Kingdoms is going to take you from my hand now? What knight would dare ride us down? What king would draw steel against me on the Kingsroad? You belong to the dream now. And from this dream, there is no waking."

your fingers brushing against his hand to pry it from your hair. Your skin met his palm, palm was dry, rough, and calloused from the reins, a harsh contrast to the silken Targaryen blood he claimed.

"You're hurting me” you breathed, the words barely carrying over the rattling of the wooden walls.

A sudden shift broke through his manic glaze. A flicker of raw awareness washed over his features, washing away the terrible joy that had gripped him just a moment before. His brow furrowed deeply, as if a new, sharp truth had suddenly pierced through the fog of his mind, leaving a faint, troubled crease across his forehead. For a heartbeat, the terrifying prince vanished, leaving only a man startled by his own cruelty.

He stared down at you, his thumb relaxing against your cheek, though he did not pull his hand away entirely. The faint crease on his forehead deepened, the anger fading into something far more dangerous,,,,,a desperate, aching obsession that made his bloodshot eyes burn with a different kind of fever. The rattle of the carriage seemed to fade beneath the sudden, heavy weight of his words.

“You tormented me with your beauty.” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, dropping to a low, raw cadence that felt almost like a prayer. "With your melodies... those songs I have begged the Gods to let me hear just once more in my sleepless nights. Do not dare tell me you did not want this.” He leaned a fraction closer, his breath warm against your skin, searching your face for any sign of the devotion he believed you shared. "Do not look at me with those frightened eyes and pretend this was not the end you always sought."

The rough leather of the carriage seat bit into your back as his mouth found your cheek, leaving a wet, burning press of skin before he suddenly buried his face into the hollow of your collarbone. His tongue traced the long, delicate ridge of the bone, a slow and maddening touch that turned your stomach into a knot of pure nausea. Warm tears slipped unbidden from your eyes, blurring the flickering shadows of the carriage, but he did not notice or perhaps, he simply did not care. He slid his hand along your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh between his fingers. An unbearable growl escaped his throat. The drunken prince bit his lip ;

but this time, it was not from the wine he thought to himself, that it was the drunkenness of love.

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x fem!reader

Authors note: I have no idea how Ser Gwayne Hightower managed to crawl under my skin by appearing for a few seconds on screen but here I am writing for the sad noble knight as if my life depended on it.

Warnings: SMUT 18+

Word Count: 5,8 K

Summary: a wounded knight, a healer's hut, and a love neither of them can afford

Dividers by @cafekitsune

The rain had come and gone three times that day. The forest smelled of wet earth and pine, and the cool air had made goosebumps rise along your arms. You shivered and gripped tighter your woven basket half-filled with mushrooms and wild herbs. 

Most villagers avoided the forest even during the day, and every child knew the stories about spirits wandering beneath the trees once the light faded.

You knew better. The woods held wolves, thieves, and men. Those were the real danger. 

The shadows were getting longer, you had to get home  before darkness settled in.

It was when a distant sound reached you through the trees – a groan, low but unmistakably human.

THE SHADOW OF THE

BROKEN SPEAR

Dark Valarr Targaryen x (Baelor’s) Baseborn Daughter

WC:6.2k

WARNINGS: Dark Romance, Toxic Obsessive Behaviour, Incest (Half-siblings), Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sexual Content/Degradation, Toxic Comfort, Anguish, Forced Affection, Angst.

ADULT CONTENT NOTICE: This is a heavy, yandere-themed work with strict age restrictions. Minors are not permitted to read. Please check the content warnings below before continuing.

SUMMARY: When the silence of the chamber, steeped in her father’s memories, shatters at midnight, the thin line between loathing and obsessive love bleeds away entirely. The rustle of silks melts into the ancient Valyrian fire burning within his mismatched eyes.

AN: This is a purely fictional piece of creative writing, intended strictly for mature entertainment and dark fantasy exploration; the author does not condone or romanticize any of the toxic or non-consensual behaviors depicted within this work. It was inspired by Prince Valarr Targaryen, taking a darker twist on the lore established in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire lore. Please read with caution and personal responsibility. Please do not copy my work.

And also, English is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes!! your comments and likes are greatly appreciated! Enjoy! 🖤

The sun was shining high above you over the rose-filled gardens of Summerhall, yet you could see nothing but darkness.

There you sat, perched upon a heavy, high-backed chair of dark oak, its armrests intricately carved with silver vines that bit into your palms. You may sleep in silk and dine from silver, yet the truth remains stark. You were a bastard of the blood royal, born on the wrong side of the sheets. This truth brought you bitter pain everytime you think,—to be the poisoned fruit of a forbidden love meant that the venom would, sooner or later, seep out. And that, no man could stay. Your purple eyes were fixed on the horizon, your thoughts entirely consumed by the towering shadow of your father—Prince Baelor, the Great Varis, the only man who had ever looked at you with a gentle gaze.

You were waiting. Waiting for a raven, a sealed parchment, a letter. a single word from him to you. A sigil of a royal house. Your father’s sigil. The three-headed Targaryen dragon, quartered with the sun and spear of House Martell.

But the letter you so desperately starved for would never come.

Across the realm, in the muddy, blood-soaked sands of Ashford, the realm’s ultimate justice had turned into a slaughter. Prince Baelor Break-spear was now, dead. his skull shattered in a Trial of Seven, his noble life snuffed out before he could ever send for his bastard daughter. And back in the gardens of Summerhall, the roses kept blooming, completely unaware that the shadow of the dragon was about to grow infinitely darker.

Instead, another letter arrived, one that shocked you deeply and almost kept you from mourning. A letter had come from your half-brother—the new heir to the throne.

In truth, it hadn’t always been this way. Once, you were in the Red Keep, right by your father's side. But of course, it didn't last very long. Memories of Valarr clouded your mind.

You were drawing the brush through your hair before the looking glass, slow and rhythmic. By rights, a maid of such tender years should have been dreaming of sweetmeats, of walking the bustling streets of Westeros with her septa, or running her fingers through the glossy mane of the courser Ser Raylon had readied in the stables by your royal father’s command. Yet, your mind held no room for such childish whims; it belonged solely to Valarr. Day in and day out, he flung your bastardy into your face like dirt. You did your best to avoid him, keeping mostly to the confines of your chambers. You possessed a sharp wit, far beyond your years, and it was that clever tongue alone that stayed his hand from worse cruelty.

Crushed beneath the suffocating weight of those thoughts, it was the sudden, breathless clutch of hands that dragged your soul from the drowning fires. A sudden tremor racked your bones, cold as if you had been flung naked into the shivering depths of the Sunset Sea. The comb slipped from numbed fingers, clattering uselessly against the floorboards. You could not turn; your very wit froze to ice within your skull. You know who it was. You knew it then, as surely as a hound knows winter. There was no mistaking that sharp, woody scent of his skin, nor the sour tang of spiced Arbor wine that clung to his breath like a shroud.

He tangled his long, heavy fingers into your hair, shoving you forward until his thigh pressed hard against your hip. As if he had been waiting for this very moment, he forced your face down toward the roaring, red fury of the fire. In terror, your hands clawed at his arms, struggling, your entire body trembling violently—but it was no use. He was far larger, far stronger, his massive frame trapping you from behind until you could see nothing but the hungry flame, He took a cruel pleasure in your thrashing. A low, mocking purr escaped his lips as he leaned in close to your ear. ”If you truly possess the blood of the dragon, you will not burn,” Valarr whispered, his voice laced with venom. “But we both know what you are.” You are darkness—a wretched, mistaken common blood, You belong wherever I choose to cast you. Do you truly believe my father will save a baseborn whelp like you? You are less than nothing—a stain upon his name. You will hide in the shadows for the rest of your life; that is all you are fit for.”

“My prince, p-please,” was all you could choke out, your throat tight with a suffocating knot. Silently, you begged for your handmaiden to walk through the door, your eyes spilling scalding tears that ran beneath his fingers and soaked into your gown. He paused for a moment. His gaze searched the sharp lines of your face before his thumb slid from your hair down to the soft curve of your jaw, brushing it with a touch so gentle it was terrifying. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice was a low, dark promise.

“You may weep,” he whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear, “but those tears belong to me. You will shed them only for me.” It was as if he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. 'No no, It was as if he had been prepared for this very scene. I cannot resist you,' he breathed…his eyes blending with the light of the fire. You could not fathom which was hotter—and the very thought burned you, too.

Yet, there were times he would do things that truly startled you. Another memory surfaced in your mind. For he claimed to hate you, yet he still brought you these hidden wonders. He would wander through the shadowed gardens of King’s Landing, his eyes tracking your every move, tracing the path you walked. Now and again, he would emerge from the greenery like a ghost, a single rose held between his long, noble fingers.

“This is for you,” he would murmur, his voice as smooth and dark as Valyrian silk.

He would brush the soft petals against the tip of your nose and across your lips before pressing the stem into your hand.

His unpredictability was a beautiful terror, keeping your heart trapped in a cage of sweet anticipation. But his gaze followed you even where the sun could not reach. Upon returning to your chambers in the dead of night, you would find those very same roses—resting on the edge of your bed, or left upon your wooden desk, their petals bleeding into the candlelight. Sometimes, such things would happen; he would bring you jewels and silks from across the realms—but only until he played with you like a dornish puppetters.

Of course you also remembered his hand in sending you here; how could you forget it? it had filled your heart with a cold fire. He had orchestrated it all himself, using your own father to keep you writhing. No matter what you did, you had failed to convince your father. Valarr moved like a shadow through your world, slipping into your most private sanctuary while you slept, leaving behind a fragrant, crimson reminder that you were entirely, utterly surrounded by him.

“My father loves his honor, and because he loves his honor, he fancies that he loves you. But dear Uncle Maekar’s sons are whispering in the shadows. Aerion looks at you and sees a common whore to use; Daeron sees a stain to be wiped clean. I told my father that the Red Keep is no longer safe for a baseborn girl. I told him that your presence here breeds nothing but strife among the princes.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. No.

He wept, “you know,” Valarr continued, his purr filling the quiet room like poison. “Gods be good, they know how noble my Father is. He wants to keep his precious little mistake safe from his brothers' wrath. So, when the decree comes tomorrow, do not weep to him. It was by his own hand, by his own seal, that you are being sent away to Summerhall. He thinks he is saving you from the wolves.”

Valarr took a step closer to the door, his hand resting on the iron latch.

“But there are no wolves in Summerhall,” he whispered, plunging the room into a cold, dead silence. “Only me. I am the one who built that for you, and I am the one who will hold your love. Sleep well, my sweet. Your exile begins at dawn.”

You remembered it as if it were yesterday. You did not know how long he had labored over this plan; in truth, it mattered little whether you knew or not, for he obtained everything he desired from you anyway.

As you took your first steps into King’s Landing for your father’s funeral, a strange coldness washed over you. It had been so long since you last walked these grounds. You desperately wished to avoid the gaze of the other nobles; you knew their whispers would trap you in a cage of the mind, never letting you free. You were here only to honor your father’s memory and to see Valarr—the heir to the throne, the very man who had summoned you back.

Why you longed to see him was a mystery even to yourself. Though he had ruined your soul, you knew that with your father gone, Valarr would be the only one left to protect you. It was a twisted truth to bear, for in reality, he was the one who had sent you away in the first place, using your own father to do it.

Naturally, the first place you sought was your own chambers. No matter how much you had steeled your heart, the moment you crossed the threshold, you broke. Your tears flowed like a torrential river. Everything remained untouched, exactly as you had left it. It was not even dusty—a strange detail that made it feel as though you had only been gone for a fleeting moment. The fabric of your blue skirt brushed against the heavy carpet, creating a sharp contrast in the quiet room. Outside, birds chirped their hollow songs as the sun began its slow descent, bleeding gold across the sky.

As you approached your desk, you saw it: a single rose. The irony of it was so sharp that a bitter laugh nearly tore through your sobs. Gently, as if terrified of bruising it, you took the stem between your fingers and breathed in the scent of the soft petals. It had been freshly plucked; it was still alive. But just as the memories threatened to consume you, the door burst open—unannounced and sudden.

In strode the Crown Prince. His dark brown hair fell across his brow, save for that unmistakable, gleaming Targaryen streak. He closed the distance between you in two long strides. It had been so long. You could not speak; you offered no curtsy, nor did you utter his name. You merely stood frozen, staring at him, your heart heavy with your father's grief. To the realm, Valarr wore the flawless mask of the noble, mourning prince. Yet the very instant he was alone with you, that mask shattered—as it always did.

His fingers found your cheek, and your skin shuddered at the touch, forcing your eyes to close. He looked down at you with a strange reverence, his expression utterly unreadable. You still could not fathom why he had summoned you here himself. "It has been a long time," he murmured, his gaze scanning every line of your face, tracing every change. Suddenly, fueled by a burst of reckless courage you did not know you possessed, you asked, "Why did you summon me? It was you who sent me away, so why am I here now?" You were no longer a child, after all.

"First, I willed you to leave; now, I will you to return."

“My father died for nothing, for some hedge knight.” He Said, his voice turning mocking, repulsive. "And you are all that remains—carrying that infuriating goodness of his."

Yet, his words could ever replicate the lie. He had missed you fiercely, more than his proud tongue would ever admit. In the arms of the other women he bedded, it was your face he conjured in his mind; it was your likeness he craved. Yet, none of them could ever replicate the piercing storm that raged within your violet eyes—that fierce, defensive fire. The haunting sorrow etched upon your face in that moment was a prize worth conquering all Seven Kingdoms just to possess.

His hands traveled up to your slender neck. Tilting his head slightly, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Once, he used to grip you cruelly by that very hair; yet now, in twisted contrast, he was so terribly gentle. His nostrils flared slightly as he drew in the scent of your skin. You pulled back just an inch, wanting to declare that you were only here for your father, but his presence already held you captive. Oh... how you had missed drowning in those colored eyes. No matter how desperately you tried to deny it to yourself, this was the absolute, undeniable truth.

His grip tightened around your wrists until it bruised, but then the expression on his face shifted instantly. He grimaced, releasing his hold as if burned. In urgent haste, you widened the distance between you. Rolling his eyes, he strode out of the chambers. Once more, he had shattered your heart,,,yet he had bound your very soul to his…

Days bled into one another, and you seldom ventured outside your chambers, constantly drowning in the shadows of your memories. Your maiden arrived to inform you that the Crown Prince demanded your presence at the feast, and several lords offered to accompany you for a stroll down The Street of the Loom, yet you politely declined them all. You hid behind the safety of excuses—whispering of a sudden illness, claiming you felt unwell, or stating that you merely wished to sleep. Inexplicably, Valarr pursued you no further. He granted you your solitude, yet his presence remained an inescapable ghost within your walls. Every evening, your supper was delivered to your chambers, and beside the silver platter lay a single, freshly plucked rose. It was a silent, intoxicating torture.

It was a wicked, carnal game; he was consuming you from afar, making you crave the very hands that had bruised your wrists, leaving you to drown in the agonizing warmth of his absence.

To escape the suffocating gaze of the other nobles, and most of all, Maekar and his children during your stay in King’s Landing, you resolved to visit the library of the Red Keep just as you used to do in the old days to remain unseen. The very walls of your chambers were closing in on you, and you could bear the confinement no longer.

You possessed not a single fond memory within any corner of this palace. Yet, your feet carried you to that place you knew by heart. Even the Kingsguard looked upon you with hollow eyes, pretending not to recognize your face, and you, in turn, avoided any semblance of dialogue whenever possible. Aerion had cornered you a few times; one did not need much wit to read the dark, twisted lust gleaming in his eyes. Every single time, by some miracle, you managed to escape his grasp—gods be thanked. But however, with Valarr’s eyes constantly upon them, there was little they could do. Sometimes, you would spot Daeron wandering through the gardens in the dead of night from your balcony, and you would quickly step back into the shadows to remain unseen. As for Aegon... the Seven knew where he had vanished to, though whispers echoed through the halls that he had ridden off with that towering, massive hedge knight.

You stood in the library, accompanied only by the rustle of your silks, when you pushed open the heavy door of the library, it groaned on its ancient hinges. As you crossed the threshold, the fresh, woody scent of old parchment and bound leather enveloped you. It was a vast, timeless sanctuary. In truth, within the entire expanse of the Red Keep, you loved this place—and only this place.

You sank into the wide leather chair that still stood exactly where it always had, pulling a random tome from the shelf, and began to read. But the peace was fleeting. The silence of the library shattered as the heavy doors groaned once more. Footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, until a shadow fell over your pages. You looked up to find Valarr standing over you, a wicked, knowing smile playing upon his lips.

"Are you hiding from me, my pretty sister? The Crown Prince summons you to his table, and you dare to not come?” he murmured, his voice a low purr.

my pretty sister... The word struck your mind like a bolt of lightning. Sister. For years, this man had broken you, trapping your body and soul within the cold walls of dishonor and illegitimacy—and now, he claimed you were his own blood. Against the wild turns of his mood, you had no shield left but your tears.

What are you reading?" he asked, as though nothing had transpired between you. He appeared utterly at ease as he slithered into the seat beside you, his leg pressing firmly against yours. Your face flushed, burning hot beneath his proximity. You swallowed hard, whispering the title of the tome: "The Loves of Queen Alysanne."

A derisive, mocking sound escaped Valarr’s throat. "What could you possibly know of love?" he sneered. Then, without warning, his voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. "To whom did you open your legs for in Summerhall?"

The words struck you like a physical blow. You slammed the book shut with a resounding thud, drawing a sharp, ragged breath as you fought with every ounce of your being to hold back your tears. You turned to him, your gaze thick with a mixture of loathing and utter despair. “Of what are you accusing me?" you retorted, harboring a dangerous amount of boldness of late. Yet, he only tilted his head; the back of his hand traced the line of your cheek before he caught your palm in his, squeezing it tight.

"Or did you save yourself for me? How generous of you, my darling.” he murmured, his mismatched eyes now darkened into a singular, abyssal black. Void of all color.

Without a single word, you bolted from your seat, lunging toward the safety of the exit. But in a flash, his hand lashed out, gripping your wrist so violently that you stumbled. He pulled you close enough to feel his breath as he whispered, "I shall come to you tonight."

A jolt of electric terror coursed down your spine. Wrenching your hand free from his grasp, you burst through the heavy doors and fled into the corridor, your chest heaving with emotions you could neither name nor control.

By late afternoon, the stifling boredom had grown so heavy that you decided to steal away for a walk within the sprawling, grand gardens of the Red Keep. Courteously, you declined the company of a few lingering lords and your handmaidens, eager to be left to your own thoughts. As you stepped down the wide, sun-drenched stone stairs that led into the gardens, the heavy silk of your white gown swept the dust beneath your feet, its rich weight clinging to your body. Near the stables, a pair of Kingsguard knights inclined their heads in silent, solemn respect as you passed. It was a strange, almost unbelievable thing for a bastard girl to command such reverence from the court—but then, such was the power of having a father like Baelor Breakspear.

Beyond the stairs, the great gardens of the Red Keep unfurled, a paradise built upon blood and ancient secrets. The gravel path was lined with crushed mint, its heavy fragrance filling the warm air. On either side, pale ivory roses bloomed alongside the deep purple of nightshade, their stalks standing tall like tiny spears. Weathered stone fountains spewed a cool mist into the heat, yet the splashing water could not drown out the distant clinking of mail and the heavy tread of the Gold Cloaks guarding the walls.

Ancient lemon trees leaned heavy against the stone cliffs overlooking the salt-bitter waters of the Blackwater Rush. Their golden fruits gleamed like stolen jewels amidst the dark leaves. You had a fondness for the fruits of this garden, you recalled; your father would ever insist that you be the one to pluck them from the boughs. But whenever the sharp sea wind rustled through the branches, the shadows beneath them only seemed to grow deeper, hiding the secrets of the court. Sometimes, Valarr would seek you out here. Your laughter would fill the garden then, you thought, the memory bittersweet. He would take your hand, stroke them gently, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin. Showering praise upon your violet eyes. It was hard to believe what he had become, hard to look upon your present self and see the ghost of who you used to be. Yet more often, it was your father with whom you walked in here, each step heavy with the weight of it, dragging you down into the ruins of what once was. At the far edge of the greenery, where the great oaks and tangled briars formed a natural wall, the suffocating silence of the Godswood began—a place where the court’s pretty laughter died, and the true, dark games of the castle were played in secret.

Toward the far edge of the grounds, the Godswood loomed a silent, primordial wood keeping the ancient secrets of the old kings. You had read histories detailing just how much blood magic had been wrought within these walls since the dawn of the Targaryen dynasty. The air grew thick and cold, smelling of damp earth and rotting leaves. Overhead, sentinel pines and ancient oaks blocked out the bleeding sky, plunging the wood into a grey twilight. At its heart stood the great heart tree, its bone-white bark gleaming like a corpse in the gloom, its deep-red, weeping eyes staring into the souls of those who dared tread upon its roots. The silence here was absolute, broken only by the caw of a distant raven.

Then, through the suffocating stillness, a low, rhythmic murmur drifted through the trees, like the rumble of distant thunder. Your heart gave a violent thud against your ribs. You knew that voice; you knew it as well as you knew your own name. It was Valarr’s voice, thick and dark, speaking to someone in low, urgent tones. A jolt of adrenaline snapped you back, breaking the spell of the past.

Carefully, your fingers trembling, you gathered the heavy silk of your white skirts, lifting the hem just enough to keep it from rustling against the dead leaves. You pressed your back against the rough, moss-covered bark of a massive oak, slipping into the shadows to hide. A frantic voice inside your head screamed that this was madness, an absolute folly. To spy on anyone in the Red Keep was dangerous, but to eavesdrop on the conversations of the direct heir to the Iron Throne meant losing your head, no matter whose blood ran through your veins.

It was Bloodraven. A blackfyre. Another bastard. Like you.

Bloodraven had come to Baelor’s solar under the cover of a chill twilight, but it was Prince Valarr who met him in the shadows. The young prince’s face was a mask of cold fury. “If you wish to seat your children upon the Iron Throne, you must pluck the weeds before they choke the garden.” bloodraven says, "I want them rooted out," Valarr hissed, his voice low and jagged. "Branch and stem. I want their line ended, Brynden. Completely wiped out.

Your hands flew to your mouth in frantic haste, stifling a gasp as your knees trembled from the sheer shock of what you heard. Whose line was he speaking of rooting out? What was his game—would he truly slaughter his own cousins for the Throne? If so, it meant only one thing: your turn would come next.

His eyes fixed his single, blood-red eye upon the prince. A cruel, knowing twist touched his pale lips. "And what of the bastard girl?" Rivers asked, his voice a low rasp that seemed to carry the scent of old graves and sorcery.

Valarr went rigid as Valyrian stone, every muscle in his frame tightening like a drawn bowstring. Beneath his collar, the veins in his neck pulsed violently, a war drum heralding a slaughter.

Bloodraven watched him, the crimson orb of his eye gleaming in the dark. He thought of the girl—no longer a child, but a wench grown into a perilous, intoxicating thing. The sort of beauty that births songs, he thought, and ends dynasties.

"Perhaps I should make her my own," Bloodraven murmured softly.

Valarr’s gaze drove into the sorcerer’s lone eye like a poisoned spear. Heavy and deliberate, the prince's hand dropped to the pommel of his castle-forged steel, his knuckles turning white against the grip. He did not draw the blade, but the wind itself seemed to hold its breath. It was a silent vow; one more word from the bastard's mouth regarding her, and the solar would run red with sorcerer's blood.

“Make her yours, and I will not merely take your head," the Prince whispered, the words smooth as silk and heavy as a death sentence.

“Keep your eyes on the ground where they belong," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dark purr. "For if those eyes wander to her again, I will carve them from your skull before I take your head. You want to wear the Hand’s badge upon your chest? You want to rule my realm? Then remember your place. Some treasures are meant only for dragons.”

The young prince did not wait for Bloodraven’s reply, nor did he grant him another glance. Leaving the icy weight of his words hanging in the air, he turned away with slow, deliberate steps.

The sight before you choked the very breath from your throat, leaving you praying that your own eyes were playing tricks on you.

The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of old cedar, lavender, and the bitter dust of things left behind. It was a room born of a father’s love, untouched by the cruel passage of years in King’s Landing, yet walking into it felt less like a homecoming and more like a sentence. The ghost of him lingered in every corner, a memory so sharp it caught in the throat like smoke.

You sank onto the great, soft bed, your fingers trailing over the fine silks. To be back in the shadow of the Red Keep without him was a heavy, hollow thing.

Seeking comfort in the familiar, you pulled a nightgown from the cedar press. It was a wicked piece of silk, dyed the color of bruised plums, the back plunging so low it bared the smooth curve of your spine down to the very swell of your hips. As the cool fabric slipped over your skin, your thoughts drifted into dangerous waters. Valarr. Bloodraven’s shadow hung long over Summerhall, and after the butchery at the Dragonpit, the Hand's cold eye was a threat to everything you held dear. “Would he strike at Valarr? Or Maekar—“

The thought broke like glass.

A hand, warm and calloused, brushed the bare skin of your spine.

You leapt, a gasp catching in your throat as your heart hammered wildly against your ribs. But before you could cry out, a pair of strong arms enveloped you from behind, pulling your back against a broad, solid chest. The scent of him washed over you—leather, smoke, and that sharp, masculine musk you knew better than your own soul.

"Ssh-h," a low voice purred against your ear, a sound like velvet dragged over steel. "It is only me. I told you I would come to you."

The touch turned agonizingly gentle, his fingers tracing the sensitive line of your neck with a feather-light stroke that made your skin prickle with heat. Slowly, deliberately, he gathered the heavy mass of your hair, brushing it over one shoulder to leave the long, pale expanse of your throat completely bared to the firelight.

Did you don this lovely silk for me?" he whispered, his breath a hot caress against the bare skin of your shoulder. “You wicked, beautiful thing.”

You tried to lift your gaze to look at his face, but his grip tightened, refusing to let you turn your head away. "Do not look at me with those eyes," he whispered, his fingers pressing bruised lines into your skin as he forced your stare to remain locked with his. "You tremble like a snuffed flame, yet you burn hotter than all the fires of Valyria.”

His hands began to wander, slow and possessive, tracing the sharp curve of your collarbone before sliding down the silk of your gown, mapping every inch of your body as if claiming a kingdom he had conquered. His palms were warm, burning through the thin fabric, demanding everything you had to give.

“Your Grace…stop it……you, I- We can’t do this…”breathed, your voice trembling like a leaf in a winter gale. You pressed your hands against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his heart. "You must stop- I will-“

He did not pull away. Instead, his grip tightened, his fingers pressing into your hips with a sudden, bruising force that made you gasp. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if the very scent of you was the air keeping him alive.

“Stop?" Valarr murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, obsessive register that vibrated against your skin. "I could tear this city down stone by stone, but I could never stop loving you. Let the red keep watch. Let them see what they made." He pulled you back against him, his embrace so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs.

“You think I hate you?" he whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe with a terrifying tenderness. "Perhaps I do. I hate how you rule me. I hate that my soul belongs to you, and not to the Iron Throne. But you are mine. Every inch of this beautiful skin, every breath you take in the dark. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash before I ever let another man look upon you in this gown. Tell me to stop again, and I will only hold you tighter."

The harder you strained against him, the tighter the trap closed. His arms were iron bands, crushing the breath from your lungs until the silk of your gown felt like a shroud. There was no gentleness left in him now; the slow, honeyed prince had vanished, replaced by something wild and starved.

When you turned your head to breathe, you saw his face in the dying embers of the hearth. His breath came in ragged, animal gasps, and his eyes—those strange, mismatched eyes the gods had cursed and blessed him with—were burning.

The fire, you thought, a cold dread pooling in your belly. It is the same fire.

Whenever he looked at you, that purplish-dark flame flickered in his gaze, a madness born of Old Valyria that threatened to consume everything it touched. Now, those eyes seemed to pierce straight through your flesh, stripping away your pride, your will, your secrets, until you were nothing but bare skin and beating heart beneath his gaze.

You felt yourself drowning in the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence. His scent filled your nose, his heat baked your skin, and the terrible truth of it washed over you like a wave on the Blackwater. He was taking you. Not with a blade, but with a possession so absolute it left no room for retreat. You were in your room, surrounded by the quiet dead, but Valarr was the only living thing that mattered, a predator claiming his prize, and you had no strength left to stop him. His hands slid beneath the thin plum silk, cold against the rising heat of your skin, before one crept upward across your belly to find your breast. He squeezed with a bruising, desperate force that wrung a sharp gasp from your lips. Before you could find your footing, he thrust you back against the heavy oak vanity—the same mirrored table that had stood here since your childhood, unyielding and timeless. His movements were swift, jagged with a starved ferocity. In this room where he had once brought you pain, he was now bringing you to your knees, worshipping you like a pagan god at a bloodstained altar.

He pressed his full weight into you, pinning you against the hard edge of the wood until the breath left your lungs. He was fighting to close every inch of distance between you, striving to melt two bodies into one. With a sudden, downward jerk of his hands, he ripped the straps of the gown away, pooling the fabric at your waist. The cool air of the chamber hit your bare flesh, and a hot, crimson flush rushed to your cheeks. Shame and desire warred within you; you tried to bring your hands up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinning them flat against the dusty wood on either side of your hips. You fumbled with his clothes, trying with clumsy desperation to shed them, but Valarr caught your hand, pressing a swift, feverish kiss into your palm. In a blur of movement that seemed almost unhuman, he ripped his own tunic free and cast it away into a distant corner of the room.

He leaned down, the tip of his tongue tracing the soft curve of your earlobe, savoring you as if he meant to devour you whole. He wanted every inch, every taste, every secret your skin held. Down his mouth wandered, finding the fluttering pulse point at your throat. Your heart hammered wildly beneath his lips, a trapped bird trying to break free. His gentle grazes turned to wet, lingering kisses, and those kisses sharpened into biting nips, leaving fierce, dark marks upon your pale skin—stamping his sigil into your very flesh.

He took your right hand in his, forcing your fingers down between your bodies until they brushed against his trousers. You felt the heavy, rigid length of him, shifting and hot beneath the cloth. your breath hitched, and a deep, aching sensitivity bloomed in your chest. With every heavy rub of his hips against yours, a slick heat pooled between your thighs, betraying your terror.

"Look at what you do to me," he growled, his voice thick with a dark, intoxicating lust. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered those terrible, beautiful promises. "I will make you as my wife. I will grant you legitimacy. You will bear me sons. You will give me my heirs."

"No... I—" the protest died in your throat, weak and trembling.

"Yes," he rasped, the word a heavy blade cutting through your defiance.

His free hand gripped your jaw, forcing your face up until your eyes met the silvered reflection in the ancient mirror. "Look at how beautiful you are," he murmured, his voice cracking with an obsession that seemed to choke him. "I have dreamed of this in the dark... for so long."

A shiver of pure, unadulterated pleasure broke through your shock, a soft cry escaping your lips.

"Ah... so beautiful," he whispered.

Then came the sharp clink of metal—the heavy buckle of his belt being undone. He discarded his trousers with a swift, impatient movement, his eyes never leaving yours. It was the look of a wolf that had finally cornered its prey, triumphant and starved. No, not a wolf. A dragon.

“Kneel,” he said, and the word fell between you like a command spoken from a throne.

Something had changed in him.

Desire had carved new lines into his face, softened some things and sharpened others. His eyes seemed darker than before, bright with a heat that bordered on dangerous. You had seen anger kindle behind those lilac eyes like wildfire set loose upon a summer field. You had seen sorrow settle upon his shoulders like a winter cloak. You had heard him laugh, had watched cruel amusement dance across his features when some lord or fool made a spectacle of himself. Or perhaps you had simply never been close enough to see this..

This was something else.

Something older.

Something far more dangerous.

The candlelight clung to the sharp planes of his face, gilding silver-gold strands of hair and casting shadows where shadows had no right to linger. For a moment, he seemed less a prince than the memory of one of Old Valyria’s dragonlords, returned from ash and ruin.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes.”

His voice came low, scarcely louder than a murmur.

He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it slowly, once, twice, then again. A groan tore free from his throat, deep and warm, the sound of a man surrendering himself to pleasure.

Your hands found his thighs, fingers trailing over hard muscles. You were losing yourself now. The world beyond the room seemed distant and unreal. There was only him, only the heat between you. You opened your mouth without hesitation and took his warmth into it.

You opened your mouth and took him in.

A shiver passed through him, fleeting as a gust of wind across still water. His hand found your hair at once, fingers threading through the strands before closing tightly around them. Yet he did not pull. He merely held you there.

A sharp breath escaped from Valarr.

You pleasured him with your mouth while your hands moved in tandem, and the sight of it drew another low groan from him. Every now and then, his grip tightened and he nudged you forward, subtle but unmistakable.

The effort made your throat tighten. You struggled against the reflex, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Moisture glistened upon your lips and spilled down your chin, It dripped upon the rug, pooling there as if the tapestry of time itself had paused to bear witness to the fall.

Then, with a soft pop, he withdrew and wrapped his hand around his cock once more. Looking down at you, he brushed it lightly against your lips several times, the gesture unhurried, almost contemplative, as though savoring the sight before him. The faint curve of his mouth spoke of satisfaction, and perhaps of something darker still—a victory long anticipated and at last won. He hauled you to your feet with brutal swiftness and stepped behind you. At that very moment, your stomach churned, utterly sickened by the torrent of conflicting emotions crashing through you.

Valarr hooked his fingers behind your knee, lifting your leg and resting it high upon the dark wood of the vanity. You yearned to touch him, yet he refused to grant you leave to turn. "No," he commanded, "I mean to watch." He had entwined his venomous vines about your very soul; there was no escaping him now. He pressed himself against your thigh, rubbing his wet, rigid steel against your opening once, twice, maddeningly slow, tormenting you with the promise of what was to come.

A sharp cry escaped your lips as his mouth fell upon your shoulders, leaving a trail of hungry, wet kisses against your skin. Then, as he began to push slowly inside you, your entire body trembled with the sudden sting of pain. Another gasp tore from your throat, and through the heat of the moment, Valarr murmured against your ear, his voice thick and rough, "Ah, yes... make a sound for your prince."

His hands gripped your hips with a bruising force, each deep, heavy thrust striking with a fierce intensity that felt almost too much to bear, tearing through your defenses. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent as the initial pain began to blur, slowly melting into a blinding, overwhelming pleasure.

He kissed every single inch of your skin, his mismatched eyes looking almost entirely black in the dim light of the chamber, consumed by a wild Valyrian fire. As he drove you closer and closer to the edge, your own vision began to darken at the corners, the world spinning away until there was nothing left but him. Right as the peak approached, his hands moved up to find your breasts, catching the sensitive tips between his fingers, squeezing and twisting as he claimed you completely. There was no escaping his grasp now; the venomous vines had long since bound you tight.

The mingled moans of you both dissolved into the heavy air of the room. At one point, a sudden knock echoed against the wood, yet because the Crown Prince was within, no soul dared to intrude. Your muffled gasps soon surrendered to vocal cries, and your cries turned into sharp, piercing screams of ecstasy. With agonizing effort, you turned your head toward Valarr. A bead of sweat rolled from his forehead, tracing down toward his eyelashes. Breaths coming in ragged gasps, you parted your lips to speak, but he noticed instantly. Devouring the invitation, he pushed his tongue deep inside, invading the very depths of your throat. His hands clamped around your breasts with such a bruising, merciless force that it was certain they would leave the dark imprints of his fingers behind.

You were so utterly lost to ecstasy that you began to move in perfect rhythm with him, delicious moans spilling from your lips.

“Ah... do not stop, p-please...”

you whimpered. He quickened his pace, the feverish slap of flesh against flesh growing louder, more violent. Then, with a deep, guttural groan, he came inside you, filling your womb with his wet seed. As the warmth began to seep down between your thighs, trickling toward the floor, your legs gave out completely. You sloped back, leaning your entire weight against him.

Bent over you from behind, he bit your hip with a force that brought a sharp cry of pain to your throat, his fingers tracing the tender skin behind your knees. You groaned, and in that shattered silence, He bowed before you as if in the presence of a king, stealing the very breath from your throat, his eyes never straying from yours. His naked body mirrored the ancient majesty of Valyria.

he whispered words you never, in all your life, expected him to say:

1. borrowing misery from future

2. carrying grief of the past

“I can not marry you, my prince.” You reply with a smile on your face as you continue looking at the stars.

“Why not? If you’re already betrothed I will beg the king to let me marry you instead.”

“I am already married.”

“Oh.” He says sadly his arms still around your waist as you turn to look at him cupping his face him your hand. “I apologize then my lady.”

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No, I'll clean. [...] No, Pete. You can't do that. I can't leave you alone. That's your dad.

THE SHADOW OF THE

BROKEN SPEAR

Dark Valarr Targaryen x (Baelor’s) Baseborn Daughter

WC:6.2k

WARNINGS: Dark Romance, Toxic Obsessive Behaviour, Incest (Half-siblings), Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sexual Content/Degradation, Toxic Comfort, Anguish, Forced Affection, Angst.

ADULT CONTENT NOTICE: This is a heavy, yandere-themed work with strict age restrictions. Minors are not permitted to read. Please check the content warnings below before continuing.

SUMMARY: When the silence of the chamber, steeped in her father’s memories, shatters at midnight, the thin line between loathing and obsessive love bleeds away entirely. The rustle of silks melts into the ancient Valyrian fire burning within his mismatched eyes.

AN: This is a purely fictional piece of creative writing, intended strictly for mature entertainment and dark fantasy exploration; the author does not condone or romanticize any of the toxic or non-consensual behaviors depicted within this work. It was inspired by Prince Valarr Targaryen, taking a darker twist on the lore established in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire lore. Please read with caution and personal responsibility. Please do not copy my work.

And also, English is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes!! your comments and likes are greatly appreciated! Enjoy! 🖤

The sun was shining high above you over the rose-filled gardens of Summerhall, yet you could see nothing but darkness.

There you sat, perched upon a heavy, high-backed chair of dark oak, its armrests intricately carved with silver vines that bit into your palms. You may sleep in silk and dine from silver, yet the truth remains stark. You were a bastard of the blood royal, born on the wrong side of the sheets. This truth brought you bitter pain everytime you think,—to be the poisoned fruit of a forbidden love meant that the venom would, sooner or later, seep out. And that, no man could stay. Your purple eyes were fixed on the horizon, your thoughts entirely consumed by the towering shadow of your father—Prince Baelor, the Great Varis, the only man who had ever looked at you with a gentle gaze.

You were waiting. Waiting for a raven, a sealed parchment, a letter. a single word from him to you. A sigil of a royal house. Your father’s sigil. The three-headed Targaryen dragon, quartered with the sun and spear of House Martell.

But the letter you so desperately starved for would never come.

Across the realm, in the muddy, blood-soaked sands of Ashford, the realm’s ultimate justice had turned into a slaughter. Prince Baelor Break-spear was now, dead. his skull shattered in a Trial of Seven, his noble life snuffed out before he could ever send for his bastard daughter. And back in the gardens of Summerhall, the roses kept blooming, completely unaware that the shadow of the dragon was about to grow infinitely darker.

Instead, another letter arrived, one that shocked you deeply and almost kept you from mourning. A letter had come from your half-brother—the new heir to the throne.

In truth, it hadn’t always been this way. Once, you were in the Red Keep, right by your father's side. But of course, it didn't last very long. Memories of Valarr clouded your mind.

You were drawing the brush through your hair before the looking glass, slow and rhythmic. By rights, a maid of such tender years should have been dreaming of sweetmeats, of walking the bustling streets of Westeros with her septa, or running her fingers through the glossy mane of the courser Ser Raylon had readied in the stables by your royal father’s command. Yet, your mind held no room for such childish whims; it belonged solely to Valarr. Day in and day out, he flung your bastardy into your face like dirt. You did your best to avoid him, keeping mostly to the confines of your chambers. You possessed a sharp wit, far beyond your years, and it was that clever tongue alone that stayed his hand from worse cruelty.

Crushed beneath the suffocating weight of those thoughts, it was the sudden, breathless clutch of hands that dragged your soul from the drowning fires. A sudden tremor racked your bones, cold as if you had been flung naked into the shivering depths of the Sunset Sea. The comb slipped from numbed fingers, clattering uselessly against the floorboards. You could not turn; your very wit froze to ice within your skull. You know who it was. You knew it then, as surely as a hound knows winter. There was no mistaking that sharp, woody scent of his skin, nor the sour tang of spiced Arbor wine that clung to his breath like a shroud.

He tangled his long, heavy fingers into your hair, shoving you forward until his thigh pressed hard against your hip. As if he had been waiting for this very moment, he forced your face down toward the roaring, red fury of the fire. In terror, your hands clawed at his arms, struggling, your entire body trembling violently—but it was no use. He was far larger, far stronger, his massive frame trapping you from behind until you could see nothing but the hungry flame, He took a cruel pleasure in your thrashing. A low, mocking purr escaped his lips as he leaned in close to your ear. ”If you truly possess the blood of the dragon, you will not burn,” Valarr whispered, his voice laced with venom. “But we both know what you are.” You are darkness—a wretched, mistaken common blood, You belong wherever I choose to cast you. Do you truly believe my father will save a baseborn whelp like you? You are less than nothing—a stain upon his name. You will hide in the shadows for the rest of your life; that is all you are fit for.”

“My prince, p-please,” was all you could choke out, your throat tight with a suffocating knot. Silently, you begged for your handmaiden to walk through the door, your eyes spilling scalding tears that ran beneath his fingers and soaked into your gown. He paused for a moment. His gaze searched the sharp lines of your face before his thumb slid from your hair down to the soft curve of your jaw, brushing it with a touch so gentle it was terrifying. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice was a low, dark promise.

“You may weep,” he whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear, “but those tears belong to me. You will shed them only for me.” It was as if he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. 'No no, It was as if he had been prepared for this very scene. I cannot resist you,' he breathed…his eyes blending with the light of the fire. You could not fathom which was hotter—and the very thought burned you, too.

Yet, there were times he would do things that truly startled you. Another memory surfaced in your mind. For he claimed to hate you, yet he still brought you these hidden wonders. He would wander through the shadowed gardens of King’s Landing, his eyes tracking your every move, tracing the path you walked. Now and again, he would emerge from the greenery like a ghost, a single rose held between his long, noble fingers.

“This is for you,” he would murmur, his voice as smooth and dark as Valyrian silk.

He would brush the soft petals against the tip of your nose and across your lips before pressing the stem into your hand.

His unpredictability was a beautiful terror, keeping your heart trapped in a cage of sweet anticipation. But his gaze followed you even where the sun could not reach. Upon returning to your chambers in the dead of night, you would find those very same roses—resting on the edge of your bed, or left upon your wooden desk, their petals bleeding into the candlelight. Sometimes, such things would happen; he would bring you jewels and silks from across the realms—but only until he played with you like a dornish puppetters.

Of course you also remembered his hand in sending you here; how could you forget it? it had filled your heart with a cold fire. He had orchestrated it all himself, using your own father to keep you writhing. No matter what you did, you had failed to convince your father. Valarr moved like a shadow through your world, slipping into your most private sanctuary while you slept, leaving behind a fragrant, crimson reminder that you were entirely, utterly surrounded by him.

“My father loves his honor, and because he loves his honor, he fancies that he loves you. But dear Uncle Maekar’s sons are whispering in the shadows. Aerion looks at you and sees a common whore to use; Daeron sees a stain to be wiped clean. I told my father that the Red Keep is no longer safe for a baseborn girl. I told him that your presence here breeds nothing but strife among the princes.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. No.

He wept, “you know,” Valarr continued, his purr filling the quiet room like poison. “Gods be good, they know how noble my Father is. He wants to keep his precious little mistake safe from his brothers' wrath. So, when the decree comes tomorrow, do not weep to him. It was by his own hand, by his own seal, that you are being sent away to Summerhall. He thinks he is saving you from the wolves.”

Valarr took a step closer to the door, his hand resting on the iron latch.

“But there are no wolves in Summerhall,” he whispered, plunging the room into a cold, dead silence. “Only me. I am the one who built that for you, and I am the one who will hold your love. Sleep well, my sweet. Your exile begins at dawn.”

You remembered it as if it were yesterday. You did not know how long he had labored over this plan; in truth, it mattered little whether you knew or not, for he obtained everything he desired from you anyway.

As you took your first steps into King’s Landing for your father’s funeral, a strange coldness washed over you. It had been so long since you last walked these grounds. You desperately wished to avoid the gaze of the other nobles; you knew their whispers would trap you in a cage of the mind, never letting you free. You were here only to honor your father’s memory and to see Valarr—the heir to the throne, the very man who had summoned you back.

Why you longed to see him was a mystery even to yourself. Though he had ruined your soul, you knew that with your father gone, Valarr would be the only one left to protect you. It was a twisted truth to bear, for in reality, he was the one who had sent you away in the first place, using your own father to do it.

Naturally, the first place you sought was your own chambers. No matter how much you had steeled your heart, the moment you crossed the threshold, you broke. Your tears flowed like a torrential river. Everything remained untouched, exactly as you had left it. It was not even dusty—a strange detail that made it feel as though you had only been gone for a fleeting moment. The fabric of your blue skirt brushed against the heavy carpet, creating a sharp contrast in the quiet room. Outside, birds chirped their hollow songs as the sun began its slow descent, bleeding gold across the sky.

As you approached your desk, you saw it: a single rose. The irony of it was so sharp that a bitter laugh nearly tore through your sobs. Gently, as if terrified of bruising it, you took the stem between your fingers and breathed in the scent of the soft petals. It had been freshly plucked; it was still alive. But just as the memories threatened to consume you, the door burst open—unannounced and sudden.

In strode the Crown Prince. His dark brown hair fell across his brow, save for that unmistakable, gleaming Targaryen streak. He closed the distance between you in two long strides. It had been so long. You could not speak; you offered no curtsy, nor did you utter his name. You merely stood frozen, staring at him, your heart heavy with your father's grief. To the realm, Valarr wore the flawless mask of the noble, mourning prince. Yet the very instant he was alone with you, that mask shattered—as it always did.

His fingers found your cheek, and your skin shuddered at the touch, forcing your eyes to close. He looked down at you with a strange reverence, his expression utterly unreadable. You still could not fathom why he had summoned you here himself. "It has been a long time," he murmured, his gaze scanning every line of your face, tracing every change. Suddenly, fueled by a burst of reckless courage you did not know you possessed, you asked, "Why did you summon me? It was you who sent me away, so why am I here now?" You were no longer a child, after all.

"First, I willed you to leave; now, I will you to return."

“My father died for nothing, for some hedge knight.” He Said, his voice turning mocking, repulsive. "And you are all that remains—carrying that infuriating goodness of his."

Yet, his words could ever replicate the lie. He had missed you fiercely, more than his proud tongue would ever admit. In the arms of the other women he bedded, it was your face he conjured in his mind; it was your likeness he craved. Yet, none of them could ever replicate the piercing storm that raged within your violet eyes—that fierce, defensive fire. The haunting sorrow etched upon your face in that moment was a prize worth conquering all Seven Kingdoms just to possess.

His hands traveled up to your slender neck. Tilting his head slightly, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Once, he used to grip you cruelly by that very hair; yet now, in twisted contrast, he was so terribly gentle. His nostrils flared slightly as he drew in the scent of your skin. You pulled back just an inch, wanting to declare that you were only here for your father, but his presence already held you captive. Oh... how you had missed drowning in those colored eyes. No matter how desperately you tried to deny it to yourself, this was the absolute, undeniable truth.

His grip tightened around your wrists until it bruised, but then the expression on his face shifted instantly. He grimaced, releasing his hold as if burned. In urgent haste, you widened the distance between you. Rolling his eyes, he strode out of the chambers. Once more, he had shattered your heart,,,yet he had bound your very soul to his…

Days bled into one another, and you seldom ventured outside your chambers, constantly drowning in the shadows of your memories. Your maiden arrived to inform you that the Crown Prince demanded your presence at the feast, and several lords offered to accompany you for a stroll down The Street of the Loom, yet you politely declined them all. You hid behind the safety of excuses—whispering of a sudden illness, claiming you felt unwell, or stating that you merely wished to sleep. Inexplicably, Valarr pursued you no further. He granted you your solitude, yet his presence remained an inescapable ghost within your walls. Every evening, your supper was delivered to your chambers, and beside the silver platter lay a single, freshly plucked rose. It was a silent, intoxicating torture.

It was a wicked, carnal game; he was consuming you from afar, making you crave the very hands that had bruised your wrists, leaving you to drown in the agonizing warmth of his absence.

To escape the suffocating gaze of the other nobles, and most of all, Maekar and his children during your stay in King’s Landing, you resolved to visit the library of the Red Keep—just as you used to do in the old days to remain unseen. The very walls of your chambers were closing in on you, and you could bear the confinement no longer.

You possessed not a single fond memory within any corner of this palace. Yet, your feet carried you to that place you knew by heart. Even the Kingsguard looked upon you with hollow eyes, pretending not to recognize your face, and you, in turn, avoided any semblance of dialogue whenever possible. Aerion had cornered you a few times; one did not need much wit to read the dark, twisted lust gleaming in his eyes. Every single time, by some miracle, you managed to escape his grasp—gods be thanked. But however, with Valarr’s eyes constantly upon them, there was little they could do. Sometimes, you would spot Daeron wandering through the gardens in the dead of night from your balcony, and you would quickly step back into the shadows to remain unseen. As for Aegon... the Seven knew where he had vanished to, though whispers echoed through the halls that he had ridden off with that towering, massive hedge knight.

You stood in the library, accompanied only by the rustle of your silks, when you pushed open the heavy door of the library, it groaned on its ancient hinges. As you crossed the threshold, the fresh, woody scent of old parchment and bound leather enveloped you. It was a vast, timeless sanctuary. In truth, within the entire expanse of the Red Keep, you loved this place—and only this place.

You sank into the wide leather chair that still stood exactly where it always had, pulling a random tome from the shelf, and began to read. But the peace was fleeting. The silence of the library shattered as the heavy doors groaned once more. Footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, until a shadow fell over your pages. You looked up to find Valarr standing over you, a wicked, knowing smile playing upon his lips.

"Are you hiding from me, my pretty sister? The Crown Prince summons you to his table, and you dare to not come?” he murmured, his voice a low purr.

my pretty sister... The word struck your mind like a bolt of lightning. Sister. For years, this man had broken you, trapping your body and soul within the cold walls of dishonor and illegitimacy—and now, he claimed you were his own blood. Against the wild turns of his mood, you had no shield left but your tears.

What are you reading?" he asked, as though nothing had transpired between you. He appeared utterly at ease as he slithered into the seat beside you, his leg pressing firmly against yours. Your face flushed, burning hot beneath his proximity. You swallowed hard, whispering the title of the tome: "The Loves of Queen Alysanne."

A derisive, mocking sound escaped Valarr’s throat. "What could you possibly know of love?" he sneered. Then, without warning, his voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. "To whom did you open your legs for in Summerhall?"

The words struck you like a physical blow. You slammed the book shut with a resounding thud, drawing a sharp, ragged breath as you fought with every ounce of your being to hold back your tears. You turned to him, your gaze thick with a mixture of loathing and utter despair. “Of what are you accusing me?" you retorted, harboring a dangerous amount of boldness of late. Yet, he only tilted his head; the back of his hand traced the line of your cheek before he caught your palm in his, squeezing it tight.

"Or did you save yourself for me? How generous of you, my darling.” he murmured, his mismatched eyes now darkened into a singular, abyssal black. Void of all color.

Without a single word, you bolted from your seat, lunging toward the safety of the exit. But in a flash, his hand lashed out, gripping your wrist so violently that you stumbled. He pulled you close enough to feel his breath as he whispered, "I shall come to you tonight."

A jolt of electric terror coursed down your spine. Wrenching your hand free from his grasp, you burst through the heavy doors and fled into the corridor, your chest heaving with emotions you could neither name nor control.

By late afternoon, the stifling boredom had grown so heavy that you decided to steal away for a walk within the sprawling, grand gardens of the Red Keep. Courteously, you declined the company of a few lingering lords and your handmaidens, eager to be left to your own thoughts. As you stepped down the wide, sun-drenched stone stairs that led into the gardens, the heavy silk of your white gown swept the dust beneath your feet, its rich weight clinging to your body. Near the stables, a pair of Kingsguard knights inclined their heads in silent, solemn respect as you passed. It was a strange, almost unbelievable thing for a bastard girl to command such reverence from the court—but then, such was the power of having a father like Baelor Breakspear.

Beyond the stairs, Beyond the stairs, the great gardens of the Red Keep unfurled, a paradise built upon blood and ancient secrets. The gravel path was lined with crushed mint, its heavy fragrance filling the warm air. On either side, pale ivory roses bloomed alongside the deep purple of nightshade, their stalks standing tall like tiny spears. Weathered stone fountains spewed a cool mist into the heat, yet the splashing water could not drown out the distant clinking of mail and the heavy tread of the Gold Cloaks guarding the walls.

Ancient lemon trees leaned heavy against the stone cliffs overlooking the salt-bitter waters of the Blackwater Rush. Their golden fruits gleamed like stolen jewels amidst the dark leaves, but whenever the sharp sea wind rustled through the branches, the shadows beneath them only seemed to grow deeper, hiding the secrets of the court. At the far edge of the greenery, where the great oaks and tangled briars formed a natural wall, the suffocating silence of the Godswood began—a place where the court’s pretty laughter died, and the true, dark games of the castle were played in secret.

Toward the far edge of the grounds, the Godswood loomed—a silent, primordial wood keeping the ancient secrets of the old kings. You had read histories detailing just how much blood magic had been wrought within these walls since the dawn of the Targaryen dynasty. The air grew thick and cold, smelling of damp earth and rotting leaves. Overhead, sentinel pines and ancient oaks blocked out the bleeding sky, plunging the wood into a grey twilight. At its heart stood the great heart tree, its bone-white bark gleaming like a corpse in the gloom, its deep-red, weeping eyes staring into the souls of those who dared tread upon its roots. The silence here was absolute, broken only by the caw of a distant raven.

Then, through the suffocating stillness, a low, rhythmic murmur drifted through the trees, like the rumble of distant thunder. Your heart gave a violent thud against your ribs. You knew that voice; you knew it as well as you knew your own name. It was Valarr’s voice, thick and dark, speaking to someone in low, urgent tones.

Carefully, your fingers trembling, you gathered the heavy silk of your white skirts, lifting the hem just enough to keep it from rustling against the dead leaves. You pressed your back against the rough, moss-covered bark of a massive oak, slipping into the shadows to hide. A frantic voice inside your head screamed that this was madness, an absolute folly. To spy on anyone in the Red Keep was dangerous, but to eavesdrop on the conversations of the direct heir to the Iron Throne meant losing your head, no matter whose blood ran through your veins.

It was Bloodraven. A blackfyre. Another bastard. Like you.

Bloodraven had come to Baelor’s solar under the cover of a chill twilight, but it was Prince Valarr who met him in the shadows. The young prince’s face was a mask of cold fury. “If you wish to seat your children upon the Iron Throne, you must pluck the weeds before they choke the garden.” bloodraven says, "I want them rooted out," Valarr hissed, his voice low and jagged. "Branch and stem. I want their line ended, Brynden. Completely wiped out.

Your hands flew to your mouth in frantic haste, stifling a gasp as your knees trembled from the sheer shock of what you heard. Whose line was he speaking of rooting out? What was his game—would he truly slaughter his own cousins for the Throne? If so, it meant only one thing: your turn would come next.

His eyes fixed his single, blood-red eye upon the prince. A cruel, knowing twist touched his pale lips. "And what of the bastard girl?" Rivers asked, his voice a low rasp that seemed to carry the scent of old graves and sorcery.

Valarr went rigid as Valyrian stone, every muscle in his frame tightening like a drawn bowstring. Beneath his collar, the veins in his neck pulsed violently, a war drum heralding a slaughter.

Bloodraven watched him, the crimson orb of his eye gleaming in the dark. He thought of the girl—no longer a child, but a wench grown into a perilous, intoxicating thing. The sort of beauty that births songs, he thought, and ends dynasties.

"Perhaps I should make her my own," Bloodraven murmured softly.

Valarr’s gaze drove into the sorcerer’s lone eye like a poisoned spear. Heavy and deliberate, the prince's hand dropped to the pommel of his castle-forged steel, his knuckles turning white against the grip. He did not draw the blade, but the wind itself seemed to hold its breath. It was a silent vow; one more word from the bastard's mouth regarding her, and the solar would run red with sorcerer's blood.

“Make her yours, and I will not merely take your head," the Prince whispered, the words smooth as silk and heavy as a death sentence.

“Keep your eyes on the ground where they belong," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dark purr. "For if those eyes wander to her again, I will carve them from your skull before I take your head. You want to wear the Hand’s badge upon your chest? You want to rule my realm? Then remember your place. Some treasures are meant only for dragons.”

The young prince did not wait for Bloodraven’s reply, nor did he grant him another glance. Leaving the icy weight of his words hanging in the air, he turned away with slow, deliberate steps.

The sight before you choked the very breath from your throat, leaving you praying that your own eyes were playing tricks on you.

The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of old cedar, lavender, and the bitter dust of things left behind. It was a room born of a father’s love, untouched by the cruel passage of years in King’s Landing, yet walking into it felt less like a homecoming and more like a sentence. The ghost of him lingered in every corner, a memory so sharp it caught in the throat like smoke.

You sank onto the great, soft bed, your fingers trailing over the fine silks. To be back in the shadow of the Red Keep without him was a heavy, hollow thing.

Seeking comfort in the familiar, you pulled a nightgown from the cedar press. It was a wicked piece of silk, dyed the color of bruised plums, the back plunging so low it bared the smooth curve of your spine down to the very swell of your hips. As the cool fabric slipped over your skin, your thoughts drifted into dangerous waters. Valarr. Bloodraven’s shadow hung long over Summerhall, and after the butchery at the Dragonpit, the Hand's cold eye was a threat to everything you held dear. “Would he strike at Valarr? Or Maekar—“

The thought broke like glass.

A hand, warm and calloused, brushed the bare skin of your spine.

You leapt, a gasp catching in your throat as your heart hammered wildly against your ribs. But before you could cry out, a pair of strong arms enveloped you from behind, pulling your back against a broad, solid chest. The scent of him washed over you—leather, smoke, and that sharp, masculine musk you knew better than your own soul.

"Ssh-h," a low voice purred against your ear, a sound like velvet dragged over steel. "It is only me. I told you I would come to you."

The touch turned agonizingly gentle, his fingers tracing the sensitive line of your neck with a feather-light stroke that made your skin prickle with heat. Slowly, deliberately, he gathered the heavy mass of your hair, brushing it over one shoulder to leave the long, pale expanse of your throat completely bared to the firelight.

Did you don this lovely silk for me?" he whispered, his breath a hot caress against the bare skin of your shoulder. “You wicked, beautiful thing.”

You tried to lift your gaze to look at his face, but his grip tightened, refusing to let you turn your head away. "Do not look at me with those eyes," he whispered, his fingers pressing bruised lines into your skin as he forced your stare to remain locked with his. "You tremble like a snuffed flame, yet you burn hotter than all the fires of Valyria.”

His hands began to wander, slow and possessive, tracing the sharp curve of your collarbone before sliding down the silk of your gown, mapping every inch of your body as if claiming a kingdom he had conquered. His palms were warm, burning through the thin fabric, demanding everything you had to give.

“Your Grace…stop it……you, I- We can’t do this…”breathed, your voice trembling like a leaf in a winter gale. You pressed your hands against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his heart. "You must stop- I will-“

He did not pull away. Instead, his grip tightened, his fingers pressing into your hips with a sudden, bruising force that made you gasp. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if the very scent of you was the air keeping him alive.

“Stop?" Valarr murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, obsessive register that vibrated against your skin. "I could tear this city down stone by stone, but I could never stop loving you. Let the red keep watch. Let them see what they made." He pulled you back against him, his embrace so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs.

“You think I hate you?" he whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe with a terrifying tenderness. "Perhaps I do. I hate how you rule me. I hate that my soul belongs to you, and not to the Iron Throne. But you are mine. Every inch of this beautiful skin, every breath you take in the dark. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash before I ever let another man look upon you in this gown. Tell me to stop again, and I will only hold you tighter."

The harder you strained against him, the tighter the trap closed. His arms were iron bands, crushing the breath from your lungs until the silk of your gown felt like a shroud. There was no gentleness left in him now; the slow, honeyed prince had vanished, replaced by something wild and starved.

When you turned your head to breathe, you saw his face in the dying embers of the hearth. His breath came in ragged, animal gasps, and his eyes—those strange, mismatched eyes the gods had cursed and blessed him with—were burning.

The fire, you thought, a cold dread pooling in your belly. It is the same fire.

Whenever he looked at you, that purplish-dark flame flickered in his gaze, a madness born of Old Valyria that threatened to consume everything it touched. Now, those eyes seemed to pierce straight through your flesh, stripping away your pride, your will, your secrets, until you were nothing but bare skin and beating heart beneath his gaze.

You felt yourself drowning in the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence. His scent filled your nose, his heat baked your skin, and the terrible truth of it washed over you like a wave on the Blackwater. He was taking you. Not with a blade, but with a possession so absolute it left no room for retreat. You were in your room, surrounded by the quiet dead, but Valarr was the only living thing that mattered, a predator claiming his prize, and you had no strength left to stop him. His hands slid beneath the thin plum silk, cold against the rising heat of your skin, before one crept upward across your belly to find your breast. He squeezed with a bruising, desperate force that wrung a sharp gasp from your lips. Before you could find your footing, he thrust you back against the heavy oak vanity—the same mirrored table that had stood here since your childhood, unyielding and timeless. His movements were swift, jagged with a starved ferocity. In this room where he had once brought you pain, he was now bringing you to your knees, worshipping you like a pagan god at a bloodstained altar.

He pressed his full weight into you, pinning you against the hard edge of the wood until the breath left your lungs. He was fighting to close every inch of distance between you, striving to melt two bodies into one. With a sudden, downward jerk of his hands, he ripped the straps of the gown away, pooling the fabric at your waist. The cool air of the chamber hit your bare flesh, and a hot, crimson flush rushed to your cheeks. Shame and desire warred within you; you tried to bring your hands up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinning them flat against the dusty wood on either side of your hips. You fumbled with his clothes, trying with clumsy desperation to shed them, but Valarr caught your hand, pressing a swift, feverish kiss into your palm. In a blur of movement that seemed almost unhuman, he ripped his own tunic free and cast it away into a distant corner of the room.

He leaned down, the tip of his tongue tracing the soft curve of your earlobe, savoring you as if he meant to devour you whole. He wanted every inch, every taste, every secret your skin held. Down his mouth wandered, finding the fluttering pulse point at your throat. Your heart hammered wildly beneath his lips, a trapped bird trying to break free. His gentle grazes turned to wet, lingering kisses, and those kisses sharpened into biting nips, leaving fierce, dark marks upon your pale skin—stamping his sigil into your very flesh.

He took your right hand in his, forcing your fingers down between your bodies until they brushed against his trousers. You felt the heavy, rigid length of him, shifting and hot beneath the cloth. your breath hitched, and a deep, aching sensitivity bloomed in your chest. With every heavy rub of his hips against yours, a slick heat pooled between your thighs, betraying your terror.

"Look at what you do to me," he growled, his voice thick with a dark, intoxicating lust. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered those terrible, beautiful promises. "I will make you as my wife. I will grant you legitimacy. You will bear me sons. You will give me my heirs."

"No... I—" the protest died in your throat, weak and trembling.

"Yes," he rasped, the word a heavy blade cutting through your defiance.

His free hand gripped your jaw, forcing your face up until your eyes met the silvered reflection in the ancient mirror. "Look at how beautiful you are," he murmured, his voice cracking with an obsession that seemed to choke him. "I have dreamed of this in the dark... for so long."

A shiver of pure, unadulterated pleasure broke through your shock, a soft cry escaping your lips.

"Ah... so beautiful," he whispered.

Then came the sharp clink of metal—the heavy buckle of his belt being undone. He discarded his trousers with a swift, impatient movement, his eyes never leaving yours. It was the look of a wolf that had finally cornered its prey, triumphant and starved. No, not a wolf. A dragon.

“Kneel,” he said, and the word fell between you like a command spoken from a throne.

Something had changed in him.

Desire had carved new lines into his face, softened some things and sharpened others. His eyes seemed darker than before, bright with a heat that bordered on dangerous. You had seen anger kindle behind those lilac eyes like wildfire set loose upon a summer field. You had seen sorrow settle upon his shoulders like a winter cloak. You had heard him laugh, had watched cruel amusement dance across his features when some lord or fool made a spectacle of himself. Or perhaps you had simply never been close enough to see this..

This was something else.

Something older.

Something far more dangerous.

The candlelight clung to the sharp planes of his face, gilding silver-gold strands of hair and casting shadows where shadows had no right to linger. For a moment, he seemed less a prince than the memory of one of Old Valyria’s dragonlords, returned from ash and ruin.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes.”

His voice came low, scarcely louder than a murmur.

He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it slowly, once, twice, then again. A groan tore free from his throat, deep and warm, the sound of a man surrendering himself to pleasure.

Your hands found his thighs, fingers trailing over hard muscles. You were losing yourself now. The world beyond the room seemed distant and unreal. There was only him, only the heat between you. You opened your mouth without hesitation and took his warmth into it.

You opened your mouth and took him in.

A shiver passed through him, fleeting as a gust of wind across still water. His hand found your hair at once, fingers threading through the strands before closing tightly around them. Yet he did not pull. He merely held you there.

A sharp breath escaped from Valarr.

You pleasured him with your mouth while your hands moved in tandem, and the sight of it drew another low groan from him. Every now and then, his grip tightened and he nudged you forward, subtle but unmistakable.

The effort made your throat tighten. You struggled against the reflex, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Moisture glistened upon your lips and spilled down your chin, It dripped upon the rug, pooling there as if the tapestry of time itself had paused to bear witness to the fall.

Then, with a soft pop, he withdrew and wrapped his hand around his cock once more. Looking down at you, he brushed it lightly against your lips several times, the gesture unhurried, almost contemplative, as though savoring the sight before him. The faint curve of his mouth spoke of satisfaction, and perhaps of something darker still—a victory long anticipated and at last won. He hauled you to your feet with brutal swiftness and stepped behind you. At that very moment, your stomach churned, utterly sickened by the torrent of conflicting emotions crashing through you.

Valarr hooked his fingers behind your knee, lifting your leg and resting it high upon the dark wood of the vanity. You yearned to touch him, yet he refused to grant you leave to turn. "No," he commanded, "I mean to watch." He had entwined his venomous vines about your very soul; there was no escaping him now. He pressed himself against your thigh, rubbing his wet, rigid steel against your opening once, twice, maddeningly slow, tormenting you with the promise of what was to come.

A sharp cry escaped your lips as his mouth fell upon your shoulders, leaving a trail of hungry, wet kisses against your skin. Then, as he began to push slowly inside you, your entire body trembled with the sudden sting of pain. Another gasp tore from your throat, and through the heat of the moment, Valarr murmured against your ear, his voice thick and rough, "Ah, yes... make a sound for your prince."

His hands gripped your hips with a bruising force, each deep, heavy thrust striking with a fierce intensity that felt almost too much to bear, tearing through your defenses. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent as the initial pain began to blur, slowly melting into a blinding, overwhelming pleasure.

He kissed every single inch of your skin, his mismatched eyes looking almost entirely black in the dim light of the chamber, consumed by a wild Valyrian fire. As he drove you closer and closer to the edge, your own vision began to darken at the corners, the world spinning away until there was nothing left but him. Right as the peak approached, his hands moved up to find your breasts, catching the sensitive tips between his fingers, squeezing and twisting as he claimed you completely. There was no escaping his grasp now; the venomous vines had long since bound you tight.

The mingled moans of you both dissolved into the heavy air of the room. At one point, a sudden knock echoed against the wood, yet because the Crown Prince was within, no soul dared to intrude. Your muffled gasps soon surrendered to vocal cries, and your cries turned into sharp, piercing screams of ecstasy. With agonizing effort, you turned your head toward Valarr. A bead of sweat rolled from his forehead, tracing down toward his eyelashes. Breaths coming in ragged gasps, you parted your lips to speak, but he noticed instantly. Devouring the invitation, he pushed his tongue deep inside, invading the very depths of your throat. His hands clamped around your breasts with such a bruising, merciless force that it was certain they would leave the dark imprints of his fingers behind.

You were so utterly lost to ecstasy that you began to move in perfect rhythm with him, delicious moans spilling from your lips.

“Ah... do not stop, p-please...”

you whimpered. He quickened his pace, the feverish slap of flesh against flesh growing louder, more violent. Then, with a deep, guttural groan, he came inside you, filling your womb with his wet seed. As the warmth began to seep down between your thighs, trickling toward the floor, your legs gave out completely. You sloped back, leaning your entire weight against him.

Bent over you from behind, he bit your hip with a force that brought a sharp cry of pain to your throat, his fingers tracing the tender skin behind your knees. You groaned, and in that shattered silence, He bowed before you as if in the presence of a king, stealing the very breath from your throat, his eyes never straying from yours. His naked body mirrored the ancient majesty of Valyria.

he whispered words you never, in all your life, expected him to say:

INSOLANCE IN VAIN

Dark Aerion Targaryen x Noble (fem) maid reader

WC:7.7k

WARNINGS: Dark Romance, Toxic Obsessive Behaviour, Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sexual Content/Rape Degradation, Toxic Comfort, Anguish, Forced Affection , Angst Poison/Venom themes.

ADULT CONTENT NOTICE: This is a heavy, yandere-themed work with strict age restrictions. Minors are not permitted to read. Please check the content warnings below before continuing.

SUMMARY : In the shadows of a quiet room, an educated but caged and humiliated mind and a dangerous prince collide in a fierce, intoxicating struggle for possession.

AN: This is a purely fictional piece of creative writing, intended strictly for mature entertainment and dark fantasy exploration; the author does not condone or romanticize any of the toxic behaviors depicted within this work. It was inspired by the cruel, volatile nature of Aerion Brightflame as established in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire lore. Please read with caution and personal responsibility.

And also, English is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes!! your comments and likes are greatly appreciated! Enjoy! 🖤

The Great Council chamber of King’s Landing was suffocating, thick with the smell of old parchment, melting wax, and the heavy, lingering dread that followed Prince Aerion Targaryen like a shroud. You stood quietly in the shadows, your fingers cold and numb around the heavy silver pitcher, doing your best to remain entirely invisible to the lords of the realm.

Brightflame lazily flicked his wrist, tilting the silver goblet in his hand in a silent, demanding gesture. For a fraction of a second, his cruel, lilac eyes cut through the dimness, locking onto yours with an unsettling intensity. Your heart seized. Holding your breath, you stepped out from the safety of the dusty shadows, desperate to make as little sound as possible as you moved across the room. Every eye in the chamber felt like a weight, but your focus was entirely on the terrifying figure seated at the absolute head of the heavy oak table.

"The smallfolk are growing restless along the borders," Prince Baelor Targaryen spoke, his calm, authoritative voice commanding the room as he gestured to the maps with his ringered fingers.

The voices around the table were growing increasingly heated. The lords leaned forward, their tones sharp and urgent as they tried desperately to convince the Crown Prince of a crucial political move. Your father had once commanded the foremost seats in councils such as these, you reminded yourself, the memory a bitter taste on your tongue. He had possessed a sharp, calculating mind for the game of polities a gift that had lined your family’s coffers until your house rivaled the dragons themselves in wealth. But the gods are fickle, they flipped a coin, just to watch men bleed for the flip of it, and the Targaryens had won. Now, held fast in this gilded cage, your kin were as distant as the stars. You wondered where they had scattered, if any still drew breath, or if the roots of your family tree had been severed entirely, leaving you the last leaf to wither in the draft. Yet, Brightflame seemed entirely detached from the heavy weight of their words.

He mindlessly toyed with a dagger of pure Valyrian steel, turning the dark, rippled blade over and over, lazily caressing the deadly edge with his fingertips as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

His gaze was fixed on the massive stone hearth across the hall. His deep lilac eyes seemed to burn with the reflection of the roaring fire, his white eyelashes twitching slightly against the amber glow. A slow, sinister smile spread across his full, pink lips, the look of a man who constantly reminded himself that he was a dragon born of ash and fire. In the shifting play of light and shadow, his sharp aristocratic jawline and high cheekbones looked almost divine.

Yes, he was divine, you thought with a sickening shudder. You absolutely hate him. A dangerous, suffocating beauty. He was the pure, unadulterated evidence of Valyrian majesty.

But contrasted so sharply with that ethereal beauty was the dark, rot-like cruelty that festered just beneath his pale skin.

Lord Caron shifted uncomfortably in his high-backed seat, pulling at his thick, brindled beard as he cleared his throat to break the tension. "Your Grace," the old lord ventured, his voice raspy from the smoke of the hearth. "We must first look to Casterly Rock. If we secure their backing and march along the southern flank, we might yet—

The old man’s council was abruptly cut short.

With a sickening, panicked slip of your numb fingers, the heavy silver pitcher betrayed you. It lurched violently from your hands, tilting mid-air before crashing onto the table. A sudden, cruel arc of dark red Arbor gold splashed heavily across the immaculate, silver-embroidered cloak of Prince Baelor.

The entire room turned to stone. The heated arguments died instantly in the throats of twenty proud lords. Even Aerion Targaryen, whose eyes had been lost to the flames, slowly turned his gaze toward you, his white eyelashes narrowing as a dangerous stillness settled over his features.

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a frightened dove trapped in a wicker cage, its wings beating so frantically that the sheer terror of it seemed to physically shove you forward. Your arm collided with the edge of the heavy oak, sending an intricate, stag-horn inkwell tumbling onto its side. Black ink bled instantly across the precious vellum maps, mingling with the pool of red wine.

Panic, blinding and absolute, swallowed you whole. You dropped heavily to your knees, your bones cracking against the cold stone floor as you buried your face in the shadows of the table. You had learned through bitter, bloody lessons what it cost to disobey. The fire of vengeance burned hot within your chest, but you could not let it consume you—not yet. Not yet.

"I—I beg of your forgiveness your Grace!" a jagged, pathetic sob rising from your chest as you wept at the feet of the heir to the Iron Throne. "Please, Your Grace... it will not happening again!”

Aerion didn't reach for his dagger. Instead, he leaned back into the shadows of his high chair, the sinister smile returning to his pink lips, He took immense pleasure in watching you in this pathetic state. thoroughly tasting the exquisite flavor of your public ruin. He extended his empty silver goblet over your shaking form, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence of the hall, dripping with a casual, aristocratic malice that felt heavier than a death sentence.

"You know..." he murmured, his words deliberate, ensuring every lord from the Wall to Dorne would hear his vulgarity, "had I not slaughtered your family, I would have bent you over this very table and taken you right in front of them."

A collective, horrified chill ran through the council chamber. A few lords choked on their breath; others stared fixedly at the ruined maps, a tense, heavy sweat breaking out beneath their velvet and fur collars.

Prince Baelor’s dark brows snapped together, a hard, dangerous line grooving his forehead. His face, usually defined by the gentle, just stoicism of the Breakspear, hardened into pure steel. He looked at his nephew, his eyes flashing with a deep, royal disgust that needed no words to rebuke the prince's sickening cruelty.

With quiet, immense dignity, Baelor placed his ringed hand over the stained fabric of his cloak, entirely ignoring the black ink and red wine ruining his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice low, steady, and cutting through the suffocating air like a cool wind.

"You may go," Baelor commanded softly, giving you a singular, firm nod that was less an order and more a sudden shield against the dragon's madness.

As you scrambled out of the Great Council chamber, your knees bleeding and your hands still stained with black ink and Arbor gold, you collapsed into the dim, drafty corridor outside. Your breath came in ragged, terrified gasps. Prince Baelor had given you permission to leave, but you knew the tragic truth of King's Landing, Baelor’s mercy ended at the council doors, And that crushing weight collapsed onto you once more. The sickness in your belly… the bruises on your body ached, the very bruises the prince never allowed to fade. It wouldn't leave you alone in your dreams at night; the moment your mind went blank, it hit you like a whirlwind—no, no... it trapped you beneath the screams of the other slaves you had once reached out a helping hand to back in Essos, But now, in King's Landing, you were nothing but a lowborn, serving in the prince's chambers.

Everyone in the Red Keep knew of the Prince’s sickening obsession with you.

"Remember this every time you scrub my floors until your fingers bleed whore. Your house didn't just fall. I crushed it. And the only reason you still draw breath in King’s Landing is because I enjoy watching a fallen bird try to fly in a cage of my making.”

Those had been his first words, a single, sharp lash that cut deeper than any blade. In your naivety, you had stared at the stone floor and wondered what could possibly be worse. You thought you had felt the absolute bottom of the abyss. You had not foreseen the cruelty that lay waiting in the shadows of his mind.

But the worse came. It always did in King’s Landing. Your brother always used to tell you stories, but he was gone now, In the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms, your father had been branded a traitor. Your brother, having made the fatal choice to stand alongside Ser Duncan the Tall in the Trial of Seven, became the chief quarry of Prince Aerion’s venomous wrath. Both of their heads had been struck off, left to rot upon iron spikes. As for your sister, you knew not her true fate; only the sickening whispers that she had been sold into some wretched brothel. Your house, which had once held its head as high as the dragons themselves, was cast into the dirt, its very name struck from the maps of the realm.

They remembered the very day he took your innocence and stripped away your remaining dignity. Aerion had gathered the lords and the nobles of the realm into his chambers, forcing them to stand as witnesses to his depravity. Behind a thin, white silken curtain, lit by the flickering amber glow of candles, they had all seen your naked, broken silhouette—shaking and bleeding as you wept into the sheets. Aerion had stood before that curtain with a dark, lustful satisfaction on his face, worshipping all over your body, openly parading your ruin as a trophy of his absolute power.

After that day, he had formally made you his personal cupbearer and maid, And every single time, he reminded you of exactly why you were reduced to this state.

Crushed beneath the suffocating weight of everything you had endured, you dragged your feet down into the damp dark of the cellars, toward the bleak corner that was now your quarters. With every step upon the cold stone, you fashioned new ways to slide poison into the prince’s wine. You did it often mulling over sweet sleep, or the strangler’s agonizing choke—yet every time your eyes met the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, a cold doubt bled into your chest, whispering that your blade would shatter before it ever touched his skin.

You pulled the greasy wool blanket to your chin, shivering as the dampness of the stones seeped into your aching bones. louder than the scratching of the rats in the walls. You closed your eyes, clutching your bruised ribs, and prayed to whatever gods were listening that the poison in your mind would one day find its way to his throat.

Dawn arrived without mercy, bleeding a cold, grey light through the high arched windows of the Red Keep. Your ribs still ached from the night before, each breath a sharp reminder of the stones beneath the Great Council table. Yet, there was no time for healing. A servant’s life was measured in paces and duties, and Prince Aerion’s chambers awaited.

When you pushed open the heavy oak doors, the scent of stale summerwine, musk, and spent tallow rushed to greet you, turning your stomach sour.

Those chambers…you were forced to enter every single day in here where he had stripped away your dignity, where a violent shudder took hold of your body every time you crossed the threshold; those cold walls that bore witness to the first night he fucked you so brutally.

On the massive four-poster bed, draped in heavy crimson silks, Aerion lay tangled in linen sheets. Beside him was a girl a young thing with tumbled flaxen hair, her bare shoulder gleaming in the morning gloom. She was a daughter of some minor house, no doubt, or perhaps a high-priced whore from the silk shops of the Street of the Sisters, She was tangled around the prince like ivy, her soft, round thighs draped over his hip, her fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone. She shifted, pressing her naked breasts against his bare chest, her lips parting to murmur a sleepy, breathless endearment against his throat, desperate to stoke the dying embers of his desire for another taste of a prince’s favor.

You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the floor. You did not look at the bed. You did not look at her. To look would mean remembering that night, and every terrible night that came after. To look was to exist, and your only survival lay in being a ghost.

Aerion’s reaction was instant, driven by a volatile, shifting madness.

The lust that had consumed him hours before turned into a low hiss of utter loathing. He gripped the girl's soft wrists with biting strength and threw her arms off him as if she were a bloated corpse that had washed ashore. He bolted upright, his magnificent, sharp features twisted into a mask of pure disgust.

"Get out," he spat, his voice a venomous rasp that shattered the morning quiet.

The girl blinked, startled and trembling, clutching the silk sheets to her chest. M-my prince? I thought—

"I told you to leave!" Aerion roared, his deep lilac eyes flashing with a dangerous, unstable fire. He didn't look at her; he looked past her, his gaze snapping directly to where you stood by the washing basin. “Your breath stinks of sour wine and common blood. Wash yourself or drown in the Blackwater, I care not. Out!”

Weeping into her hands, the girl scrambled from the bed, gathering her discarded shift from the floor in a panic, and fled the chambers barefoot, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You moved like an automaton. You approached the large cedar wardrobe to prepare his attire for the day. You fetched a fresh tunic of black velvet, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen in shimmering red thread, alongside his fine boiled-leather riding boots.

As you worked, you felt it—a heat against the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the hearth.

Aerion had not moved from the bed. He sat amid the ruined silks, his pale, aristocratic chest bare, his silver-gold hair falling like spun glass over his shoulders. His lilac eyes followed your every movement, tracking the heavy sway of your hips beneath your rough, woolen gown, the elegant curve of your throat as you reached for his garments, and the small, trembling grace of your ink-stained fingers.

Beneath the rot of his cruelty, beneath the madness that whispered of dragons and wildfire, lay a dark, unspoken truth. He didn't just want to break you; he was consumed by a feral, morbid, possessive fixation. To him, you were not just another servant to be discarded like the girl who had just fled. You were the blood of a fallen house, a rare, exquisite bird whose wings he had clipped himself. In his twisted mind, your silence was a challenge, your quiet dignity a prize more valuable than any throne. Even considering the state you now found yourself in, the weight of your education and intellect, paired with the prince’s renowned standing across the Seven Kingdoms—ensured you had known it to be true from the very moment you first laid eyes upon him. He hated how much he desired the very creature he had reduced to ash, and that desire only made him more dangerous.

He watched you lift the heavy black tunic, his white eyelashes narrowing as a slow, deliberate smile cut across his lips.

“You did not look at her." Aerion murmured softly from the bed, his tone almost conversational, yet dripping with that familiar, aristocratic malice. “Tell me, my sweet little ruin... did it please you to see how easily I discard those who are not you?”

You kept your gaze firmly on the fine fabric of his tunic, refusing to look into his eyes, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a single word. A reply, even a whispered plea, was a luxury you could not afford. You knew with absolute certainty that one wrong breath, one defiant syllable, and he would have your head struck off and sent straight to join your father in the dirt.

No, you thought, your chest tightening around a cold, hard knot of hatred. Not yet. I will live to see him burn first. I cannot let my family's blood wash away into nothing.

As his words hung heavily in the air, Aerion raised his arms in a fluid, regal motion, silently demanding that you begin the task of dressing him. He sat back slightly, his lilac eyes gleaming with wicked amusement as he watched your frantic, mechanical movements. He took immense pleasure in your silent desperation, thoroughly enjoying your clear, agonizing haste to finish the chore and flee the suffocating confines of his chambers.

Turning your back to him for a single second to retrieve an intricate silver button from the top shelf of the cedar wardrobe, the air behind you suddenly shifted.

Before you could step away, a sudden, heavy warmth bloomed against your skin. His palm was large, burning hot, and ruthlessly possessive as his fingers splayed out, completely cupping the entire curve of your butt cheeck right through the coarse fabric of your gown. A violent, electric shudder tore clean through your body, freezing the breath in your throat. Before you could even gasp, his other hand slid smoothly around the narrow curve of your waist, his long fingers trailing up your ribs with a sickening, lazy familiarity.

"You tremble so beautifully," he whispered, his hot, wine-scented breath ghosting directly against the shell of your ear, sending a sickening chill down your spine.

The sheer terror of his touch, mixed with the memory of that brutal night, broke through your restraint. With a sudden, panicked jolt, you pulled away, stumbling half a step backward toward the heavy wardrobe to break his hold.

Aerion’s features hardened instantly. The lazy, amused smile vanished from his pink lips, replaced by a dark, volatile fury that twisted his divine jawline into something monstrous. His white eyelashes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“Do you dare?” Aerion hissed, stepping out of the bed, his bare chest heaving as he closed the distance between you like a predator cornering a wounded animal. ”Do you dare defy a prince of the realm?”

His eyes flashed with a hideous, burning spark, as though his very blood were simmering with an unstable, volatile heat. In his fury, those magnificent lilac eyes darkened until they were almost black, swallowing the light of the room.

Before you could even turn around, his hands slammed onto your waist from behind, his fingers digging like iron claws into your hips as he violently forced you down across the table. “No!”-Stop, your majesty I - “ you gasped, trying to push him away, but he didn't budge an inch.

The wooden basin and the silver buttons you held clattered and crashed noisily onto the stone floor, scattering into the shadows. He pressed the full, suffocating weight of his body against your back, pinning you flat against the wood. A soft, breathless groan escaped his mouth, a sound of pure, carnal satisfaction that turned your stomach sour.

He leaned down, his hot breath ghosting over your neck before his mouth found your earlobe. He caught the soft skin between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to bruise, sending a sharp jolt of pain through your jaw, As he pressed his entire length against you, the absolute filth of his touch made you feel physically sick. You could feel the rigid, dangerous heat of his desire through the coarse fabric of your woolen gown. He was doing this on purpose not just out of lust, but to remind you exactly who held your life in his hands. Every morning, the cruelty grew heavier; every single day, he increased the dose of your torment just to see how much it took to make you break.

The venom of your hatred finally boiled over. You choked down the sob in your throat and turned your face just enough to bare your teeth at him.

"I am no whore," you hissed, the words cutting through the quiet room like a poisoned blade.

Aerion paused, his teeth still brushing against your ear. For a second, the room went deathly still. Then, a low, cruel laugh rumbled deep in his chest a sound filled with so much aristocratic mockery it made your blood run cold.

“No?” Aerion murmured, He seemed to taste your audacious words upon his tongue. his grip tightening on your waist until you gasped from the pain. He slid one hand slowly up your ribs, his fingers tracing the fragile line of your collarbone with terrifying possessiveness. "Your father died as a traitor, and your house is nothing but ash and crows. You breathe because I allow it. You eat because I feed you.”

“In Westeros…..a whore gets paid for her flesh," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear once more, dripping with venomous amusement. "You do it to keep your head on your shoulders. Tell me... does that not make you the cheapest whore in the Seven Kingdoms?”

He didn't permit you to say a word, while your heart leaped into your throat. Without a word of warning, his hand shot down, shoving the coarse wool of your skirt upward. His burning fingers slipped beneath the fabric, sliding directly between your thighs until his palm brushed against the slick, undeniable dampness in your enterence. You strained to resist, but your efforts were entirely futile.

A small, breathless whimpering gasp escaped your lips before you could choke it back, echoing helplessly through the quiet room.

Prince Aerion let out a short, low laugh—a sound of pure triumph and aristocratic malice that cut half in you. He paused his hand there, his fingers possessively mapping your heat.

“Just as expected of a whore,” he murmured against between your neck and shoulder, his lips curling into a cruel, knowing grin. “Your body knows its master, my lovely lovely little dove. You can whisper lies of hatred all you please... but your flesh doesn't lie to me. —I give n-“

The heavy oak doors groaned as Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard rapped his armored gauntlet against the wood. He bowed his head and paid his respects before the princeling. His muffled voice cut clean through the frantic beating of your heart. “Forgive my insolence, Your Grace. King Daeron requests your immediate presence in the Small Council. The lords from Riverrun have arrived.”

The interruption was like a bucket of ice water over the prince's madness. Aerion stopped, his fingers freezing against your thigh, his breath ragged and hot against your bare shoulder. Your wide, striking eyes wandered over the dark silhouette of the prince, for one agonizing second, you thought he might ignore the guard completely, that he would rip your gown away and consume you anyway. A cold, biting shame washed over you, swallowing you whole.

For a single heartbeat, he faltered. You could see the sharp cruelty lingering in his gaze as he planted a lingering kiss upon your naked shoulder.

Before he pulled away, he pressed the wettest heaviest and loudest kiss against your lips aswell, the sound echoing sharply in the tense silence of the room. He slowly dragged his hand out from beneath your skirt, slick with your undeniable moisture, and lifted his glistening fingers to your face, holding them right before your eyes.

“Open your mouth.” he commanded, his voice dark and dripping with anticipation.

You clenched your jaw tight, refusing to obey, staring back at him with unyielding defiance. But Prince Aerion did not like to be kept waiting. Instantly, his other hand shot up, his iron fingers wrapping ruthlessly around your throat, squeezing just enough to cut off your air. The sudden, agonizing rush of pain forced your mouth to open automatically in a desperate gasp for breath.

Taking immediate advantage, he slid his wet fingers past your lips, forcing them deep into your mouth. He made you taste your own ruined, betrayed body-forcing you to swallow the very evidence of your and his desire.

“Mmm... “Aerion hummed, a low, vibration of pure satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he watched your eyes wide with tears and fury. Beautiful he thinks. So beautiful.

He let out a soft, pleased chuckle at your utter humiliation. Slowly, his grip on your throat loosened, his fingers trailing lazily down your neck. He leaned in one last time, pressing a hard kiss against the sharp curve of your soft chin. His lips felt as though they were tasting your skin.

This was his routine, and you knew it all too well. He manipulated you with the precision of a master musician playing a tragic song. First, he would break you, crushing your pride and ruining your spirit beneath his boots, and then... he would whisper those intoxicating, beautiful words into your ear to piece you back together. Every single time, he left you utterly ruined and turned upside down.

Smoothing down his tunic, he turned toward the Kingsguard who stood waiting at the door but as he passed your side, his hand shot out with lightning speed, delivering a sharp, mocking smack across your butt cheecks. And he disappeared before the wide silhouette of the Kingsguard.

Your whole body shook with rage at yourself. You hated that you couldn't control your own body. Every time you saw the prince, you felt like you were betraying yourself, betraying your family, your house. And you hated that you were completely helpless to stop him.

You curled into yourself on the floor, weeping silently in the dusty morning light, knowing that no matter how much you prayed for his death, a part of you was already rotting in his cage. Yet, you would not yield. You would not grant him that victory.

While the entire court whispered of nothing but Baelor Targaryen’s ascension to the Iron Throne, and the palace shook with rumors of the ailing King I. Daeron you were tasked with overseeing the clearing of the dungeons under the cover of the chaos. It was there, amidst the damp shadows, that you came face-to-face with Ser Varamon Grafton the man who had served as your father’s loyal squire for as long as you could remember. He was a mountain of a man, Toppling him would be no easy feat, of course. A tempest of indescribable emotions stirred within your chest; for the first time since you had set foot in King’s Landing, you were looking upon one of your own kind. You found yourself wondering, with a lingering sense of awe, how he had ever managed to survive though now he appeared wasted and gaunt in the deep gloom of the dungeons; yet, he had lost none of his terrifying silhouette. You could not speak with him for long—in truth, you had barely spoken at all—for the guards were crawling everywhere, and the very instant they noticed you, it would have been the end of you both. But he was a sharp man, and the moment his eyes fell upon you, he understood. A sudden, fragile hope swelled within your chest, knowing you were no longer entirely alone in this den of vipers. Yet, the freezing truth struck you just as quickly, turning your blood to ice: Sir Varamon was now the only soul left alive of your fallen house.

Leaving the dungeons, through the great balcony-corridor where the palace's breathtaking view and the dazzling Valyrian stonework framed by its sweetest-scented flowers met, you were going to the kitchen as fast as possible, almost running, with the adrenaline of the shock sinking into your very depths. In your head, many plans were spinning, everything was tangled—after the happiness of seeing Ser Varamon and even, thank the gods, speaking with him, you were happy for the first time since you had been in King’s Landing.

You were drowned so deeply in the dark well of your thoughts that you failed to note the blood of the dragon passing right before your eyes. In the next heartbeat, your brow collided with a stone wall in a sharp, resounding burst of agony, and the bucket in your hand went clattering against the floor with a deafening rattle. When you forced your head up, a pair of mismatched eyes-two different colors, one green one blue. sharp and probing were already staring down at you. His arms were extended to either side, not yet touching you, and yet the sheer weight of his presence made you feel far more than any physical touch ever could.

Like everyone else within the walls of this treacherous court, he knew your story. He was his father’s son through and through—shrewd, quiet, and wrapped in a veneer of gentle courtesy, yet he carried an undercurrent of danger that was no less threatening. He did not bleed a paralyzing venom with every breath like Aerion did, but his stillness alone was enough to remind you of the dragon sleeping beneath the skin.

You bit your lip in burning shame and bowed your head toward the stone floor. "Forgive me, Your Grace," you pleaded, You made sure your voice sounded fragile; “I have been working long hours and the weariness overtook me. I did not see you, truly. It shall not happen again.” that was how things worked here. The fewer problems you caused the highborn especially those of royal blood—the less suspicion you would draw.

For now, you had to play your part well and breed no trouble; otherwise, there would be no escaping the strangling grip of these poisoned vines. You had already drawn too many eyes upon yourself of late. You needed to gather your wits, steel your resolve, and find a path out of this living hell before the castle swallowed you whole.

“Calm yourself, girl," he said, his voice a cool, steady murmur that seemed to quiet the frantic beating of your heart. "There is no need for such trembling. The Red Keep has a way of stealing a body’s wits when the nights grow long and the chores turn heavy.

As he spoke, his gaze lingered upon the violet and crimson bruises that marred your neck, stark and impossible to hide against the pale brilliance of your skin. He had noted them—of course he had. It was Aerion’s sigil, you thought bitterly; a signature everyone within the keep recognized on sight. It was his marking. For a fleeting second, a memory from a time before clawed it’s way back into your mind; you could feel his wet breath against your ear as if it were happening all over again, Those searing, venomous words and barbed glittering eyes whispering, “Everyone will know you are mine. You have nothing left to lose anyway. Just as I took everything you owned, I have taken you as well. They will know you writhe for me, that you burn for me. They will know how meekly you obey.”

Yet no one, not even those who shared his dragon blood, dared to speak of it; they preferred to keep their distance, desperate to shield themselves from the court's venomous intrigues. A sudden wave of shame washed over you, striking your body like a physical jolt. Your flesh flushed a deep, burning crimson, rising to match the very color of your wounds. You tried, with desperate care, to tug your collar higher to hide the shame, but the young prince merely shook his head. His demeanor cooled, hardening into an even more distant reserve, and with a tight, subtle nod of his head, he left you ruined beneath the weight of his silence.

In a manner you could not divine—especially now, while he sat chained and rotting in the depths of the dungeons he had managed to slip the Tears of Lys to you by way of a kitchen maid. It astounded you that even from behind iron bars, his reach could extend into the light, utilizing the keep’s hidden, shadowed veins and silent conspirators to do his bidding. He could move like a ghost through a court so teeming with life, never once drawing a glance. Your father’s faith in him had been well-earned, after all. But You had to tread with utmost caution; Aerion and his rabble were watching your every move, their eyes following your every breath.

The sun was a sinking wound on the horizon when you brought the prince his evening meal. You had weighed the danger over and over in your thoughts, steeling yourself to find the exact, lethal moment to strike. Yet, the instant the door swung open, a hellish heat crashed against your chest, making the very air too thick to breathe. The chamber was drowning in warmth, a heat furnace. You refused to look at him, keeping your eyes averted as you set down his supper and made ready to flee the chamber. The air was so thick with that infernal heat that your cheeks burned as if caught by a stray spark.

And there he bided—the prince, idly carving the stifling air with a blade of dark, rippled Valyrian steel.

You found yourself fumbling, your hands shaking as a breath caught and withered in your throat. It was a familiar torment, arriving without fail. Did it spring from terror? From grief? From loathing? Or did your only hope of escape lie hidden within their very midst? Or was your soul torn apart by the weight of them all combined? You wanted nothing more than to break from his gaze and vanish into the shadows outside. You spun around quickly and made for the door, “Stay.” he commanded, his voice catching in his throat as his eyes crawled slowly down your body, taking you in inch by inch. With your head bowed low, you turned back toward him, offering no words and never once lifting your eyes to meet his face.

His gaze lingered upon your flushed cheeks, before dropping lower to the hard, His eyes dropped to your full, heavy breasts beneath the fabric, and finally settling upon your lips’ bitten raw and bleeding from your own anxious teeth. He lingered there a while in that fashion, suspended in the quiet of his own thoughts.

Then he sank slowly back into the velvet cushions of his chair, his breathing ragged, his lilac eyes dark with a feverish, feral hunger. He opened his legs and patted his thighs with a slow, deliberate stroke, never once breaking his gaze from you as a breathless smile twisted his lips.

“Come here.” he urged, his gaze burning through your clothes, you can feel it absolute. His eyes stripped you bare, a brazen and unmistakable invitation to the horrors yet to come.Looking you through the dim candles. “Do not make your prince beg. Come, sit, and quench this fire. Is the room a bit warm for you?” He asked,

a cruel amusement dancing in his voice.

“Has the dragon’s blood made you uncomfortable?”

Never once did you speak, keeping your chin tucked in silent rebellion. Aerion bided his time for a moment, his breathing quickening as the temper flared within him; As his fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, the sharp, scraping shriek of steel and the near-white strain of his knuckles bore grim witness that his patience had been stretched to its absolute limit. With a sudden roar of movement, his hand struck the wood, sending ink and dark wine spilling noisily onto the ground. He was on his feet in a flash, closing the distance between you so fast your senses reeled, a sudden chill washing over your entire body.

No, you were done enduring this. Refusing to let history repeat itself, you spun toward the door to run. But you only made it a single step before Aerion snared your arm, spinning you back as his palm struck your cheek with a force that surely echoed through every stone of the castle. This cheek was certainly going to bruise you think, a sour taste filled your mouth for a moment, Your lip had burst, you supposed. Your sight went black for a terrifying second. Your mouth felt like ash, your lip had burst open, and your head reeled from the sheer weight of the blow. “Let me go!” Your voice came out thin and broken, a shattered thing. but in this room, only the prince’s word was law. You tried to scream, but your throat was caught in a knot. For a fleeting moment, a pathetic look crossed his face, his brows knitting together in an unexpected frown, you almost thought he would let you go, but then the illusion shattered, leaving only the hollow, ancient malice that truly ruled him.

He trapped you between his massive frame and the door. The guards were out there, close enough to touch, you’re so sure of that but the silence from the hallway was absolute. The dagger in his hands was a cold line of steel against your throat, contrasting with the hot, spiced air of his breath on your cheek a touch both feather-light and crushingly heavy. The moment his lips brushed your skin, his lashes trembled it bore the look of a lover finally reunited with her beloved but it was only a look, for this was Aerion, an unpredictable and unmeasurable force. A savagery that held cruelties no one could even begin to imagine. He began to kiss the very cheek he had slapped, his lips moving with a slow, meticulous focus that soon covered your entire face. He tasted your skin and the blood in your trembling lips, not merely for pleasure, but because he wanted it to seep into the very marrow of every bone in your body. You couldn't see his expression through the veil of your tears; everything was just a terrifying, dark silhouette. Your jaw throbbed, your lip stung, and his tongue forced its way against your lips, demanding surrender.

Your frantic struggles meant nothing to him. The blade pressed tighter into your skin, drawing you to the brink. Yet, with a sickening tenderness that made his previous violence unbelievable, his free hand gently caressed your hair, And now, he was squeezing the soft flesh of your leg.

“You always push us to this edge.” he whispered, his patience wearing thin. An alliance with the blood of the dragon is a sacred honor. You should be proud that it is you I want.

“Take your hands off me! You are hurting me!”

you shrieked, the words tearing from your throat.

But the sheer hunger in his gaze was a physical heat, and combined with the sweltering room and the deceptive gentleness of his mouth, your own body betrayed you—growing damp and heavy with a desire you never asked for. a treacherous warmth began to pool between your thighs. You loathed him, but your pulse raced to meet his touch anyway. In that horrific moment, the deepest hatred you felt wasn't for the prince, but for yourself, completely paralyzed by a twisted betrayal of your own flesh.

The dagger left his hand with a dull thud upon the wood as his palms clamped around your waist, forcing your steps backward until the edge of the bed caught your knees. He pulled you against his chest with a desperate, crushing strength, leaving no space between you. His mouth tore into the crook of your neck, his lips devouring the soft, heated skin with a primal lust. The bruises already there were deepening even further. In his mind, there was no woman more beautiful, you were only his. Only.

His grip moved from your waist to the curve of your hips. He coveted them fiercely; so many times he had paused just to watch those hips shift as you bent to your tasks, using the memory to pleasure himself in the dark. That you dared to deny him, that you did not run to his chambers the instant he wished it, made his blood boil. he left bites from your neck down to your breasts. He took your already hardened nipple into his mouth through the cloth, He did not bite hard; instead, he took it into his mouth with immense softness and pleasure, sucking gently through the fabric. My prince, d-don't," you tried to push him away, but it was in vain he was definitively stronger than you, and you could not move. A tense snarl tightly locked Aerion’s jaw as his hands tightened their fierce grip. A tense snarl tightly locked Aerion’s jaw as his hands tightened their fierce grip. "Save that sweet tone of yours for when I fuck you ruinous.”

With a savage twist of his wrists, he ripped the coarse fabric of your dress right down the seam, flinging the ruined threads away until you were left bare.

You tried to shield your nakedness, your tears weeping blindly into the rich silk pillows. Yet, he pulled your hands away, gently turning your palms upward to press his lips against the soft skin. The sheer madness of his gentleness a stark, terrifying contrast to the monster he had been a moment prior left your senses reeling. He had used you before, but never with a gentleness behind which you could not guess what lurked.

“You are beautiful.” he whispered, laying you back upon the bed like a conqueror claiming his finest spoils.

His palms captured your full breasts again, his teeth catching and biting your nipple until a soft gasp tore from your throat. Your hands reached up, embedding themselves in the thick silver of his hair. He tilted his face, his cruel Valyrian violet eyes locking onto yours while his mouth remained fastened to your skin. And then, his fingers slipped into the slick, heavy heat between your legs, suddenly driving deep inside you. A broken sob escaped your lips as the terror and pain slowly began to blur, overtaken by the dark, unwanted tide of ecstasy.

His fingers slid deep inside your tight cunt within the slick, wet sound. and the ecstasy dragged you under like a dark quicksand. Your vision trembled, your thoughts blurring into nothingness. When he raised his face to press his lips against yours, you didn't pull away this time, you met his mouth, he entwined his tongue with yours in a fierce, possessive swirl and Aerion laughed into the kiss, drinking down the soft, broken whimpers that spilled from your throat.

"You can only take what is never truly yours.” you panted, faltering for a brief moment, the words scarce louder than a sigh. “Yet you are here, beneath me.” he answered, his purple eyes burning with a terrifying triumph as his hands moved fiercly aganist your skin to seal his claim. He seemed so radiant, so consumed by that dragon heat; in the shadows of the room, brilliant green flames seemed to leap from his eyes. You thought your mind was playing tricks on you, a mere trick of the light—but no, he felt more like a myth than a real man.

His mouth drifted lower, searing the line of your neck, your collarbone, and the soft slope of your stomach before burying itself between your inner thighs. Keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he pressed wet, deliberate kisses into your skin, his teeth nipping cruelly until it stung, savoring the absolute power he held over you. You were entirely undone; your moans broke free into the quiet room, your gaze drifting as your fingers twisted desperately into the heavy fabric of the bedding.

He rose slowly to his feet, discarding his breeches and his tunic in swift, fluid motions. Free of his clothes, his cock sprang forth as if finally drawing breath its head angry, twitching, and already slick with precum. In that dim light, he looked more breathtakingly beautiful than any of the gods from the old books your father used to read to you about the Andals.

With a brutal ease, he hooked your legs over his broad shoulders, the muscles across his chest tightening with the movement. He pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss against your ankle, though his face remained dark with unbridled lust. By now, the desperate ache in your belly had turned into a torturous pain, and as you writhed beneath him, Aerion did not miss your agony.

“That’s my pretty whore.” he murmured.

You were trying not to look at his face as much as possible; his hand found your chin and locked your gaze into his eyes. He positioned himself at your slick entrance, then suddenly threw his full weight forward, driving deep inside you as a delicious groan tore from his throat. His eyes rolled back with sheer ecstasy as his cock forced its way into your very depths. But you felt no joy, but the pleasure you felt just a moment ago suddenly disappeared sharp pain pierced through you.

“A-Aerion!”

The prince tightened his iron grip upon your legs, his eyes flashing. ”What makes you think you may speak my name?” He demanded.

A bitter whimper spilled from your lips as he began to quicken his pace, his thrusts growing harder. With every brutal stroke against your pelvis, the biting pain began to blur, turning into a sweet, aching throb of pleasure. His heavy hands remained clamped upon your chest, kneading and squeezing the soft flesh of your breasts.

With every savage thrust, his breaths grew heavier, turning into low, ragged growls. You were caught so deeply in the swelling tide of ecstasy that all speech was stolen from you, each powerful drive causing the heavy bed to creak and groan beneath his weight. He looked down, his eyes filled with a fierce, possessive adoration as he watched your breasts bounce with his movements. His thumb found your clitoris, stroking it harder with every thrust. A wave of pleasure consumed your body, your eyes tried to shut, but you couldn't close them as your tears had completely run dry.

“Touch yourself," he commanded suddenly. The words were steeped in a thick, lustful heat, dripping from his lips like warm honey.

Your hands moved instinctively, finding your own breasts and belly, to pinch and caress your tight, hardened body. Aerion threw his head back with a sharp grunt of satisfaction. After a few final, deep strokes that drove into your very core, he spent his seed inside you, holding himself flush against your hips to ensure not a single drop escaped. He let his full weight settle over you, remaining utterly still for a long moment as his mouth buried itself in the crook of your neck, suckling the damp skin. Your body shook violently in the aftermath, trembling like a lone leaf falling from a winter tree. Neither of you spoke a heavy, breathless silence hung between you, thick with a lustful tension that said far more than any words ever could.

He drew himself out slowly and rose from the tangled sheets, crossing the room to lift the half-spilled goblet of wine from the table. He took a slow sip, his lips curling into that familiar, mocking sneer.

“Perhaps, a dragon’s seed make you noble once more.” he murmured, finding his own words so amusing that a sharp bark of laughter broke from his chest.

But you could scarce even hear him through the thick, suffocating fog that filled your mind.

Aerion’s voice murmured on, but the words meant nothing to you now. You lay there, watching the firelight twist into grotesque shapes against the ceiling beams, your flesh still tight with a lingering, throbbing warmth. He slid back beside you with sluggish indifference, talking into the quiet. dark. Perhaps he took you once or twice more, but your mind had already drifted far beyond his reach.