River

However, the nightmare did not go away when you awoke. Not here- not in the south, in the heart of king's landing. The heat baking the wet air becoming almost as oppressive as milk of the poppy felt on the tongue. It made you move slower in your cotton dresses- made you take a second longer than normal to answer one of the southron courtier's questions. You knew not how your granduncle ever adjusted to this- how he still kept his wits to sharp. You missed the riverlands, you missed being the smart one of your siblings. Now, beneath the southern sun, you felt unable to do anything at all. As if the prince had just cut your tongue out himself on your wedding night.

It had been your granduncle's idea for the match. Lord River's had offered you, his kinsmen's niece, when the topic of the king's widowed son arose while riding to a tourney in the riverlands. Maekar had plenty of sons and daughters, marriage was not a truly pressing matter, but the prince Baelor had been worrying for his brother's loneliness. House blackwood, with plenty of heirs, had one to spare. You had gone unwed, despite being the same age as Maekar's eldest. It was just not something you excelled at. Reading, studying, bothering your uncle, politicking, archery, and adventuring the lakes had been your favorites- courting was never your exceptionality. Both you and your sister had flowered early, and she had done well and got her husband quick- but you ignored the matter entirely.

That was, until it was chosen for you.

Maekar had not been unwelcome. Your uncle and him had gotten along well exceptionally when they'd met at tourneys in their youth. He'd had no daughters himself to offer, so a niece was the closest thing he could give the prince. Despite being the same age as your own father, you found Maekar's company semi-enjoyable when you'd first met him. He listened as you and your uncle went back and forth in conversation, answered your questions about the fighting knights on the field, and seemed to tolerate your presence enough. His eldest, Daeron, had accompanied him to the tourney but he had left right after the introductions to chase after a server carrying wine.

However, after being wed, you'd come to realize you'd made an egregious error to conflate Maekar's fondness for your uncle with fondness for yourself- by which to say, he had none. You thought, often, that he just viewed you as another child added to his hoard. Another responsibility to weigh heavy on the shoulders of the prince. He had a great many, you'd come to learn in your first moons in the Red Keep. Or, at least, he perceived he had a great many. Always so stressed for a fourth son, you'd observe while sitting at his side. You liked to stay there- as you knew not much about anyone else at court. There was your granduncle, Bloodraven, who your mother said had accidentally been at Raventree for your birth. However, beyond being held by the albino man as a wriggling infant, you had little else for interaction with the master of whisperers.

Maekar did not seem to entirely hate or love your presence at his side. You kept yourself well-maintained with the help of your handmaidens, with a new love for your black and red wardrobe- having already taken to the colors since you were little, so the adjustment was not a great burden. Maekar always wanted you dressed in the colors when at his side, just as he kept his sons. While eating with him and keeping a watchful eye, you'd come to learn your place to the prince: an accessory of his own image. The young, virile wife who he wished to have the court see as loyal, dutiful, and little of any other substance. It was not a hard roll to fulfill, even if it was grating to your self-esteem, but the pay off was worth it. At least, you thought so in the beginning.

You knew it was the wish of many girls at court to be wedded to a prince. Plenty had tried to seek your friendship for that sole reason after your wedding. Little blonde girls of the reach or redheads of the stormlands following at your skirts- some too timid to even open their mouths, just gawking at you hoping you'd speak first, while others were more bold and grabbed your arm to pretend you'd been friends since girlhood. They'd wish to seek out one of your stepson's attentions, thinking they'd get to have a life of comfort with the simple pay of bedding, bearing children, and playing the dull, pretty wife. You were one of them once, you'd think to yourself while lying beneath your quilts. Riding south with the only thought of your future luxuries and the parties of court.

The bedding and courtly appearances were not too bad, you thought. You'd been terrified your wedding night, suspended on the marriage bed by yourself with only the sound of the witnesses' breath behind the paper partitioner filling the chambers as you awaited the prince. Maekar was not truly too bad with it, though. It felt like you'd been torn apart the first few times. He was thick and he had little patience- always wishing to take you immediately with never much thought of getting you worked up first. He had no patience for it. Eventually, though, you found pleasure in his rough, merciless poundings- with help from your own hand, which Maekar had little offense for. Or, at least, if he did he made no mention of it. Which would be odd for your husband, as you found him a rather catty thing- always sucking on his teeth or rolling his eyes at his sons and brothers.

The beddings, even though you had found your own ways to please yourself (or coax maekar into) during, you were happy were few and far between. About once a moon at minimum after your bleed, when he knew you'd be the most fertile. He did not want to try more often. He'd already had plenty of sons and daughters with his first wife, any he had with you would be of little consequence. More a burden to him than anything. If you found yourself needing outside of it, you found comfort in your fingers. The knights of the yard were tempting things to indulge with, but you knew better than to risk your station- especially with your granduncle always looming. As well, it would be more work than worth just for the feeling of something between your legs. They were better visuals than actual assistants, anyways.

However, your issue- while you found little happiness and autonomy in your marriage- didn't truly lay with Maekar. It came in the form of the silver-haired monster that followed at his heels wherever he went.

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You had not met Aerion at that tourney with Maekar. He had been riding below while you and your uncle watched from the stands. You remembered, vividly, the time you first saw his face. He had just unhorsed a bracken boy, something your uncle took great pleasure in- and, therefore, you as well. He had a chicken leg in hand as he waived it in the air and cheered, while you stood at his side doing the same. Maekar had been sitting, calmly clapping for his son's victory while most likely giving you and your uncle a side eye that you could not see. Aerion had taken his helm off, then, and you had almost stopped your celebration of the bracken's loss. Violet disdain echoing in your very bones as he stared you down.

Aerion was a handsome prince, that there was no denying. He looked almost like a dragon, was your first thought. The scrawls of the extinct beasts in the tomes you read always had such sharp jaws and pointed snouts. He had that echoed in his own face, and you wondered more than once if Maekar had the same, hidden beneath the white scratchy beard he had. The two were near-mirror images of each other anyways. All except for the eyes. Maekar's were hardened, cold like indigo. He'd seen too much and cared too deeply to have room for much else behind those irises. Aerion's were bright and entrapping, burning like a bright fuchsia flame. They sucked you in like a whirlpool and held you under his gaze like a cage of steel.

It was obvious that your husband's eldest children had no like for you. You were the same age as Daeron, his eldest. Your mother had mused that perhaps you'd find friendship with him like you found with your male cousins but he was the one of Maekar's brood you saw the least, other than Aemon. But you wondered if that even counted, since he was off in Oldtown. Your singular interaction with your bookish stepson had been at the wedding feast when he and little Aegon had tripped over your skirts while running away from their sisters.

As for Daeron, you knew little of him. He was blonde, unlike your other stepsons. You wondered often, sitting across from the boy at feasts, where he and his little sister inherited that from. Their mother had been a Dayne yet not a singular one got her looks. It was a peculiar thought to you that you might befall the same fate. Birthing one or two babes who looked nothing like you, and would grow up to despise you as your their half-siblings did. Well... you were not entirely sure Daeron despised you, necessarily. Most interactions you had were on opposite sides of his father, your head bowed as Maekar growled curses at the man-boy.

You remembered one time when Daeron had been dragged back by Aerion and one of their knights from a ditch in flea bottom. You had been in your husband's chambers the night prior for your monthly bedding. He had been rougher with you. Grabbing your hips from behind as he fucked you like a dog. His grip so hard your skin still bloomed red and purple in the shape of his fingers in the morning. You had been running your fingers over the bloom as Maekar had been screaming his head off on the other side of the chamber. Your body, in naught but a shift, hidden behind a paper partitioner. You had found the ground a comfort, in that moment. The cool stone against your backside grounding you, a distraction from the yelling. Your mind wandering off to far off places as your fingers just traced, over and over.

Somewhere, in your trance, you had felt something creep up between your shoulderblades. It felt almost like black oil, ebbing out in a spider's web to creep up the nape of your neck and into your hair. The strands curtained your vision almost like a horses' blinders as you had your knees up to your chest and your head bowed. You had to move your head to get the mane away from your vision, looking over your shoulder to see where the spider's fingers originated. Your shadowed gaze meeting nothing else but a bright, illuminating flame- and one beneath it that looked as if it had been poured upon with water and weighed down without oxygen.

Maekar had sat Daeron in a chair by the window, the farthest he could get the boy from him in the chamber as he raged. Aerion stood behind him, leaning back against the stones with his arms across his chest. Their father did not see the crack in the paper partitioner, giving his boys view of his own secret as he lambasted them for theirs. Daeron's gaze was more forgiving in that moment, but he still looked at you as if you were nothing- like he was looking through you to dee something else beneath. Something of no consequence, like a kitten abandoned on the riverbank that was soon to be taken by a catfish or eaten from the inside out by parasites.

Aerion's eyes were scorching, almost like the light that filtered in through the seven-pointed star's window in the sept. He looked like the warrior with the sun at his back, arms crossed and judging. You thought to yourself that he saw you as nothing more than a raven to be crushed in the skies beneath the dragon's shadow.

It was that moment you looked back on often. It was there you thought, with Aerion seeing something he was never meant to see, that started the watching.

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You remembered the first time you truly noticed the watching. The first few moons, you just assumed it a natural curiosity or hatred from all of your husband's children. All of them scoping out the new woman that would be entering the family fray. Aegon, however, eventually warmed up to you when he realized you knew of the knights he loved to ramble about. The girls also seemed to take to you after they saw you knew how to braid (and that you didn't care to scold them for their mischief) and from there it turned into a more sisterly relationship than stepmother one. But Aerion's watching never went away.

He still looked at you like a stranger or an opponent, even after the moons waned into half a year. At that point, you began to wonder if it was more jealousy than anything. Any time you were not near the boy was immediately at your husband's feet. His younger self- his little shadow- always at his father's side. That angle you could've understood. You almost had sympathy for him. You had backed off during familial gatherings, after thinking that. Let the boy have his time and space with his dad, but even then the glare did not stop. As well, Maekar had begun to grow annoyed of that as well- thinking it was an embarrassment (on top of his other embarrassments) that his wife was not at his side. He told you to model yourself after Baelor's wife, to stay constantly by his arm.

The arrangement eventually culminated into you on Maekar's arm and Aerion on the other side of him or walking behind. You preferred him at his father's side. Then, there was a physical buffer between you two. Between you and that poisoning, crawling violet that would wrap around your waist and nape when he stood behind.

It got to the point that you eventually gathered the courage to mention your discomfort to your husband around the eighth moon of marriage. It was a quiet supper, one he requested to have you with in his chambers. You knew his intention for the night as your monthly bleed had ended, but you found yourself coming to your wit's end with his second son.

"He has just- he is unnerving me!" You had eventually found yourself huffing and pushing away your venison in frustration at your husband's excuses. "It's agitating to my being in ways i do not have the words for- and you make no attempt to alleviate it." You had stood and shook your head, turning away towards the window to get a breath of the cold salt spray that wafted up from below.

Maekar, himself, gave naught but a groan and slammed his cutlery down. You could hear the scratch of his beard against his hand as he rubbed it in annoyance. Paired with the scrape of his chair against the stones as he moved to join you.

"Am I not making an attempt to alleviate you now?" Your husband countered as he moved to stand behind you, looking out at the blackwater. One hand going to your hip to pull you back against him. "I had the kitchens make you a fine meal."

You found yourself not amused, and jerked your back away from his chest. Grabbing the stones in-front of you with a scowl. "You say that as if I am the issue here" your tone came out more a snap than the sadness that truly troubled you deep inside. You tried your hardest not to take the arrangement personally. You would tell yourself over and over that the prince simply acted as a man of his age and station. That it was a more comfortable life style than being shipped off to a lord who was truly in need of a wife, who would've worked you like a broodmare. You tried to remind yourself to be grateful and courteous and everything else that was needed from a lady. But still, you found the misery welling up inside you until it reached your throat and held it so tight you became a miserable, vindictive thing you'd never been before.

"Then do not make yourself one" Maekar responded in kind. He did this whenever you did something that vaguely displeased him- responding to you like you were one of his children. It made you feel the smallest you've ever felt. Like you were stupid and unable to behave yourself like the proper woman he wanted.

The silence that followed felt like it accumulated in your jaw. Part of you wished to snap back but you knew it would do no good. Fighting with men, while a fun passtime in girlhood, did not transfer well to being a wife. The other part felt that pressure in your jaw begin to spread. Traitorously, the frustration found its way to your eyes and began to sting as you stared out in the water. Your lungs aching with the need for more air.

Maekar, for once, took a gentle mercy on you. He reached back to the table to get the pitcher of sweet wine and your goblet. He poured it for you, something a prince should never do- something only a servant's hands does in the red keep. But you were away from eyes, away from court, and here he deigned it safe to take care of you- if just this once. You still hated it, hated how small it made you feel. The part of your mind that never stopped running whispering that it wasn't true care, like he would've showed hid first wife. You were not his equal or love in that measure. You were just another broken child in his hoard he had to piece back together after tearing down.

Yet, you took the goblet anyways- if only to save yourself the embarrassment of allowing tears to fall in front of him.

It had been an hour after (and a few more goblets of wine) when your husband took you to bed. The drink gave your world a sloshing feeling at the edges. Like you could just tumble over with every turn of your head or body. However, you were not entirely gone to your cups. You could still feel and move your body at will and you saw pretty clearly, until the thrusts of your husband beneath you blurred the chambers just slightly. Your thighs had to stretch to accommodate the muscular width of maekar's waist beneath you as you rode him. Serving to only open you further to the merciless girth of his cock. Your husband's lazy groans filled the chambers, paired with the sounds of wet smacks as Maekar's fingers kneaded the fat of your ass, jostling you up and down every last inch.

It was this type of fucking with Maekar that you eventually found your body looking forward to. You felt to useless, so unwanted at court and the rest of your life in king's landing. Feeling your husband like this- so bestial and ravenous as he pounded up into your heat- made you feel needed. The wine swirled deep in your belly, itching at your overstimulated cunt alongside the wall Maekar's head continued to slam into. The impatient man unable to allow you to ride him for too long without bending his legs and digging his heels into the mattress to take over your rhythm.

"Ha- ah-" the moans that came from you were more like breathy cries of pure need. Torn from your throat with each slap of Maekar's hips against yours. He would continue like this until he got his full and your muscles gave out from the force of his cock. Doubled over him, chest to chest as he was leaned back against the headboard. Tits rubbing against his bare chest as he had been too focused on getting to the actual fucking to fully pull your shift off. Instead, he tugged the fabric down until your breasts were out, hauled the hem up over your ass, and that was well enough for the prince.

Your cheek had been pressed to his shoulder when you saw it. Eyebrows screwed up and hands shaking where they gripped his bicep. All nail and skin to Maekar's fervent enjoyment- even if he would not admit he liked the pain aloud. A choked gasp torn from your throat as your eyes found another's- one that went unnoticed by Maekar due to the nature of your current state. Teetering so close to the edge.

He was hidden behind the lattice door that lead up the stairwell to the privy. It had been a cheap, quick replacement to the wooden door that Maekar had put a fist through in one of his rages over Daeron. But now it served as perfect viewing for the carnal show being put on in your marital bed.

You didn't recognize him at first, you just saw the shadow in your blurred gaze. Your husband's pounding thrusts jostling your entire world as you held on to him. But then you began to recognize the details. Plush, wine-red velvet paired with black, scaled leathers and silver chainmail. Those harsh, violet eyes wide and staring down into yours- half-lidded and struggling to stay open.

You don't know why you didn't say something, why you didn't scream or try to cover yourself with the quilt. Perhaps it was the wine you could blame it on, perhaps it was the weight of Aerion's gaze or Maekar's words from earlier. Do not make yourself an issue - he would not believe you. Not if you screamed, if you made a fuss and tore a rift between father and son. Aerion had a tongue, too, he would've found an excuse- wiggled his way out of the accusation like a weasel. He was just sneaking out and left the wrong passage, he came to investigate a concerning noise, he thought someone was harming me. Any one of them he would put into Maekar's hand and your husband would believe his little shadow, his little warrior, the son he wished was his first- never the second wife he didn't want in the first place.

No matter what excuse you could conjure for yourself, the truth of the matter still came and passed: you froze. Eyes locked on to Aerion's. Lips parted from pleasure and nails raking into Maekar's skin. The world going still for just a second, fully encapsulating you like thick molasses.

You felt it, traitorously, as your core clenched down on your husband's cock.

"Fuck" Maekar groaned, and a thick, calloused palm cracked down against your ass. The sting tearing you away from the frozen world you and Aerion had been caught in as a moan tore from your throat and your eyes squeezed shut. Your head turning back towards your husband, his beard scraping against your kils as your moth formed an "o". The pleasure taking full hold as Maekar renewed his pace with a relentless fervor, both punishing and rewarding you for making him bleed.

You tried to focus, tried to stave it off, but the wine made it impossible. Your eyes burning with the knowledge that weighed down on you. With the deep-gutted coil of Aerion's gaze upon your bared skin that caused you to tumble over the edge, milking your husband's throbbing flesh and tearing his own climax from him.

In the heavy heat of your release, dazed and breathless, you tried to turn your head to find the door again. Half-open eyes grazing along the dark lattice only to see a flash of purple and red. The young prince's skin flushed, his chest heaving and scraping against his chainmail as it rose and fell.

You tried to open your mouth, but a large hand grabbed your jaw. Your head turned back towards your husbands, and like the current of a river sweeping away a carcass, Maekar's tongue found yours.

Even later, with legs shaking like a newborn fawn and your mind near-completely taken by wine and exhaustion as you stumbled off to the privy, you would not find the young prince. The cold, stone hall entirely empty- lit only by a torch or two as you stood alone. Slip torn and skin a raw red on your backside, a traitorous part of you wished he had still been there. Just watching you, gasping for breath like a dog in rut.

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You found that traitorous thought torn from you in the moons that followed. In fact, you wished you'd never even met the young prince. Wished you would've just done your duty and flirted with the lords and knights that visited Raventree, wished you would've gone somewhere cold and remote and spent your days with your own children teaching them the histories and language.

Instead, you were trapped in this insufferable southern heat caught between one inferno and another. Maekar, as your marriage trudged along, eventually took to you in his own odd way. You did not find true comfort in your position but you came to know the rule you were meant to play. Part of you knew it was for the better. Court was not an appetizing thing. These people were like leeches that would find their way down your throat. None could be trusted and just playing your part of the silent, dutiful wife kept you shielded from it all.

Perhaps that was your granduncle's intention in the first place, you'd wonder. If that's why he kept his distance, why he had you wedded to the fourth son of the king if you had to wed into the royal family at all. It was wishful thinking on your part, though, for you knew the white and red raven was not thinking of you at all in his schemes beyond what purpose you served him (which, from what you saw, was little). But it was a small comfort to know you had at least one family member in this court so you just kept thinking it anyways.

But Maekar could not protect you from what lay behind his shield. What had travelled from standing opposite of you on his father's side to standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

The prince was no longer passive in his observation of you. You knew not if it was from that night or if Maekar had taken annoyance with your concern and told him to play nice. Either way, he was on you now. Sweet and silver-tongued at feasts and supper, anywhere eyes were on you. He poured your wine if servants were occupied, took your hand to help you down the dais if Maekar was talking with Baelor or the king, and most unnervingly he had taken to calling you goodmother.

"Let me help you, goodmother"

"The winds sure are harsh today, goodmother"

"Are you in need of company, goodmother?"

Any rare semblance of autonomy you'd had, in the breaks between doing your duty to Maekar, were gone. You could not walk in the gardens by your lonesome, for he would appear out of some shrub or tree like a bat. You could not read tomes in the library without feeling a breath on your shoulder. You could not even sleep without squirming, paranoid he was at some peephole in the walls. The prince you were once curious about at the tourney you now wished you knew a lot less about. It took every ounce of patience you had to not snap at him in front of the entire court to just fuck off and leave you be.

This frustration, this unease in the silence of your own chambers, lead you seeking out your husband's far more often. Even if it was not your height of fertility, as usual, you would wander into his bed. You needed something to get your mind off of him. Something to push out the feeling of your stepson's scorching glare by pure force. Whether it be thick, calloused fingers shoved down your mouth, a muscled arm around your neck from behind, or a cock piercing your cunt until all that you felt was an aching throb when you tried to walk.

But even then, when you had to return to your own chambers, the nightmare would not end. Even in your absence, he found something of yours to take if it was not your time. It started small- your slipper lost it's pair, your bowl of hairbands going empty faster than usual. Then, it escalated- your shifts and small clothes disappearing from the laundry room. When you brought it uo to maekar, he said one of the mousers might be taking your hairbands, as Daella's own feline loved to play with hers. Then, it became one of the servants must be thieving things- but it made no sense, as it was only your clothes going missing from the washing room. It made you feel endlessly guilty to see the servants be sharply questioned on your behalf, so eventually you just stopped bringing up the missing pieces to Maekar entirely.

After getting away with that, though, he became emboldened. That's when the notes started. Scribbled, entirely unlike his proper princely handwriting to make it seem like a servant's doing of caught. Unnerving sentences scrawled on ripped papers, smelling of man like he has rubbed them on his skin like a reptile scenting its property. Hidden underneath the jars on your vanity, your pillows, inside slippers.

"You've brought me great amusement with this pointless flailing."

"One of these nights you will be here when i come. One of these nights you'll finally indulge me, my lady of sorrows."

"How long can you truly run from me, gentleheart? How long will you pretend you actually want to?"

Your mind would not stop running with those words. At court gatherings, as he played the perfect prince waiting on you dutifully, you would see the words in his eyes. Alone in the library you would find yourself running over them instead of your studies. Holding on to your husband's hair like a lifeline as he had you bent in half, fucking you out of breath and sense, you could still hear them echoing over the sound of skin on skin.

"I am fine, my prince, thank you-" You'd tried to refuse Aerion as he went to refill your goblet. It was the young prince Matarys' birthday- your husband's nephew. You didn't know much about Baelor's boys other than the fact that Maekar resented that his sons were not like Valarr, and you knew less about the younger one. You didn't even know why you were here, beyond just being Maekar's arm piece, and you were already agitated by not having a fitting gown for the occasion- or at least one you thought fitting. You'd argued with Maekar about it earlier, that you'd wished you had more dresses, and he'd argued back that you'd had enough- so you were already over it. You'd already drank a few cups, as well, and you knew you were nearing the line of not being fully in control. Dealing with the watching Aerion was the last thing you wanted to do, yet Maekar was off with his brother again, and here you were having to bear the consequences. As always.

"Nonsense, my goodmother, it is a celebration. It is the best time for indulgences" the silver haired prince smiled and poured anyways.

It was that word he used in letters often. Either detailing his own indulgences he took with you, or the ones he wished you would take with him. It set you off, on the short string you were already at for the night. You let the mouth you developed in girlhood get the better of you. Your hand snatching your goblet and placing your fingers over it. The sweet wine pouring onto your skin, staining it and the tablecloth red.

"I have no want or will for indulgences, my prince" the word came out almost like the snap of a hound's teeth. It gathered the attention of your other stepchildren seated nearby at the table. Daeron and Aegon both had their eyebrows raised, though there seemed to be an amusement in their eyes. No one ever stood up to Aerion when he was putting up his courtly act. Rhae who had been sitting at your side had yelped and backed up, however, as wine had splattered off your hand and onto her baby-blue, velvet dress.

Of course, every time you even tried to fight, the consequences always fell upon someone innocent.

"What are you doing" Maekar had growled at you before going to attend to Rhae, who was looking down at her pretty dress with that silent pout little girls always do before crying. It took all the fight out of you, in that moment. Your gooddaughter was too sweet to be caught in this mess of yours- this never ending nightmare.

"I did not mean to- I was just-" you went to try to make an excuse. To try and fight for yourself... but you knew it was not worth it. It would only attract more attention and attention would only make Maekar more angry. Fighting was useless, especially in the face of the perfect little princeling. You would be the sole proprietor of the blame no matter which route you went down- it was best to choose the one with the least fallout.

"It's my mistake, I am in my cups and not thinking" you relent, despite the anger clawing in your chest. You looked to Rhae and took your handkerchief from your bodice, gently dabbing at the blue fabric as you leant over your chair. "Don't rub, sweetling, that'll only spread the stain. Let us go get your septa, she'll get it out with some vinegar."

Rhae had made a protest, whining about hating the smell of the cleaner, but you had already found your own out of the feast. Maekar, for once, aided you in this endeavor and told the girl not to fight her goodmother and to go get cleaned up. Rhae would surely be mad at you for a few days, but it was a sacrifice you found yourself willing to make if it meant having some distance from the prince.

You were already halfway off the dais when you heard his voice start.

"Father, grant me leave to help the girls. It was my hand that poured the wine, it should be my responsibility to see them escorted to Rhae's chambers."

You wanted to scream as you held Rhae by the shoulders still. Your head turning over your shoulder to give your stepson a glare. Maekar was not looking, thankfully, he was too busy patting the boy on the shoulder while looking at his eldest.

"Thank you, Aerion, for taking initiative and accountability" Maekar spoke the words like little throwing darts. Daeron, to his own credit, did naught but roll his eyes and pour more wine into his goblet. Mumbling something into the golden lip that made Aerion send him a sharp look. The sight of the prince angered gave you some semblance of happiness, if for a fleeting moment, before he came over to take your arm. An immediate scowl coming onto your lips, the wine making you unable to school your features fully before they came to pass.

"Of course, father, anything for our gentle hearted goodmother" the prince spoke with a gentle smile, but he was still staring at you with those reptilian eyes.

You wished to throttle him like you would've one of your male cousins- but this was not the muddy riverbanks of your childhood. There was no soft autumnal air and giggling siblings, all in their shifts and breeches without a care for the world- without the mind of woman or man. There was no innocence or love here where the air was as sharp as a dagger and the eyes that looked at you saw only what laid beneath your clothes and how it would serve them.

"Thank you, Aerion" you said through a tightened jaw, hating every syllable of it.

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"You embarrassed me tonight with this ceaseless grudge of yours! It was my brother's son's night and yet he had to worry about mine own daughter and you. Do you not see how that affects me? Affects you? Because of some baseless hatred of yours?"

The scolding words echoed in your mind as you stumbled back into your chambers. You had not fought back. Especially with the scent of wine on your husband's breath beating down on you with every word. You were no one to judge- your own lips stained with the liquid- but it still made you pause. It always did. A man in his cups was not a man you wished to feel the hand of. Maekar had never done it to you before (not when you didn't want it) but you still froze every time his voice raised. Still waited for the day it would turn when you grew too much a burden. When you'd finally gone mad and he needed to put some sense into you as he did with Daeron.

He'd had you. You needed it. You needed something to get the thought of Aerion's hand around your arm. Your mind would not stop- it never stopped. You suddenly understood why Maekar's eldest gave himself to the wine and whores. A good fuck and a good drink made it quiet, if naught for a moment.

But even then, the feeling- the sight of thise eyes- still came to you as you bit down into Maekar's arm. He had taken you from behind tonight like a dog, as he always did when he was angry. You wondered if it was your hair. If, in the flickering dark, he'd mistake riverlander for dornish from behind. You'd been thankful for it when the tears came. When it all became too much, when the thoughts and faces bled together beneath the weight of each pound, and you finally bit down on his skin to hide a sob as you spasmed around his cock.

You shook the thought- the shame- away and tore yourself from your evening gown. Maekar had not taken it off tonight, just pulled it up over your ass and bent you over the bed before collapsing atop you. The stained velvet now thrown to the side, over the back of your armchair, and you knocked your hip into your armoire before falling into the bed in just your slip. Your hands going to run over the silks, to trace shapes as your mind ran in circled until your exhaustion took you.

Instead, your finger found a wet spot.

With a groan, your eyes fluttered open lazily. Perhaps the maids had accidentally spilled a bit of the water bowl you used to freshen your face in the morning on the sheets. Instead, your eyes caught on dark streaks that littered the sheets and your pillowcase. Clear liquid with the faintest of white stains at the edges where it began to dry. By the side of your pillow, discarded on the silk, was a pair of your smallclothes.

You froze as you always did. Your fingers just faintly twitching where they laid on the wet spot. You always froze- always- to your absolute infuriation. The heat gathered first in your cheeks and ears, before making a beating march down your neck to your chest. Wrapping tight around your esophagus and ribs as your teeth dug into your cheek.

You had nothing. You had no one. You had not love or comfort or a second of chilled calm. You had no clothes. You had not one speckle of space in these chambers untouched by others. Not even your own fucking bed.

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Aerion remembered the first moment he ever saw her. He had been vaguely curious of the new plaything his father was to have. Some simpering little girl Daeron's age, meek and pretty enough for court to stop their ceaseless whispering of his mother's death. He would've liked someone different for father. Someone valyrian, someone who would make him look strong.

Instead, he found himself gazing upon someone almost unbearably common. He'd wanted the bracken boy on purpose, had pulled some strings with the gamemakers to have it happen. He thought it would get his father some brownie points with the old, fat lord of Raventree- once a warrior but now lost to his indulgences. He'd heard their cheers when he'd unhorsed the puggish boy who'd just received his knighthood. They were both in red and black, looking like a ravenous murder. Eyes alight with unbridled elation at the young boy's misfortune- pecking, vengeful things. He found it uncouth.

"If she is not to your tastes, brother, she can always go to one of your boys to appease lord Rivers. Aerion or Daeron may like her, she seems spirited enough to handle him." His uncle Baelor had just been rambling on the ride back to their quarters. Playing at being the jester, giving him a wiggle of the brow and a smile before laughing at his own joke when no one else did. His father's jaw had clenched at the thought like his brother had just insinuated he was unable to do his duty. Like he was too out of it and hold to manage a young, free, virile wife. He could see those thoughts festering inside his father's mind as they rode. Could see the resolution in his grip on his mare's reigns.

It would be the best if he took her, then- if only to spare himself tor a more advantageous match with someone of valyrian descent. He would not want his pups born with those common features of hers- even if her figure was an agreeable pne to his tastes- her coloring would not do it for her. His stock was to remain pure, silver.

She would be inconsequential- just another thing for his father to try and tame alongside Daeron's drinking.

At least, that was what Aerion had first thought. He had not known how far the raven would be clipped without her murder. It was such an odd switch. So free and petty to something so quiet and caged. Kept close at his father's arm at all times like a dragon and its hoard. Perhaps he saw it as something that would put him above the rest of his brothers- a younger wife, prettier and ready for more children. He always prided himself of that, how many he managed to have on mother compared to uncle Baelor and Aenys. There was no doubt in his mind that he would start to work at getting her round and swollen as soon as he could. She had flowered early, he overheard Baelor and his father's talks, there would be no doubt it would happen within the first year of coupling with that fertility.

He had wondered it for a while, what she would look like with his father's whelp inside her. His mind would wander as he stared her down across the table from over his father's shoulder. His place used to be the one she took now- and soon it would be the little spawn that came from her. The seed was strong, he knew that as all his siblings shared the same coloring, but a part of him wished she birthed some little wretch that looked like her so that she would become something that could never rival him. Something that would lose his father's interest.

She never did, though. His father's insistence with her only seemed to accumulate with the passing moons. More and more oft she would wince and take her time sitting at the table when breaking fast. More oft would he have her on his arm, even if it was not a feast and to just walk the halls of court together. He could hear their sounds through the hollow passages in the walls of his family's floor in the holdfast. Father knew of them but took no interest in them. He had always been focused in on his public image to care for sneaking about and doing things to satiate his private self. He never understood that need that Daeron and Aerion took in whores- why would he, when he had a pretty, young wife to pound into the mattress?

His suspicion was confirmed when he saw her that day. He and Daeron had accidentally gone to the same brothel that night. He'd had a Lyseni girl, something close enough to looking a dragon from behind. He'd had her crawl on all fours like one, anyways, before taking him into her throat. His hand curling in those silver locks as he wondered what his father would think of the sight.

When the morning came and he'd wandered outside just to see his father's charge pulling Daeron out of the mud, he himself narrowly escaped scrutinization by pretending that he was there looking for his brother as well. Yet, he still was forced to stand there and face father's lambasting- just for the act of being a prince and being in one of those establishments. It wasn't the first and it wouldn't be the last he'd endure, but he'd remember it solely for the sight of her.

Daeron had noticed her first- focused on the shadowed figure while trying to survive and distance himself from Maekar's screaming. he stared far off past her, but Aerion's eyes caught solely on her. On the bruises blooming where her shift had ridden up over her hips. That riverlander mane hiding those solemn, dark eyes he'd become far too familiar with- much to his own annoyance. Those eyes that seemed to follow him, those eyes that found their way beneath his chainmail where no dagger could. She was sitting there, the curve of her ass on the cold floor like a serving girl who'd strayed too close to some drunken lord's chambers.

His mind began to wander to the noises he heard far too often for his own liking. He imagined what the night before had been like for her. Was it similar to his own? Was she taken with as much care as he has taken that whore? Did she rise from bed and feel the ache deep in her cunt and knees? He wondered how she cried when her father took her- she'd been loud their wedding night, he'd heard whispers of. It was hard to imagine a girl like that lying with a man like his father- it was almost like imagining a hound being fucked by a bear.

Those blooming thighs would look much better around him instead- the prince imagined, against his will, as the face of his whore and the face of this bruised girl blended into one another in his imagination as their eyes met.

The traitorous, wrongful thoughts he felt stirring in his mind as she saw him brought not shame but instead made him begin to stir in his breeches.

It was from there that he began to indulge those thoughts further. It started with just the company of his own hand. His mind wandering, without his leave, to how her own hand would feel around him instead. When it was slick from her mouth having already wrapped around his cock. How she would have to take a break from having him deep in her throat to pump every inch with that hand, looking up at him with red cheeks and tearful eyes as she panted for breath. His hand would tighten even further as he thought about her cunt and how it would leave him sopping when she finally pulled herself off of him. She would put up a fight, he knew that. He could see it in her gaze when she thought his father wasn't looking. She despised him, as he found his own dislike with her in the beginning. A survival technique, he presumed- hate them back when they hate you. It's how Aerion molded his own temper. But he wondered how different those eyes would look after he broke her down, after he fucked her so deep she would not know how to function without his cock deep inside her. She'd love him then, whisper it over and over as he fucked her tight cunt while his father was none the wiser to what his little wife was doing in her chambers.

He came to the thought.

Then, his hand was not enough. He needed the real thing, his mind would whisper like a devil from the seven hells. Her chambers were right down the hall. Perhaps he would find her when she was in a wine-addled sleep. Fuck her hard from behind whilst she was still half-asleep and leave before she could see who was truly having her. However, the guards there kept him from fulfilling that thought. So, instead, he took the passages to his father's- the route he knew well, he'd take it whenever he needed a little extra pocket coin for the street of silk. The blame would always be found on Daeron or Aegon anyways.

He'd watch them coiled together, that night. She had looked wrought, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure. Her face was screwed up like a feline, clawing desperately at his father's pale skin. Back arched as she was slumped over him, forced to take every inch as deep and as hard as the prince could go.

It was wrong to come here, he thought as he desperately wished to have something to wrap his hand around. To take the breath and life from to satiate his own anger. He wished it was her. Wished she was not there, breasts and ass exposed to the wet, hot air. He wished she was writhing beneath him, begging for mercy- begging for forgiveness for coming here. For ruining everything, for plaguing him with these thoughts. For not warming his cock instead. The multitudes of anger and need echoing and building on top of one another in the prince's mind- before he'd finally had enough and stormed back off down the passageways when he was done.

He found himself in the street of silk later. Cloaked and snapping at the madames, inquiring them of any riverlanders they may have in their employment. He would have them while they were blindfolded and gagged. It was better not to see their eyes or hear their voices as it would ruin the illusion. But, eventually, it shattered anyways- as all good things eventually come to pass. He was a dragon in the purest form of soul, just cursed to a human body. He was insatiable, as was his right to the entire world. As was his right to take and conquer everything he laid his eyes upon.

So, he began to take. Little things, hairbands to wrap around his cock as he stroked it fervently. One of his visits to the brothel, he'd had a girl wear it in their hair as he had her from behind. Then, it was one of her slippers or handkerchiefs to hold to his nose, to smell her as he fucked a pillow or a whore. Not only did they serve him, but there was always the present risk. Stuffed in his pocket at feasts, just inches away from falling out as he bent over the table to serve her wine- or stuffed down his breeches, nestled against his cock where he wished her tongue would be instead. He'd rub himself while looking at her across the table while staring into those sad eyes, wishing she was there beneath the tablecloth instead. One groan or twitch away from the lords of the realm seeing them.

As well, he saw how it made her anger grow. He loved to see that fire in her irises. See that heave in her chest where thorns of hatred festered beneath her ribs. He felt it for her too. When she got too close to him or would be a day late on her moonsblood. He checked her sheets frequently to make sure. When that was not enough, he'd switch her morning tea with moon tea herbs he'd stolen from the maester. No one would suspect him, he knew- they'd think it just another serving girl that tickled Daeron's fancy and regretted it upon the morn.

Then, it was not enough to only have her stuff- he decided he must conquer her very time. He needed more fuel, he needed to familiarize himself with every expression- every minute little habit of hers to make the fantasies more real. As well, he relished in the frustration she showed. The clench of her jaw or the fists her hands made as he showed up behind her in the gardens. The way she'd abruptly snap her book shut in the library and excuse herself- saying something about his father needing her or his younger sister's with a low murmur behind her teeth. He imagined that fury when she was atop him, riding his cock without abandon. Imagined her raking stripes down his back and biting down into his shoulder as she took every inch of him.

She was coming to her wits end when he took a batch of her smallclothes from the washroom. He could feel it. She truly loathed him at this point. He could not resist taunting her. He wished to poke the fire, fill it with oxygen only he could give. He wished to lash his tongue with the flame, taste everything she had to give like a true dragon dining on its meal. He would hold her small clothes to his nose, his lips, take them into his mouth as he stroked himself at a fever pitch sitting before the fireplace. He'd release himself into the flames- no cunt other than hers deserved it. Perhaps the seed would dissipate into the air and reach her chambers and encapsulate her skin in flame and him.

He loved to use the words he wrote against her deliberately. It was like a secret that onlt the two of them knew- innocuous to the rest of court right before their noses. His only annoyance was Daeron- always seeing and knowing. He treated the dreams like a burden, while he relished in his like any true dragon would do- but his brother was a coward. Every day he thanked the flames that she did not go to him instead of father. He would've treated her too gently. A raven is never meant to glide on easy winds. They scrap, they claw, they shriek to the heavens. She deserved him and father- they were true dragons. They could have her riled as she was truly meant to be. Those black feathers alight with every color of the world beneath dragonflame, as beautiful as a phoenix in its final flight.

She'd finally snapped at him, and it was like a shot right to the cock. Those eyes narrowed into a glare, those fingers stained red with spilt wine. He wondered if they'd look the same soaked in her own moonsblood. Playing at her cunt, dreaming of him on the one week his father kept from her. The one week he dreamed of having her solely to himself, soaking his cock and chin in her own blood in the tradition of Valyria. Blood mixed together, binding their souls into one beneath the eyes of the flames.

He'd thought about that very scenario as he took his full rights to her space and things. His final act of conquering, claiming her sheets and where she laid her head at night with his seed. His fist pounding his own length mercilessly as he felt high on the scent of her smallclothes. Cumming so hard it left him dizzy as he pressed his forehead to the mahogany of her headboard.

After he made his claim, he went back off to his chambers. Happy and weightless like uncle Rhaegel dancing away in the night, cock in the wind. Sipping a goblet of wine, one hand on the mantle. He'd barely had time to look over his shoulder when he'd heard the door slam open. When bare feet smacked against the stone, quickly approaching. Violet eyes met naught else but a storm of riverlander shadowy hair, before his head was jerked to the side. A sharp pain claiming the skin of his cheek and ear as the breath was knocked out of him. The world ringing as he stumbled back against the stones until his shoulder hit it. Her yells were muffled beneath the ringing and the swirl of the chambers around them. His eyes focused, through the rocking ground, on the thin white shift as it wrapped around her form. Plump skin just barely contained beneath the flimsy thing, ready to be wrapped in flame and caressed by flesh that burned at the same pace as hers.

"You fucking mongrel-" he caught the end of her anger as his eyes slowly dragged up that pale skin to her eyes and lips. Bent over as he peered up at her, the world around still ringing where she'd caught his ear with her fingers. His own hand going up to try and match where she'd struck. Tried to compare the sting of her fingers to the rough press of his own, imagined those same fingers tangled in his- holding and melding into him as they shared skin and became one. As her anger that she finally- finally allowed to unleash on him melted and gave way to passion.

"Good girl" he whispered- for the strength of her hit or the pure rage in her voice- he knew not. A smile had taken his lips without his permission. His entire being just fulled with pure elation and pride as he looked upon that inferno he sparked inside her, before he stumbled forward and his lips found hers. Finally- finally- claiming what he was owed.

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Good girl.

The very words made you freeze in confusion. This man was absolutely, positively mad. His lips curled like a viper's tail and dripping that same poison. He was dangerous- you knew now- he'd taken your slap and was about to give it back to you. Beat you bloody and have you disgraced infront of court as he'd done with plenty a servant and whore.

You'd braced for the violence and found naught but gentleness in its' stead. Plush, somewhat chapped lips swirling and melding with yours. The cracks rubbing and coaxing your lips to follow his rhythms. One long hand resting on the small of your back, the other clutching the nape of your neck. His head tilted to the side as he tried to coax you forward. Pulling you deeper into his flaming whirlpool where you would lose grip on yourself fully.

Good girl, the soft, breathy whisper replayed in your mind as your feet moved without permission. As your back pressed to the stones and a hand travelled up your ribs from your waist. The other leaving your nape to go down to the hem of your slip and grab a handful of meat from your ass. The touch pulling a gasp from your throat, one the mesmerizing beast before you took full advantage of. His tongue swirling against yours, softer than your husband's. Younger, less experienced, more patient- not with his hands, but at least with his lips.

You forgot yourself for just a moment. One traitorous moment, your hand moved not by order but by its own want. Finding the cropped silver strands of hair and bare jaw. No scratching beard- no weathered lines. An equal instead of a commander.

"That's it" Aerion whispered against your lips, and the hand on your ass went down to your thigh. Hauling it up over his hip as his crotch pressed to yours. His cock already stirred beneath his breeches- hard and long and ready to go immediately. No touch or beating from his own palm to force it awake. "No more pretending."

Pretending- the word snapped you out of your trance. You were not pretending- your anger was righteous. It was yours, it was the one true thing in this keep full of pretenders. Liars and thieves and lusters, the lot of them. Including him. He was not freedom- no- you needed to remind yourself that. He was no equal. He was an oppressor, a tormentor just like the rest.

Two hands raised and immediately shoved the princeling away by the chest. Foot stomping back down onto the stones with a bare smack. "You fucking pervert!" You lambasted the man-boy, slapping at hid chest once again for good measure. Hut the dragon is not quelled with whips, it only feeds their flame. His smile only brightening with pure, flaming glee behind those fuchsia irises.

"There we go" he smirked and went to grab your waist once more, "there's that flame to fill us both." His nose found your neck and nuzzled into the flushed skin. Nipping lightly at a red ear as he whispered "that feeds right into my cock" and grabbed your wrist to press your palm against it. It was like a living thing- it pulsed and twitched beneath your body heat. Like a hatchling squirming, ready to wriggle free from its confinement and feast on its surroundings. Feast on you. It made your skin crawl.

You ran from his chambers that night. The sound of your feet echoing against the halls, panted breaths bouncing off the stairwell. You didn't stop- didn't even look back until you were back in your chambers and the door was slammed shut and the lock clicked. Chest heaving with both hands planted against the mahogany, bent at the waist. You stayed there for a moment, your hand burning from where it had touched him. Your throat tight and lips twitching as if they'd been rubbed in burning powder. You'd wanted to fall to your knees- to curl in a ball and scream and sob like a toddling.

"Tsk" you heard the click of a tongue behind you. Your head whipped around, hand grabbing the door handle. Had he gone a separate way? Chased you down through the passages in the walls?

Your eyes flashed to the table by the window, and surely your gaze found silver- but instead of a bright, electric lilac your eyes found a dark, simmering red staring back. Your granduncle was dressed in all black, highlighting the pure white of his skin. His gaze peering up at you over the lip of your black mug from the morn. You'd forgotten to give it to a servant before leaving your chambers, perhaps? It was hard to remember the start of the day, after everything. He sniffed at it with a distasteful lip twitch before placing the old mug of tea back down upon the table.

"My sweet niece, what have you done to have the gods weave these threads for you?" Lord rivers mused as he slowly stood from the chair he sat on. You felt small beneath his crimson gaze- almost similar to how daeron would look at you. Like you were a sheer fabric that he could peer through, that he saw a million moving shadows behind. The click of his heels as frigid as winter winds at they came upon you, and a hand slowly ran over your cheek as he bore into your eyes. Studying and categorizing like all the files he had stored away, all the whispers of the world he knew. You wondered if he was reading your very thoughts- if he would hide away the ones you refused to even acknowledge yourself.

The ones of him-

"Don't go getting that look with me" your kinsmen chided and moved his hand to your chin. Holding it betwixt his pointed and thumb as he lowered himself to your eyes. "You need to keep your wits about you. No more of this madness. The gods need you sharp for their plans. From now on, you drink only the tea I have the maester bring you. The tonic will soothe you- not like the swill they feed Rhaegel."

Then, he was gone like that. As quick as snow fleeting over the mountains and as silent as a shadow. The door closing behind him as you were left to catch your breath. Your mind finally still for once, but your heart still ran like you'd just bolted across the length of a tourney ground.

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You did not know why- just as you did not know why you stayed at maekar's side, or why you did not fight back against Aerion- you listened to your granduncle. You drank what the maester brought every morning. Your heart began to calm, your mind stopped its racing. Whatever tonic the master of whisperers had brought you dulled you down. You wondered if this is what Prince Baelor's wife felt like every day- or one of the little girl's at court. They were so carefree, so unburdened by the weight of the world. They saw the gentle colors of the sky in the wind that brushed their skirts and felt the softness of the grass hug their skin. You only felt it now- after a year of trudging through mud and having your head shoved beneath white water currents.

You didn't trust it. The drink would wear off in the early morns, right before the maester would come with more tonic-mixed tea. Then, you'd feel that itch again. Heart guarded and pounding against your ribs, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Maekar to summon you to his chambers, screaming at you for what you'd allowed Aerion to do. For the king to summon you and have you beheaded for adulterous treason. For Aerion to come through the walls like a shadow in the moonlight and take what he tortured you to near-madness for.

But Aerion never came.

Not in the gardens, as you wandered- dazed from your tea and brushing your fingers against the leaves of the shrubbery. Not when you lay in the library, studying Essosi legends by the fire. Not at feasts when you're on his father's arms, smiling at Tyroshi merchants. Not when you're knelt beneath the heart tree in the godswood, eyes closed, pretending it's the weirwood from home as you whisper your thoughts and wishes to it. Not when you're bent beneath Maekar, staring up at the ceiling with one hand in his hair.

You stopped looking forward to Maekar's roughness the longer you drank the tea. You felt pleasure, sure, but your mind could not focus to reach completion as it once could. There was no pay off to his merciless treatment. You would try to coax him, sprawled chest to chest with your legs locked around his back. Try to appease him with a soft smile and goading lips. Try to get him to slow down or treat you gentle in kind. But Maekar did not know gentle- not with you. He had learned to love you in madness and teeth. He had learned to control you, to own you and make you feel needed when you were about to teeter off the edge of the world. He did not learn how to be kind to you- how to touch you with soft hands and softer lips and have it not feel like betrayal. Like wrong, like guilt deep in his chest.

You found your mind wandering to him when your face was buried in your husband's neck. You thought of the slow brush of his lips against yours as you nuzzled into the skin to hide from the relentless pounding. You tried not to think of where he'd put your hand or how he'd pressed his clothed cock right to the middle of your cunt. You didn't want that, in these moments. You wanted to be naive, just for a moment, like the girls who tried to gain your friendship for them- asking so meekly about the young princes. You wanted to forget about the stolen clothes, the watchful eyes, the scrawled notes. You just wanted to be a girl, daydreaming about the honor and unconditional romance of princes in fairytales. You didn't want to face the real thing when you opened your eyes, when you saw your husband's face panting above you before he took your mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and clashing teeth.

You dreamed of an equal. You dreamed of someone who wanted you- who needed you with the reverence of a man kneeling before the statue of the mother. In his face, with no one else to fill the hole, you envisioned Aerion.

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She would come back.

Aerion convinced himself- told himself every night. Every time his eyes grazed her black silks and red velvets as she walked past. She had come once, and when she broke again she would come again. Patience- patience would be his virtue now. He'd given and given and given, and now it was time to leave her waiting. He'd watch her from the shadows, up on balconies as she walked through the gardens. Peering out behind the wall as she prayed to the heart tree. Hidden in the corner as she slept in her own bed when his father was done with her.

Whatever the maesters had her own now was a strong thing. It kept her rage hidden deep below, so deep it only showed as she slept. The twitch of her legs, the white of her knuckles as she clutched a pillow to her chest to cuddle. He thought of running his hands over them, soothing the muscles back down to sleep. She deserved her sleep- you needed it to handle a dragon. Only he should be the one to take it from her. He should be the one that tormented her, that kept the under eyes of hers dark and had her mind swimming in a daze.

He'd wondered which one of them had finally cracked to have the maester brew his tonics. His father, endlessly prideful, would never admit that his wife- his new, shiny wife- had a problem. Same as he never admitted Daeron had one, or even suspected Aerion himself for a second. But, on the same side, she was just as proud. A proper raven, always preening her feathers and keeping her head high. She let madness take her before she'd even fought back against him. She'd let him take and take without even raising an alarm bell as to not show weakness.

When moons passed and she did not come back, he grew anxious. He ventured closer and closer in the night when he'd watch her. He'd started watching her again at feasts and tourneys. One knight from the reach got too close during a jest and asked for her favor and later- disguised as a commoner- he'd attacked the man with his own helm. On the one hand, he would never let his father be humiliated so. On the other, he drove each swing with the prideful rage of a dragon protecting its hoard. Each time the metal came down on his face, he imagined hers. Imagined the feel of her plump flesh in his hand. Imagined the taste of the sweet wine that had clung to her lips as he sucked on the bottom one. Imagined the feel of her fingers brushing against the base of his cock over the cloth of his trousers. Then, he would see her running- see the fear on her face instead of hatred and passion- and he would renew his swings with a fervor.

She will come back...

She will come back...

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The news of Ser Simon's injuries at Duskendale had been a troubling thing on the morn, but it had been of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. You had given the knight your prayers with your goodbrother after drinking your morning tea and then you had left with your husband to ride back to King's Landing. A common thief in the night, they'd said, that had taken his helmet and run off. An unfortunate thing- but not uncommon for a man on his lonesome in the night, who had been deep in his cups, to fall upon. Daeron had his pockets stripped before- albeit the prince had already been passed out or a whore had taken it when he'd not been looking.

You rode beside that blonde prince now, as your husband was with his brother infront of you now. Your hands twirling the mane of your stallion absentmindedly as your stepson sipped from a flask.

"Born from the blind come monsters straight from the cradle" the young prince mumbled before tossing the empty flask to the trail.

Monsters straight from the cradle, your mind echoed those words after reaching the red keep. Your maids had given you a hot bath and put you in a plum-red nightgown for bed. Your hair spun in one simple braid for the night.

There was only one monster that Daeron would refer to- same as Aegon would when he was pouting at Maekar after being scolded. It was always him- always those cropped, silver tufts and violet eyes. Hidden behind the twisted, red metal that made his helm. Your mind lingered on that imagery as you stared at the silken sheets, running your fingers over their ripples and folds.

He had been a monster, your thoughts swirled, he still is by all probabilities. You thought to Ser Simon. You wondered what he saw, while being beaten by his own helm. Lying on the ground in a mix of mud and his own blood. You wondered if he saw the same violet that haunted you before he closed his eyes- the same you saw it before you closed yours for moons and moons on end.

But now there was nothing. The stone walls echoed not a passing gaze or muffled breath. The silence was cold and oppressive, and you had not the heat of a good pounding or the daze of wine to make the walls swirl in the absence of others.

You had nothing anymore.

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Aerion had the same dream he'd had at least once a moon since the night of his father's wedding. He'd be lying against the bottom of a riverbed, completely bare against the cold, rounded stones. The current slowly dragging up from his heels, around his manhood, and up to graze against his cheek. It would be so cold, so still- a moment frozen away from the rest of the world. Nothing like the dreams of disconnected screams- of smoke and ash. Of fire bursting from his lungs as a crowd stared upon in horror as the dragon melted its false body and his true soul was bare for all to see. The stones slowly disappearing, sinking away as he found her.

The eyes that would gaze upon him in the water had not horror but solemn need. A river nymph, moving like the shadowy underbelly of deep water above him. Soft knees brushing against his waist as she bent over him, a hand going over his cheek to stave off the current and make the water still. He'd move for the first time, then, when she freed him from the watery confines. Their noses would brush, tentatively, like felines in greeting. Like they knew each other mind, body, and soul already. His hands would worship her murky body. Slowly running up the sides like one would feel the marble of a statue. Eyes closed and forehead pressed to her neck as he did not look- did not lust- but felt and mapped each curve and indent. Reverent and claiming- for one needed to know every nook and cranny of which they wished to claim. When he reacher her ribs, his head would lower. The two, still floating in the water, connected lap to lap. His legs bent beneath her ass as hers were wrapped around his hips. Her watery hair spreading around them like curtains- like wings- and folding over them. Shielding the prince as he took a nipple between his lips and began to nurse tentatively. One of her arms snaking around to cradle the back of his head as the dark water took them. Her cheek nestling, softly, against his hair before it all went black.

The singular call of a crow would echo in those deep waters before he opened his eyes.

There, in the quiet dark, he would find not stoned ceiling or flickering moonlight, but those eyes- very same from the water nymph in his dream, staring down at him.

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Surprisingly enough, for a man so paranoid he always wore chainmail in public, he kept his doors unguarded. Part of you wondered if it was a thing of pride like his father. Part of you wondered if he kept it unguarded for you. Despite ignoring you, perhaps he was just waiting- like a spider in its web, lying in wait to ambush the unsuspecting fly.

However, no fangs or crawling legs found your skin when you stepped inside the mahogany doors. Just the sounds of light snoring and twitching fingers. Was this what he was so crazy about? What he had waited in the walls for nights in and out- just watching you just breathe and lay still? It was an odd thing to take pleasure in, you supposed. He slept on his back like a creature of the night, so stiff. Did you sleep that way? No, you would roll in your sleep- you used to kick, too, like a vindictive spirit took over your form while you were abed. Your cousins would complain of it often when they'd sleepover in your chambers. Did he take amusement in that- such a sharp contradiction to his own way of finding rest? Did he lay in wait for the moment your nightgown slipped over your ass, til your legs parted enough for him to get a gaze at your cunt, until you shifted to the side and one of your breasts would spill from its cloth confine? You supposed that would make it a more fun pastime- but you had little that you could peer at for a man. It was not a pastime made for women, you thought to yourself, similar to a great many hobbies in Westeros.

He'd awoken with a start while your mind was lost in thought. Or, perhaps he'd awoken peacefully and had been spooked by you standing over the side of his bed. Either way, he was sitting on his elbows at the moment. Chest rising and falling as he blinked away the sleep in his eyes. It was a sight that made you rethink your fear of the man.

"This is not as fun as I thought it would be" you thought, for once, that you'd speak honestly to one of the princes. You don't know why you did- the first time had had not gone well and you'd received a stern talk from your husband. The second had led to your stepson's lips tangled with yours as he had your hand palm his cock over his trousers. Honesty was something punished in the red keep, not rewarded.

Perhaps you found yourself seeking a punishment, you mused for a moment as the prince's sleep-addled mind fought to catch up. Maybe it would make you feel alive again, for the first time since you started drinking your granduncle's tea. Since the ache left behind from sex with Maekar was no longer enough to satiate you.

"What?" The prince's voice was rasped as he slowly sat up. The quilt he had pooled around his waist, he was still fully clothed in bed- a pair of black, silk trousers and matching tunic. The edges embroidered with little dragon designs on the sleeves and neckline. Daeron slept half-naked, you'd discovered on accident one time when you saw him being dragged back to his chambers by the guards in naught else but a tunic. Aerion must be too paranoid for that sort of thing- always ready to be up and exchanging blows at any moment.

"Watching you- it's not as fun as you made it seem. You said it brought you amusement, it brings me nothing" once you started it was like your voice could not stop. Everything was just so hollow these days. Your own voice sounded like an echo off the empty carcass that had become your life as it left you. Like it was not even yours anymore as you studied the prince.

"You want amusement?" Aerion cocked a brow, looking you up and down as you stood before him. The skin of his cheek rising and falling with the drag of his tongue along his canines.

"I want for a great many things, little of which come to pass" you turned and went to the windows of his chambers. His view was not to the blackwater, but instead went out towards the city below. To the slums of flea bottom and the revelry of the street of silk. You wondered what it was like down there.

"Stop that, you're speaking like Daeron" the young prince grumbled behind you before you felt his chest brush against your back. His cheek went to rest against your hair. Two hands wandered along the fabric of your nightgown in tandem with all his other touches. He was like a balm trying to rub himself over every inch of skin at once.

"... You came back" his lips brushed against your ear. Your head tilting away from his plush mouth as you looked down at the lanterns hundreds and hundreds of feet below. You wondered where the other prince was. What drink he used to swallow the thoughts in his own mind. What little crook of the world he carved himself for the night- as he had nothing else to claim, just like her.

"I have nowhere else to go" the admission fell from your lips in a quiet whisper as you looked back at the prince over your shoulder. His eyes, in the dark, were not so bright as the daytime. More of a gentle lilac without the scorching heat of the sun beating down on them. Part of you, for a brief moment, wondered if the prince would take offense to that remark. His father despised being the last option, perhaps he would too.

But then, just as that night you'd came in raging, Aerion lowered himself down to your lips. In that moment, you'd come to realize that was what he wanted. He took his time, carved away everyone and everything else, and left only one space in the world for you to find solace in- to foolishly conflate as your own. For there to be no one but him, as he dined on you wholly. Two hands on your cheeks like a horse's blinders- locking even the moonlight out from gazing upon your coupling. Lips and tongues brushing against one another like a match and phosphorus.

His hands wandered blindly, grabbing and pulling at any flesh he could find along their journey. Eventually, those rough fingers found their way down to the curve of your ass once more. This time, he grabbed two handfuls instead of one as he pulled you chest-to-chest. A low groan breathed from his mouth into yours as your back hit the cold stones of the windowsill. Like he was breathing the very air that kept you going into your lungs. You responded in kind, one hand going tangle in his cropped tufts as the other wandered his chest. Aerion was muscular like your husband but he was lean in his build. He did not have the years and pounds on him that thickened his biceps and waist. Your nightgown scraping against brick as you blindly wriggled your way up onto the windowsill.

As soon as you were moving up, Aerion was already tugging the silks up over your hips. His lips abandoning your own to chase their way down your jaw to the tender skin of your neck. Your breaths becoming far more ragged as your fingers fisted a handful of his tunic and pulled up. Pale skin bare and shining in the moonlight, slotted between your thighs. You were almost certain your eyes blew out at the sight as Aerion was entirely enraptured by your reaction. Hands pawing at your tits as he pulled you close to meet your lips again after taking his time to study your face.

It was wrong, you knew that much. You were not an idiot. An idealist- a woman relinquished to her own selfish desires and grasping at straws of freedom- a lustful, delusional creature who was sure to spell her own doom? Sure. You could admit it. You were not above the judgement of the gods- and certainly not above the judgement you gave yourself. Even then, even knowing all that of yourself, you still gave way to those very same ideas. Breathing into the mouth of a princeling you had no business with, who by no right should have his hands on you, and it made you feel alive. It made you feel like a person with her own wills, if for only a moment.

Your hands, as his massaged, went down to your silks and tore them up over your head. Your body on complete display, sitting above the prince. The room tinted blue from the light of the half-moon above. The gentle wash blurring the prince's silver hair as you looked down at it. A hand running over the locks as you tried to collect your breath. Watching, bated, as the prince finally got to gaze upon you up close- no lattice or stone beneath him and the presented skin. The curves you knew he'd pleasured himself to night after night- right in front of him in the murky blue.

His eyes were blown out as they dazedly wandered up to yours. The black pools of his a sure reflection of your own. Perhaps that was the true essence of your souls: bottomless pits that took and took, that could never be truly full in the purest form of the word. You could be satiated, you coukd be quelled, but it would only be for fleeting moments. You saw that in one another, even if you didn't wish to admit it at first. But you watched him now, standing beneath you like a man who saw everything he'd ever wanted. His own doom- your own doom- served to each other on silver platters.

You dined- as was your nature- and let the two hollow caverns of your souls try to both fill the other and take their own feed simultaneously.

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"Fuck" Aerion whispered into that mane of hair. He had her pressed against the wall, cheek against stone as his chest was to her back. His eyebrows were screwed up- mouth falling open as his hips twitched. Fighting back against the instinct to press up and fully sheath himself in the tight cunt that pulsed around him. One hand kneading at the flesh of her tit to distract himself while the other was holding her hip to keep her arched. A gasp tore from his chest as he finally managed to work her down to the base. She was a good girl, he knew that. She was trained and had taken far worse, of which he'd seen with his own eyes- but it wasn't the stretch that was getting to her. He knew it was just the sheer length. He fell on the skinnier side for cocks, but he was long. Curved upwards, always managing to dig out that spot that made the whores tear up from overstimulation as he had his time with them. Pounding down into the very end of their walls as if he was trying to bury himself right in the uterus. That was where he belonged- he'd think oft- where a dragon was meant to bury his seed. He could feel hers rubbing against his tip as he was fully seated inside. Part of him thought of taking it slow and shallow. Fucking naught else but that end of hers, hitting it over and over. But he knew abusing there would make her cunt raw and aching quicker- and he intended to have her teetering on the edge of pain for far, far longer than that.

Instead, he slowly dragged himself out to the tip, before working his way back up to the hilt. His eyes fluttering closed as he gave a breathy moan at the feeling. Her own mouth open as her eyebrows furrowed from the feeling. He had her- he knew it. If she was not satisfied with what she was getting, she would have to give her the opposite for now. Just until she was weathered down, when she'd be more willing to give him what he wanted instead of focusing on her own needs. Then, he'd get to fuck her as he truly wanted- with all the slamming and slapping and screaming as he loved. But, for now, he just reveled in the soaked grip that he'd dreamed of for moons on end. Studying every ridge and velvety curve that swallowed his manhood.

He repeated that process, taking and giving every inch for the first few thrusts. Until her quiet pleasure turned into breathy moans. Her control slowly rubbing away with each glide of his length inside her. Then, he picked up the pace- only withdrew halfway before snapping back in. Both hands going down to her hips to pull her ass back against him to match each thrust. Gasps hiccuped from her then- broken off with each slap of his balls against her clit. His eyes watched the entire time- not ready to give up a single second. Not after how hard he'd worked. Not for all the coin in the castles's coffers. This was his prize and he'd remember every second of it.

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Your back hit the bed and the world spun around you. Plump, angled flesh rubbing at the inside of your thighs as Aerion dove into your chest. Your ass suspended at the edge of the bed as the prince stood over it. Five long fingers wrapped around your throat as his palm pressed flat against it. Tits pressed to his chest as his face nestled into the crook of your neck. Panted, enraptured groans muffled against the skin before he bit down upon it. His hips moving akin to a hound as they're pressed flush to yours- belly to belly. His cock buried to the hilt, dragged out just an inch or two, and then nestling right back in.

The bed slowly creaked beneath you, slow and heady. Your eyebrows screwed up as you tried to get air into your lungs. Trying to not focus on how he shadowed you entirely- how every inch of your skin was met with his skin in kind. Until a growl- a pure growl, not a groan or moan- tore from the prince's chest and he took a ripe, tender nipple between his teeth. Forcing a cry from you as his hips moved from their slow, deep pace to quick and shallow thrusts. The air echoing wet slap after wet slap, stomaches hitting each other as he sucked so hard you thought he'd determined to take the very skin off you. Grazing the hardened flesh, grinding it between his teeth between sucks.

You were jostled- hair scraping against the sheets as your legs locked behind the prince's back. A weak attempt at trying to get him to slow his pace. He only responded in kind, shifting up your body until his lips were pressed to your cheek. Hot air cascading along the flushed skin as his hand went off your neck to grab a fistful of hair. Tugging hard, forcing you to make eye contact as he was buried to the hilt. His thrusts pushing you down into the bed, the mattress squealing in protest beneath you. Your own lips giving all but strangled cries, mouth open and unable to shut despite your better judgement. Your eyes fighting their own battle to stay open- to keep their gaze trained on the violet lightning that would surely strike you down if you closed them.

"That's it- that's it-" the prince groaned and pressed his forehead to yours as he drove you deeper into the bed. His own eyes falling closed finally giving you leave to match him. Your lips just grazing one another. Damp, steaming air meeting in the middle and weighing heavy as it went back down your throat with each hiccuped mewl. The darkness behind your eyelids finally allowed you to focus solely on the coil deep in your belly- on the grind of his head pounding deep, scratching at the walls of your cunt.

"Fuck- fuck!" the prince gave a frustrated groan and a sharp crack filled the air. A cry torn from your chest at the sting on your ass. His hands kneading the meat and digging in hard nail to try and stave off his own end. Stubborn and prideful as any other scaled beast- not yet ready to give up at its meal despite itching at the seams.

Your own mind swam as you caught sight of the ceiling. Dazed and exhausted, perring over the prince's shoulder as he pressed his forehead to the sheets and wrapped an arm around your head to cradle it. Holding you still as he went deeper- pain blooming deep within your belly and spreading up in sharp pulses as he attacked your final wall.

Hanging on the ceiling, you caught sight of a green and gold tapestry. The world blurred at the edges of your vision, focusing solely on the woven threads above. It was something you should've presumed the princeling would own. Many of the old tapestries of Valyrian legends had been burnt by King Baelor the Blessed for nudity and eroticism, yet here one remained. The sides depicted the same scene: a reptile coiled around a woman, plump and ripe with a full figure. Fit with long, flowing gold hair that splayed out like a hundred little serpents. The beast's maw was open, spewing fire as its head was tilted back and hips driving forward between her legs. In the middle, the woman was shown with her legs crossed, bare- suspended in the air. A hatchling, small enough to wrap around her wrist, cradled to her breast as it nursed.

You had little time to wonder how he procured the tapestry or why he had it hung over his bed before you heard a low groan. The prince's cock driving as deep as it could go, pulsing and sputtering inside your sopped and abused cunt.

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The moons after would come and go in a blur of two beds- two princes- two roles you had to play at once. But you'd already had a year of experiencing acting- wishing- deluding yourself, it was too far to go back now. Not with a swollen belly and aching breasts- not with sheets still clean and white for two moons. Not a drop of red spilling from you since that night. It would be Prince Maekar's- that you had no doubt. You may give to your whims of comfort- to being needed- but when it came to the eyes of the public you knew better than to fall to the same entrapment. No matter what, it would be his- a new sibling for his sweet princes and princesses.

(Cross posted on twitter)

thought i would finally add my take on this whole situation, as hayden has now made her own personal statement on it. In the moment, it all seemed too much to properly understand what was happening and what was fact or what was misinformation.

First off, I would like to address actors on opposite sides of this situation. Both the people that were at the head of this campaign and her stalwart defenders.

Just blanket statement: The speerheaders of this campaign against hayden were selfish, transphobic, and obviously had their own agendas outside of "spreading awareness." While the stalwart defenders defended actions i fundamentally disagree with, showed microagressions, and damaged the sense of community that the ethel fanbase seemed to once have for me.

In depth, however, i would like to talk about how the algorithm affected the outcome of this controversy. Posts do not exist inside a vacuum. It is not random that the two sides of this situation were both polar opposite reactionary stances. The algorithm pushes what will cause people to react and what will get the most views, likes, comments- it aims for what will cause the biggest uproar. In the days where this unravelled it almost felt like a feeding frenzy of who could say the most, had the newest information, and "take down" others.

In my own personal experience, it was a hellhole to try to find out what was truthfully going on beneath posts of hayden being called a "man" or posts attempting to defend incest and racism. When i first tried to look up what was happening it took forever to find actual info.

On top of the algorithm, it did not help that most people seemed to sit back and lay low during this controversy. I know i, myself, went silent and waited to see what information was going to come out and gave myself time to think on everything. But, because the internet and algorithm needs to be constantly fed, it was the people that instantly ran to fight and speak on this situation that ultimately got pushed to the forefront and blew this, in my opinion, entirely out of proportion and made it spiral into what we saw.

Now, with that out of the way, i would like to address the people that spearheaded this cancellation. In my opinion, they are deplorable people. Claiming to be "in the moral right" while plugging your own discord while hacking someone's livelihood is disgusting. Sitting on information about someone, as well, while trying to pretend to be acting in good faith is very telling to me as well. Not to mention them twisting innocent actions, such as hayden existing in her natural body and playing with a dog for a photo, and claiming it as "Fetish, perverted content" also points to their own personal views subconsciously. Trans people- women specifically- have always been seen as "sexual deviants" and painted as dangerous and disgusting by right-wingers and transphobic actors.

It is in no way coincidence, in my mind, that this language was used. Not to mention the rise of conservatism in america slowly and surely it is bleeding into everything we enjoy. Even a cis woman, sabrina carpenter, was just facing her own cancelation for "sexual deviancy." Hayden, in her statement, was absolutely right about this entire campaign showing severe signs of transphobic agendas and right-wing tendencies, and i in no way claim this in a "my favorite artist is trans so therefor she is exempt from criticism and it is all targeted" way.

Which actually leads into my next topic: defending hayden's actions. I, personally, did find a lot of those screenshots from poor taste to downright inexcusable. And i absolutely do not stand by or excuse the people who showed their own racist tendencies by attacking people who did make pieces showing valid criticism towards the information that did come forward. All of it left a bad taste in my mouth and made me question whether or not this was even a topic i wanted to dip my toes into at all.

However, i do think it is important to throw a calm take into the storm of reactionary thought and sensationalized controversy. Where the bottom line of this all is: We do not know hayden. We have been shown ethel cain, a performer and character. Hayden is her own person.

As people tend to do, we grow and change. No one is immune to propaganda. No one. In our current political situation in the US, i see there is little room for genuine growth and change given to people. Which, in the end, only does a disservice to progressives and leftists alike. If all a party does is shame others and refuse to educate and help people who oppose them, that party will never grow. Being exclusionary and elitist was never a value of being a leftist. But with the rise of conservatism, we as well see their values and thoughts bleeding further and further into centrists and liberal talking points. We, as a country, have shifted so far right that progressives and liberals adopted the purity culture with all the -isms and -phobias that come along with it. All while claiming to be morally better than right-wingers and conservatives, while using conservative's own talking points while trying to "take down" a "threat to modern feminism."

A good case of someone who was allowed to learn and grow from their own mistakes made almost a decade ago is Idubbbz. He went from saying the n word while having his arm wrapped around tana mongeau to doing a content cop on ethan klein in defense of palestine. Personal growth and education is the base of being a leftist. You are always trying to learn and be a better person. While we must remember that we do not know hayden at all, in my personal opinion i believe that she has done this, from the little i have seen of her personality i have seen outside of Ethel Cain.

But, after acknowledging all of that, while i personally believe that growth should be acknowledged and celebrated i also would like to say it does not make her exempt from criticism. It does not negate how anyone feels about what was said/done. We all choose who to support and not to support. We shape our opinions based off of our own world view and our own experiences. As i said, i do not know hayden- but i also do not know you. You do not know me. No one knows the other people watching and talking about this controversy. As hayden said in her statement: how anyone chooses to feel about her after this is valid.

While i personally will choose to continue supporting hayden with her ethel cain persona and the art she creates from it, i do not pass judgement on the people who step away after this. I respect those who refuse to accept her explanations for her actions. Their feelings are just as valid as mine in this regard.

On that note, that is just about all i wanted to say on this matter. We are all human. We do not exist in a vacuum. I hope hayden can heal and continue leading her private life (outside of her art) after this horrible smear campaign. I will continue to be a casual enjoyer of her character, ethel. And i an excited for the next album.

That's about it!