cw: hotd season 3 spoilers, fix-it fic!, heavy angst, hurt/BIG comfort, fluff so much fluff, mention of violence, mourning but no death, yearning, kissing, jacaerys loves his wife more than anything, (3.8kw).
synopsis: He promised. To you, to himself, right before giving the order. "I will come back to you," Jacaerys whispered, pressing warm lips to wood, as if sealing his silent vow through the door.
a/n: mama will hold ur hand through this. it'll ALL be okay! bawled my eyes out at this but god i needed it. translations for the high valyrian used at the end!
He had never felt so cold before.
A chill seeping into the marrow of his bones and encrusting muscle and tissue, making it hard to move; to breathe.
His eyes battled the shroud of darkness, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t halt the certainty, which in that instant appeared like his end. Not slumber, not unconsciousness, but his demise’s unyielding grip curled around him like a serpent and squeezed until it wrung every bit of life out of him.
Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldn’t name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.
The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.
He hopes you’ll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.
Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment you’ve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?
Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.
You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.
He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, won’t get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when you’re face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.
Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he won’t have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.
But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all you’ve lost; of all he’s made you lose.
It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.
Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.
The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.
But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.
He wishes he would’ve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesn’t feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He would’ve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.
Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.
If his promise would’ve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it would’ve knocked the air out of you both. He would’ve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing it’ll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like he’s your whole world.
May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.
He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys would’ve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldn’t. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.
And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?
Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.
So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure it’s real.
Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Don’t dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again and—
“I shall watch him,” your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you — “You need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.”
My Queen? Mother?
The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.
A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.
Were you crying? He couldn’t bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.
Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.
He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didn’t matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.
Please.
Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.
Please.
One last time is all he asks.
If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.
He knows he’s begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.
Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heart—
Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldn’t fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he must’ve brought you.
But he is wrong.
You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.
Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.
If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he could’ve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.
He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.
"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want to—"
Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then why—
"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.
Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?
Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."
The Maesters? What ever could you mean?
Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?
"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wake—"
And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.
It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"
His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.
But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."
Breathing life back into you.
Does that mean—
But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?
Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.
Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.
"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.
A laugh.
Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.
You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."
Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.
"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you again—"
He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.
And Gods, you do.
Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.
He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.
Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.
"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dārilaros ñuha."
Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.
He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.
"Avy jorrāelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrāelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, for—"
But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."
Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.
He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."
Oh.
In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.
"But I have—"
"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."
"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.
You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.
He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.
"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.
And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.
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Summary: Jacaerys and you have never gotten along very well ever since his mom and your dad got together. However, you both tolerate one another, staying out of each other's way. But this night, Jace has had enough of your defiant attitude, lashing out at you. Obviously, you decide to pay him back.
Warnings: SMUT; nasty and filthy language; dub!con (they both want it tbh); stepcest; both are mean to each other; masturbation; oral (m!receiving); degradation; name calling; rough sex; breeding kink lowk (he cums inside); fluffy ending; taboo relationship; reader admits to sleeping around; drugging? (reader uses Viagra on Jace, as payback);
Words: 11.7k
Notes: English is not my first language. This is hella 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 (regarding the language used). They are not blood-related in this story. No descriptions of Reader and no use of (y/n). If you are uncomfortable with any of the warnings, please do NOT read it. Thank you.
𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
Jacaerys sits engaged in his studies in his room. Still, the constant pop music blaring from his stepsister's room soon distracts him. The loud tunes echo in the hallway, quickly becoming a source of frustration. He feels his aggravation bubbling inside him as he struggles to concentrate on his assignment.
"Why does she always have to blast that ridiculous music?" he says to himself, gritting his teeth. His patience is wearing thin, and he can no longer disregard the noise that seems intentionally designed to irritate him. Taking a deep breath to calm his rising anger, Jacaerys stands up and heads toward the door.
Walking to your room, he reflects on how much you frustrate him. "Why is she even awake? I still don’t understand why she needs to be so loud. Can’t she be a little more considerate?" The mix of irritation and anger boils within him as he approaches her door.
He knocks, but the music continues to drown out everything else. "Just fantastic," he mutters to himself, and at that moment, he realizes that his patience has completely evaporated. Jacaerys flings the door open, bracing himself to demand that she lower the volume. Still, he’s hit with a wave of anger that makes the whole predicament even worse. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for a confrontation.
"Hey, turn that music down," he demands. He lacks the composure to simply ask, and in that instant, his emotions take charge. Jacaerys is fully prepared for an argument, knowing that this encounter won't go smoothly.
You were dancing in your room, clad in your baby blue panties and a loose white tee. The music was blasting, the beat thumping through your veins as you moved to the rhythm. It had been a long, tiring day, and you just needed to let loose, to forget about everything.
Your hair swayed with each twist and turn of your body as you lost yourself in the beats of Black Eyed Peas, a classic. You finally felt somewhat better, like the cool, carefree girl everyone sees you as. Nothing else mattered except the music and the feeling of the air against your skin.
Suddenly, your 'party' was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. You didn't need to look to know it was Jace. He always had a knack for ruining your fun. But you didn't let it phase you. Instead, you turned up the volume, your grin turning wicked as you faced him.
You continued to dance, lipsyncing the words with exaggerated passion, putting on a show just to annoy him. His face contorted with anger, his brows furrowing. You had to bite back a laugh as he got angrier while you just kept twirling around like an exotic dancer.
"What? Not used to actually good music?"
Jacaerys stands in the doorway, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight before him. His stepsister is dancing in nothing but her underwear, your body moving sensually to the music. He feels a wave of anger wash over him, mixed with a hint of something else... something he doesn't want to acknowledge.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he shouts over the music, his voice dripping with contempt. "You can't just blast your shitty music at all hours of the night!"
He takes a step into the room, his eyes never leaving your body. He tries to look away, trying to focus on the anger bubbling up inside him, but he can't help but stare. Your curves are mesmerizing, your skin glowing in the dim light of her bedroom.
"And put some fucking clothes on!" he adds, his voice rising. "You look like a cheap whore!"
The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth, but he can't take them back. He knows they're cruel, but he's too angry to care. He hates you, hates how you have invaded his life, his home. And now you're dancing around half-naked, taunting him with your body.
"Don't you know I'm trying to study?" he shouts, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you have any idea how annoying you are?"
He's breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest, he can't seem to look away from you, can't stop watching you move. Jace clenches his fists, trying to ignore the way your breasts are visible through the light-coloured tee and the way your panties hug your hips.
You stop dancing and glare at him, your lips pursed together. You abruptly shut off the music, the sudden silence deafening.
"Get out!" You yell, furious at his degrading words. You know you pissed him off, but he's never called you names like that before. What's gotten into him?
You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious about your state of undress. But you refuse to let him see that he's gotten under your skin. You keep your chin raised defiantly, meeting his angry gaze head-on.
"You're the one who barged in here unannounced," you snap. "Maybe if you knocked first, you wouldn't have seen anything. But apparently, you just can't help yourself when it comes to invading my privacy."
You turn away from him in disgust, not wanting to look at him anymore. Your heart is pounding and you feel your cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment. You can't believe he said those things to you. He's never been so cruel before.
Jacaerys feels a pang of guilt as he sees the hurt in your eyes, but he quickly pushes it down. You're the enemy, the intruder in his life. He can't let himself feel sorry for you.
"Oh, so it's my fault now?" he scoffs, taking another step into the room. "I'm the one who can't help myself? You're the one who's always prancing around half-naked, just begging for attention."
He reaches out and grabs your arm, turning you to face him. He can feel the heat radiating off your skin and can smell the sweet scent of your perfume. It's intoxicating, and he hates himself for noticing.
"Listen, you little bitch," he sneers, his face inches from yours. "I'm in charge here, not you. You don't get to do whatever you want, whenever you want. There are rules in this house, and you're going to start following them."
He can see the rage in your eyes, the way you grit your teeth. But he doesn't let go. He wants to show you who's boss, wants to make you submit to him.
"Now put some fucking clothes on and stay out of my way," he growls, giving your arm a rough shake. "And if I hear that music again, there will be consequences."
Jacaerys' grip is rough as he grabs your arm, and you can feel his nails digging into your skin. You grit your teeth, trying to suppress the wince of pain. His closeness is suffocating, his hot breath on your face making you light-headed.
"Get. Out." You spit the words at him, ripping your arm free. The movement leaves angry red marks on your skin, a physical reminder of his bruising hold.
In the past, you would have run straight to Dad. His presence loomed large, always ready to swoop in and protect you. But not this time. The air between you is different now, charged with a new dynamic since his relationship with Jace's mother. No, Dad won't interfere this time.
You are on your own.
Something stirs inside you. A spark of anger, of determination. You won't let him bully you, won't let him treat you like you're nothing just because it's his house.
A smirk plays at the corners of your mouth as a plan takes shape in your mind. Oh, you'll make him pay for this. You'll make him regret ever laying a hand on you.
"Now," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. "Get out of my room before I scream. And if you ever touch me again, I will cut your dick off and fuck your face with it."
You watch as he hesitates, his eyes flashing with rage and something else, something you can't quite place. But he backs down, turning and storming out of the room.
You slam the door behind him, leaning against it heavily. Your heart races and your breaths come in short gasps. This isn't over. Not by a long shot. But for now, you've made your stand. And you will get the better of him.
Jace storms out of your room, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang that echoes through the hallway. His hands are shaking, his heart racing. He can still feel the heat of your skin under his fingers, and can still smell the intoxicating aroma of your perfume.
"Fuck!" he shouts, punching the wall in frustration. Pain shoots through his hand, but he barely notices. All he can think about is you - your defiance, your attitude, your goddamn body.
He knows he shouldn't have touched you, knows he crossed a line. But he couldn't help himself. You were just so... there, so tempting. And he hates himself for it.
Jace takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He can't let you get to him like this, can't let you see that you have any kind of power over him. He's the one in charge, not you.
But even as he tells himself this, he knows it's not true. You have a hold over him, a power he can't quite explain. And it terrifies him.
He stalks back to his room, slamming the door behind him. He needs to clear his head and focus on something else—anything else.
But as he sits down at his desk, trying to force himself to concentrate on his homework, all he can think about is you. The way you looked at him, the way you smelled, the way your skin felt under his fingers.
He groans in frustration, burying his face in his hands. This is going to be a long night.
Jace slammed the door and before you could think, you were screaming, hurling the nearest object you could grab - your half-empty water glass - right at the wooden barrier separating you. It shatters on impact, scattering shards across the floor.
You pant heavily, your vision swimming with a red haze of fury. Those red marks on your arm are a throbbing reminder of his cruelty. How dare he lay a finger on you, how dare he treat you like you're just some nuisance to be dealt with.
Cursing under your breath, you go to clean up the pieces of glass, hissing as a few sharp slivers embed themselves in your fingertips. It hurts, but you grit your teeth and keep sweeping.
Tomorrow, you vow to yourself. Tomorrow, he's gonna learn not to underestimate you. And there's no one to stop you this time. No dad to intervene, no mom to play peacemaker, and no Lucerys to come to his defence.
Just you. And you know exactly how to make him pay. That smug, cocky expression on his face will be wiped right off when you're through with him. He'll be begging for mercy.
A wicked smile curls your lips as you imagine all the ways you can make Jace suffer. Oh, it's gonna be so satisfying to bring him to his knees. He'll regret the day he ever laid a hand on you.
Jace hears the crash of glass, followed by your muffled screaming. He knows you're angry, knows he pushed you too far. But he can't bring himself to care. All he can think about is the feel of your skin. It's driving him crazy.
He paces his room, his mind racing with thoughts of you. He hates you, but he can't deny the attraction he feels. It's eating him alive, consuming every thought. He's never felt this way before, never been so torn between lust and disdain.
Jace stops in front of his mirror, staring at his reflection. He looks like shit - his hair is a mess, his eyes are wild. He looks like he's losing his mind. And maybe he is. Because all he can think about is you, touching you, claiming you as his own.
He slams his fist against the wall, feeling the sting of pain in his knuckles. But it's not enough. Nothing is enough to quench this fire burning inside him. He needs you, needs to overpower you, needs to take you like an animal and make you into an obedient bunny.
Jace strips off his shirt, revealing his toned chest and abs. He's been working out like crazy lately, trying to blow off steam. But it's not working. Nothing is working. Except the thought of you, naked and helpless under him.
He reaches down, palming himself through his shorts. He's already hard, already aching for release. But he knows it won't be enough. Nothing will be enough until he has you.
Jace collapses onto his bed, his body tense with need. He wants to hate you, wants to push you away. But he can't. All he can do is lie here, imagining all the ways he's going to make you his.
His cock is hard and aching, straining against the confines of his boxers. He reaches down, stroking himself slowly, imagining it's your hand on him instead of his own.
Jace groans, his hips thrusting up into his hand as he imagines you touching him. In his mind, you're naked and wet, your body pressed against his, your lips trailing kisses down his chest.
"Fuck," he moans, his name for you falling from his lips like a prayer. He's always tried to resist you, always tried to push you away. But now, he can't fight it any longer. He needs you, needs to feel you, needs to claim you as his own.
He thinks about barging into your room again, pinning you against the wall, tearing your clothes off with his bare hands. He wants to touch you, to taste you, to make you scream his name in pleasure and pain.
Jace speeds up his strokes, his cock throbbing in his hand. He's close, so fucking close. Just a little more and he'll explode, will paint his chest with his seed like a fucking teenage boy.
"Oh, yes, fuck," he pants, his eyes rolling back in his head as he imagines you riding him, your tits bouncing in his face. He wants to grab them, to suck on your nipples until you're begging for more.
With a final groan, Jace comes, his cock pulsing in his hand as he shoots his load all over his stomach. He lies there for a moment, catching his breath, his body still tingling with pleasure.
Unable to drift off, you pop a melatonin and collapse onto the bed, giddy with anticipation for tomorrow. You just have to act normal and bide your time patiently. With your mind foggy from the drowsiness, you struggle to recall clever quotes about patience. Ah well, you'll just have to exercise some restraint until the moment is right. Tomorrow, Jace will get a taste of his own medicine.
The next morning, Jace wakes up feeling groggy and exhausted. He can still feel the ache in his cock, the memory of his fantasy still fresh in his mind. He rolls over, burying his face in his pillow to muffle a groan.
He knows he shouldn't have done that, knows he shouldn't be thinking about you that way. But he can't help it. You're always on his mind, always tempting him, always challenging him.
Jace gets out of bed, and heads to the bathroom to shower. As he strips off his clothes, he catches sight of the cum stains on his boxers from last night. He feels a sense of shame washes over him, followed by a surge of anger.
"Fuck," he mutters, balling up the underwear and throwing it in the hamper. "What the hell is wrong with me?"
He turns on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over his body. But even as he scrubs himself clean, he can't shake the thoughts of you from his mind. He imagines you in the shower with him, your hands sliding over his slick skin, your lips on his neck.
Jace groans, his cock stiffening again. He reaches down, wrapping his hand around it, stroking it slowly. He thinks about you, about how you'll look when he finally breaks you when he makes you submit to him completely.
He's close, so fucking close, when he hears a knock at the bathroom door.
"Jace, hurry up!" his brother Lucerys calls out. "We're leaving!"
Jace curses under his breath, releasing his cock reluctantly. He finishes his shower quickly, towelling off in a hurry. As he heads to his room to get dressed, getting ready to bid his brother and parents goodbye, he wonders what kind of shit you'll pull today.
You head downstairs as well, your heart fluttering with excitement as you watch your family leave for their weekend trip. You give them each a quick hug, your smile a little too bright, your eyes a little too eager. They say their goodbyes, reminding Jace and you to study hard for your upcoming finals.
You turn to Jace, who's engrossed in conversation with Lucerys. You seize your chance. Slipping into the kitchen, you retrieve the Viagra pill you'd tucked away in your pocket earlier. Your hands shake slightly as you open the capsule, pouring the powdered contents into Jace's glass of coffee. You stir it smoothly, erasing any trace of your tampering.
A wicked smile plays across your lips as you picture what will happen next. Jace, oblivious, will gulp down his spiked drink, blissfully unaware of the chemical coursing through his veins. And when the effects hit, oh, how delicious his suffering will be. The smug boy finally brought low by his own lust, enslaved by a desire he can't control.
Part of you feels a twinge of guilt for drugging him without consent, but your desire for revenge overshadows it.
Jace finishes his breakfast, gulping down the last of his coffee. As he starts to work on his History paper, he feels a strange sensation wash over him, a tingling warmth spreading through his body. He stands up, heading to the sink to rinse his cup.
But as he walks, he feels a sudden tightness in his groin. He looks down, shocked to see his cock hardening in his pants. What the fuck? He hasn't even seen you yet, and he's already hard? He can barely walk, his legs trembling with the effort of holding back his orgasm.
"Fuck," he groans, pressing his thighs together. His cock is rock hard, throbbing painfully against his zipper. He can feel it pulsing, almost like a heartbeat.
He stumbles back to the sofa, sitting down heavily. He can feel his heart racing, his skin flushed with heat. He knows he shouldn't be feeling this way, knows he should be focused on anything but you. But he can't help it. All he can think about is you, about your body, about fucking you until you scream.
Jace shifts in his seat, trying to adjust himself discreetly. But it's no use. His cock is throbbing, aching for release. He looks around, making sure you are nowhere near.
"Fuck," he mutters, reaching down to palm himself through his jeans. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, and knows he should stop before he loses control. But he can't. He needs to cum, needs to relieve the pressure building inside him. Jace is a mess. His cock is leaking steadily, soaking through his boxers and making a damp spot on his jeans.
He slides his hand into his pants, pulling his cock out and wrapping his hand around it. He's so hard it hurts, so fucking horny he can barely think straight. He starts stroking himself, biting his lip to keep from making a sound.
Jace's mind is filled with thoughts of you, of your body, of your touch. He imagines you walking in on him like this, seeing the shock in your eyes as you realize what he's doing. He pictures you dropping to your knees, taking his cock in your mouth like a good little slut.
"Oh, fuck," he moans, his hips thrusting up into his hand. He's so close, so fucking close. Just a little more and he'll explode.
You crouch behind the wall on the staircase, eyeing Jace through the gap. There he is, the always arrogant Jacaerys, pumping himself like a horny teenager. You can't help but smirk, feeling a thrill at seeing him so undone. But you can't ignore the dampening between your legs at the sight of his toned arm wrapped around his thick shaft...No! You shake your head.
You need to stick to the plan.
You stride into the living room, calling out in mock shock, "Ew! Seriously?!" You point accusingly at his hard leaking cock in his fist. "So I'm a 'cheap whore' for dancing in my room, but you can just whip it out and whack off anywhere?!"
You lay into him mercilessly, your voice dripping with disdain. "What are you, some kind of sick pervert? Jerking off where your innocent step-sister could walk in on you? God, you're disgusting!"
You know you shouldn't take such delight in humiliating him, but you can't help the wicked satisfaction curling within you as you watch his face flush with shame and anger. He looks like a scolded child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Get your act together, Jace," you scold, your voice laced with faux-concern. "This isn't appropriate behaviour."
Jace's eyes widen in shock as he hears your voice, his heart pounding. He's caught, exposed, his worst nightmare come true. He scrambles to cover himself, his face burning with shame and anger.
"Get out!" he shouts, his voice cracking with embarrassment. "Get the fuck out of here!"
But you don't move, just stand there with that smug look on your face. He can see the evil glint in your eyes, the way you're looking at him like he's some kind of pervert.
"Fuck you," he spits, his cock still throbbing painfully in his hand. "This is none of your business."
But even as he says it, he knows it's a lie. Everything about him is your business now, whether he likes it or not. You're in his life, in his head, in his fucking cock. And he hates it, hates you, hates everything about this situation.
He looks down at his crotch, seeing the wet spot on his toned stomach, the sticky strands of precum leaking from his tip. He feels like a fucking animal, like a dog in heat. And you're standing there, watching him, judging him.
"Get out," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper."
But even as he says it, he knows it's a hollow threat. He's too weak, too desperate.
Jace's hand is still wrapped around his dick, his fingers slick with pre-cum. He can feel it dripping down his shaft, making a sticky mess of his boxers. He's so fucking hard it hurts, so desperate to cum that he can barely think straight.
"Just leave me alone," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I'll make you leave."
You bite your lip, looking at his aching cock, making a mess all over himself. "Aww..." you coo, pouting your pink lips. "Look at you, you're so horny, you can't even think straight. Your cock is leaking all over you."
You tease him with faux regard, your eyes gleaming with amusement. "What a mess you are, Jace. You really need to learn some self-control."
Jace glares at you, his eyes narrowing with anger and embarrassment. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, the shame burning through his body. He knows he looks pathetic, and knows that you're enjoying every second of his humiliation.
"Shut up," he snarls, his hand tightening around his cock. "Just shut the fuck up."
But even as he says it, he can't tear his eyes away from you. You're so fucking beautiful, so perfect in every way. And you're staring at him like he's some kind of freak, some kind of pervert.
He wants to hate you, wants to push you away, wants to make you suffer for what you've done to him. But he can't. All he can do is stare at you, his heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing in his hand.
"Fucking slut," he mutters, his voice low and vicious. "I bet you love this, don't you? Love seeing me like this, all pathetic and desperate."
His hand is moving faster now, stroking his cock with frantic, needy movements. He's so close, so fucking close to exploding. He just needs a little more, just a little more friction.
"I bet you're getting wet right now," he growls, his eyes locked on yours. "I bet you're picturing me fucking you, aren't you? Fucking you like the dirty whore you are."
He's not thinking straight, not thinking at all. All he can focus on is you, your body, your touch. He needs you, needs to dominate you, needs to make you submit to him completely.
"Come here," he demands, his voice rough with desire. "Get on your fucking knees and suck my cock like a good little slut."
He knows it's a mistake, knows he shouldn't be saying this. But he can't help it. The drug is clouding his mind, making him say and do things he never would normally do.
"Do it," he commands, his voice harsh and demanding. "Get over here and put that pretty little mouth to work."
Your breath catches in your throat as Jace's filthy words wash over you. You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, your panties growing damp with arousal. You never expected this, never thought he would affect you like this.
"N-no," you stammer, your voice trembling. You press your thighs together, trying to ignore the ache building in your core. You shouldn't want this, shouldn't want him. But you do, so badly.
You can feel your nipples hardening beneath your shirt. You know you should leave, should get away from him before it's too late. But you can't seem to make your feet move.
You can feel your juices trickling down your thighs, your panties clinging to your slick folds. You're so wet, so desperate for his touch. You know you should be disgusted by your desires, but you can't be. Not when Jace is looking at you like that, his eyes dark with lust and hunger.
Jace's eyes are burning with desire, his gaze raking over your body like he wants to devour you whole. He can see the way your nipples are hardening beneath your shirt, the way your breasts are swelling with need. He knows you're turned on, knows you want him just as badly as he wants you.
"Fuck," he growls, his hand speeding up on his cock. "You're so fucking hot. I bet you're dripping wet right now, aren't you? Bet you're aching for my cock."
He spreads his legs wider, giving you a clear view of his throbbing cock. It's swollen and red, the tip dripping with pre-cum. He knows it would feel so good inside your tight pussy, stretching you, filling you, claiming you.
He takes a step towards you, his hips thrusting into his hand. His cock is throbbing, dripping with pre-cum.
"Get on your knees and worship me," he demands, his eyes burning into yours. "Show me how much you want it. Show me how much you need my cock."
He knows it's immoral, knows he shouldn't be saying these things. But he can't stop, can't control himself. The medication is making him wild, making him say and do things he never would before.
He knows it's a challenge, and knows that you won't be able to resist. He can see the way your eyes are locked on his cock, the way your tongue is darting out to wet your lips.
"Come and get it," he taunts, his voice thick with desire. "Come and show me how much you want to be my little cock sleeve."
"Do it," he demands, his eyes boring into yours. "Get on your knees and suck my fucking cock."
He's moving closer now, his cock bobbing obscenely in front of him. He can smell your arousal and can see the way your body is shaking with need.
"Fucking. Do. It," he snarls, his hand tightening around his shaft. "Or I'll fucking make you."
He's so close, so fucking close to losing control completely. If you don't obey him, if you don't give him what he needs, he might just snap. Might just grab you and take what he wants, consequences be damned.
He's going to make you submit to him, make you his own personal fuck toy. He's going to use you, abuse you, make you beg for his cock.
"Now," he snarls, his hand tightening around his shaft. "Before I lose my fucking patience."
You take a small step back, shaking your head as if to clear it. "No, Jace... this is wrong," you say, trying to sound firm even as your body betrays you. Fuck, why does he have to be so hot? Every fibre of your being is screaming at you to drop to your knees and worship that massive cock.
The sight of Jace stroking himself, his eyes dark with lust, is enough to make your head spin. You want him so badly, want to feel that thick shaft stretching your throat, fucking your face until you're gagging and drooling all over yourself.
But you can't. You won't. No matter how much your body craves it, you know this is wrong. He's your stepbrother, for fuck's sake. You can't do this, can't cross this line.
You take another step back, your heart pounding in your chest. You were so close to giving in, so close to letting all of your inhibitions melt away.
"Jace, please," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "We can't do this. It's not right." Trying to sound commanding, but it sounds like a pathetic whimper.
Jace's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching with anger. He can't believe you're rejecting him, can't believe you're turning him down after everything his family has done for you. He's been nothing but patient to you, nothing but kind and generous. And this is how you repay him? By denying him what he needs most?
"Fuck you," he spits, his hand tensing around his cock. "You think you're better than me? Think you can just walk away?"
He takes a step towards you, his eyes burning with rage. He knows you're unconvinced. But he doesn't care. All he cares about is his own need, his own desperate hunger.
"I own you," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You belong to me. And I won't let you go until I'm satisfied."
He lunges forward, grabbing you by the wrist and yanking you towards him. He pulls you close, his body pressing against yours, his cock rubbing against your stomach.
"You're mine," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "I'll fucking violate your throat until you're begging for more. And you'll enjoy every second of it."
He shoves you to your knees, his hand tangling in your hair. He pulls your head back, forcing you to look up at him.
"Open your mouth," he demands, his cock pressing against your lips. "Put that pretty little mouth to work and show me how sorry you are."
You stare up at Jace with wide, shocked eyes. The sweet, charming stepbrother that you know has transformed into someone so cruel, so aggressive. But despite yourself, you can't deny the slick pooling between your thighs at his vulgar words and forceful actions.
With trembling fingers, you place your hands on his muscular thighs, steadying yourself. Slowly, obediently, you part your pink, glossy lips and stick out your tongue, offering your mouth to him. Your heart pounds wildly in anticipation of what he might do.
Jace grins down at you, his eyes gleaming with triumph and dark lust. He grips your hair tighter, practically yanking you forward to take his throbbing cock. "That's it, slut. Open wide for your stepbrother."
He slaps his heavy, veiny shaft against your cheek and lips, smearing sticky pre-cum on your soft skin. The musky scent of his arousal fills your nostrils. "Mmm, yeah, gonna train you with my dick. Gonna wreck your throat with it."
Grabbing your jaw, Jace forces his fat cockhead past your lips, stretching them obscenely. "Ffffuck..." he groans at the tight, wet heat engulfing him. He bucks his hips, ramming several inches of thick cockmeat down your throat.
Your eyes bulge and water as he hits the back of your throat, making you gag and sputter around his invading length. Drool leaks from the corners of your stretched mouth. Jace's heavy balls smack against your chin.
"Take it, bitch!" he snarls, eyes wild with lust. "Choke on my fucking cock! Gonna use your throat like a fleshlight." He yanks your head forward, burying his dick to the hilt in your convulsing oesophagus.
Holding you in place, Jace starts savagely pistoning his hips, sawing his huge cock in and out of your abused throat. Your eyes roll back, drool splattering your tits as he uses your face like a cocksleeve. "Ungh, fuck, so good!" he grunts, grunting and sweating. "Best. Throat. Ever!"
Spit-roasted and choking, you can only gurgle helplessly as he breaks your throat. "Look at me," he demands, his voice rough with lust. "Look at me while I fuck your throat."
You force your eyes open, looking up at him through your tears. He's looking down at you with a wild, feral expression, his eyes burning with a hunger that terrifies and thrills you.
"You like this, don't you?" he asks, his voice low and cruel. "Like being used like a fucking toy. Like being my personal cum dumpster."
He pulls out suddenly, his cock slipping from your lips. You gasp for air, coughing and sputtering. But before you can recover, he's shoving back in, fucking your throat with renewed vigour.
"I'm going to ruin you," he promises, his hand tightening in your hair. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. Until you're nothing but a set of holes for me to use."
You moan around his thick cock, the vibrations travelling up his shaft as your throat constricts around him. Wet, obscene noises fill the room - the sloppy sounds of spit and drool as he uses your mouth like a disposable fucktoy
Gasping desperately, you pull off his cock for a moment, lungs burning. You gaze up at him with huge, tearful eyes, mascara smeared down your flushed cheeks. "Jace..." you whine pathetically, your voice is scratchy and broken.
You trail your delicate fingers along his chiselled abdomen and strong thighs, a soft apology. Your nails lightly scrape his heated skin, silently pleading for mercy. But your sorrowful puppy dog eyes hold a dark, masochistic thrill - you love being used like his personal fleshlight.
Jace chuckles darkly, his hand still fisted in your hair. "You look so cute when you're choking on my cock," he sneers. "Like a pretty little whore. My pretty girl."
He tugs your head forward, forcing you back onto his massive dick. Your nose presses against his pubic bone as he bottoms out in your throat.
"No more talking," Jace growls. "Just take it like a good little step-slut."
He starts face-fucking you with cruel intensity, hips slapping against your face. Drool pours from your stretched lips, making a further mess of your tits. He yanks your hair, forcing you to deepthroat him over and over.
"Fuck yes, gag on it," he pants harshly. "Choke on your stepbrother's fat cock."
Spit sprays from your mouth as he ruthlessly pounds your throat. Your eyes squeeze shut, tears streaming down your face. But you look up at him with a perverse, masochistic adoration.
Jace leers down at you wickedly. "Take it all, you filthy throat slut. Milk my cock with your whore throat."
He holds your head down, burying his dick as deep as it can go. Your throat spasms around him, convulsing as you struggle for air. But he keeps you pinned, using your mouth like a warm, wet fleshlight.
Pulling out suddenly, Jace rips you off his cock. A flood of drool and pre-cum pours out of your used hole. You gasp and splutter, trying to catch your breath.
"You love this, don't you?" Jace sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. "Love being treated like a cheap fucktoy. Like a set of holes for me to use."
He slaps your cheek with his wet, veiny cock. "Go on, slut. Clean my dick."
You obediently wrap your lips around his cockhead, suckling gently. You lap up the mixture of pre-cum and saliva, savouring the taste of his essence.
"Mmmm..." you moan around his leaking tip.
Jace shudders as your tongue swirls around his sensitive cockhead, your lips making little kisses along his shaft. "Ohh fuck, that's it," he groans. "You’ve done this before, haven’t you? On your knees for some man who just wants to use you for your mouth and ass?”
You whimper softly as you clean Jace's thick shaft with your tongue, slurping up the mix of your spit and his pre-cum. Your eyes flutter shut as you lose yourself in the sensation.
But his degrading words sting, making you scowl around his throbbing cock. You want to show him how much more experienced you are than he realizes.
Releasing his dick from your lips with a wet pop, you shift to nuzzle his heavy, cum-filled balls. Your tongue darts out to lap at the wrinkled skin, stroking his veiny shaft at the same time.
"Ohh Jace," you coo sultrily, your warm breath washing over his sensitive sack. "Do you want to cum on your pretty little sister's face? Be a dirty pervert and paint me like a cheap whore?"
You roll his big balls in your mouth, suckling gently as you pump his cock with your soft hand. Your fingertips dance teasingly over his weeping slit, making him twitch and throb.
"Mmmm...I'll be such a good girl for you, brother. Just tell me where you want to cum. My mouth? My tits? All over my slutty face?"
Jace groans, his head falling back as you worship his most intimate areas. Your warm, wet mouth and soft hands feel amazing on his heavy sack and throbbing cock.
"F-fuck..." he stammers, his eyes squeezing shut. "You're so good at this. Have you practised much? On your ex-boyfriends?"
His abs flex as you tongue his balls, your hand pumping his slick shaft. "Dirty girl," he pants. "Bet you've sucked off lots of boys before. Bet you love it."
You glance up at him through your lashes, your eyes dark with lust. "Maybe I have," you purr, your hand speeding up. "Maybe I can't control myself around big, hard cocks. Maybe I just need to be filled up and used like the slut I am."
Jace groans, his cock throbbing in your soft hand as your tongue and lips worship his heavy balls. The sight of you nuzzling and sucking them, combined with the depraved words tumbling from your lips, has his cock swelling even larger.
You release his balls with a wet pop, gazing up at him with sultry bedroom eyes. "I've dreamed about your cock, brother," you purr, pumping his shaft slowly. "Imagined you bending me over and fucking me like you own me."
"Fuck," he pants, his hips rocking slightly into your touch. "You're such a dirty little slut. Begging for your own stepbrother's cum."
He reaches down to fist his hand in your hair, guiding your head to his groin. "Open up, whore. Let me feed you my cock."
You obey eagerly, parting your glossy lips to accept his thick meat. He slides over your tongue, the salty taste of his pre-cum flooding your mouth.
Jace starts fucking your face, his balls slapping against your spit-slick chin with each thrust. "Take it all, you filthy cumslut," he growls. "Choke on your stepbrother's fat cock."
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as he hits the back of your throat repeatedly, but you moan wantonly around his pistoning shaft. Drool leaks from the corners of your stretched lips, making a sticky mess of your chin and breasts.
"Mmmph!" you hum, the vibrations driving Jace wild. His grip tightens painfully in your hair as he starts bucking into your mouth with reckless abandon.
"Ohh fuuuck!" Jace throws his head back with a guttural groan. "Gonna fucking bust! Gonna paint your whore face with my load!"
With a final, brutal thrust, he buries his cock in your throat and unloads his seed directly into your belly. Hot spurts of thick, sticky cum shoot down your throat as he empties his heavy balls.
You whimper as Jace pulls his spent cock from your throat. Globs of his thick cum spill from your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your already ruined shirt. The fabric clings to your skin, damp with spit and his precum.
Wiping the cum from your face with trembling fingers, you bring them to your mouth and suck them clean with a sinful moan. Your body is on fire, desperate for more despite the ache in your throat.
You peel off your soiled top with quivering hands, revealing your perky tits glistening with dried fluids. Your pert nipples stiffen in the cool air, aching to be touched. You toss the shirt aside carelessly, uncaring of your state of undress.
You know he's not done with you yet. The drug has him in its thrall now, his need insatiable. Your pussy throbs, empty and needy. You present yourself to him, ready to be used again and again for his pleasure.
Jace drinks in the sight of your half-naked body, his eyes dark with lust and something more sinister. He circles you slowly, drinking in every curve and dip of your lithe form. His gaze lingers on your pert breasts, the peaks already pebbled with arousal.
He trails a single finger down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You shiver and arch into his touch, craving more. Jace chuckles lowly, the sound sending tingles across your skin.
"So desperate for it," he purrs, his breath hot against your ear. "So eager to be filled by your own stepbrother's cock. What a dirty little slut you are."
His hand snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against his muscular body. You can feel his renewed erection pressing insistently against your ass, hard and heavy. He grinds against you, letting you feel exactly what he wants to do to you.
Jace's fingers dance across your sensitive skin, tracing teasing patterns over your hips and thighs. He nips at your earlobe, tugging it between his teeth. "Beg for it," he growls, his voice rough with desire. "Beg me to fuck you like the filthy cumslut you are."
His words make you burn with shame and need, a combination that has you dizzy with want. You've never been spoken to like this before, treated like a piece of meat to be used for someone else's pleasure. But, god help you, you love it. Love being degraded and objectified by the man you've secretly craved for so long.
"Please Jace," you whimper, grinding back against his rigid length. "Please fuck me. I need it so bad. I need you to split me open on your big cock and make me yours."
Your shameless begging seems to inflame him further. With a low groan, Jace fists your hair, pushing you face-first onto the couch.
He looms over you, his eyes wild and hungry. "I'm going to ruin you," he promises darkly as he rips off your flimsy shorts and panties.
You yelp as Jace roughly pushes you down, your glistening holes exposed to his hungry gaze. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as you feel his eyes devouring your most intimate places, watching the way they twitch and flutter with need. You can feel your arousal coating your inner thighs, your desperate cunt clenching around nothing.
Your breath comes in shallow gasps, your mind reeling with a mix of shame and desire. You've never been so vulnerable before, so utterly at someone else's mercy. And yet, you've never wanted anything more than you want Jace to claim you in this moment, to make you his in every way possible.
You can feel his eyes raking over your body, taking in every curve and dip of your quivering form. It's as if he's memorizing every inch of you. You squirm under the intensity of his stare, your skin prickling with goosebumps.
"Please," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please Jace, I need you. I need you to split me open on your fat cock. I want to become your personal fleshlight, you can use me whenever you want, please."
Jace growls low in his throat, the sound sending shivers down your spine. He runs his rough palm over the globes of your ass, squeezing the supple flesh. "Such a desperate little slut," he taunts, giving your cheek a sharp smack. "So eager to be used like a cheap whore."
You cry out at the sudden sting, your pussy clenching hungrily. Jace chuckles cruelly, rubbing the reddening skin. "You like that, don't you? Like being marked and claimed by your stepbrother."
He spreads your cheeks wider, exposing your twitching holes to his ravenous gaze. "Look at you, dripping for me already. Your cunt is practically begging to be fucked."
Jace notches the swollen head of his cock against your entrance, the blunt tip nudging your sensitive folds. "Brace yourself, slut," he warns, his voice a dark promise. "I'm going to fucking destroy this sweet little pussy."
With that, he slams his hips forward, burying his massive length inside you in one brutal thrust. You scream at the sudden intrusion, your body stretched to its limits around his girth. It feels like he's splitting you in half, the thick cockhead kissing your cervix.
Jace doesn't give you any time to adjust, immediately setting a punishing pace. He pounds into you with animalistic eagerness, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The couch creaks dangerously beneath you, rocking with the force of his thrusts.
"Fuck, so tight," he rasps, his hips never faltering. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No one will ever make you feel as good as I do."
You can only whimper and moan, your mind short-circuiting with pleasure. It's too much, too intense. The feel of him claiming you so thoroughly, owning your body in the most primal way possible. It's everything you've ever wanted, even if you're too ashamed to admit it.
"Oh god, oh fuck!" You wail, your voice cracking with ecstasy. Jace's fat cock is stretching you beyond belief, filling you so completely that you can barely breathe. It feels like he's in your throat, splitting you open from the inside.
Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he pounds into you mercilessly, the couch groaning beneath your combined weight. You can't believe how good it feels, how right. Like you were made to be used by him, and him alone.
In your pleasure-drunk haze, the words spill from your lips without thought. "You're even bigger than your best friend," you moan dazedly, clenching around his pistoning length. "Fuck, you're ruining my pussy!"
The moment the comparison leaves your mouth, you realize your mistake.
Jace stills, his hips still buried deep inside you. "What did you just say?" he asks quietly, a dangerous edge to his voice.
Realization dawns on you, horrified. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why did you say THAT?! Now he knows! Now he'll stop, now he'll pull out and leave you empty and aching and you can't let that happen!
"I didn't mean it," you babble, desperate. "I was just saying stuff, I didn't mean anything by it!"
Jace pulls out abruptly, his cock slipping from your clenching hole with a lewd noise. You whimper at the loss, your body already missing his thick meat.
But then he's flipping you over, pushing you down onto your back. He looms over you, his eyes dark and fathomless. One large hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.
"Who?" he asks, his voice low and menacing. "Who have you fucked? Who else has had this sweet little cunt?"
His other hand reaches down, his fingers brushing over your swollen, sensitive folds. You buck your hips instinctively, seeking more of his touch.
"Tell me," he commands, tightening his grip slightly. "Tell me who you've spread your legs for. I want names, pet."
You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You can't tell him the truth, can't admit to all the boys you've let use you. He'll hate you, he'll see you as nothing more than a dirty whore.
But then again, isn't that exactly what you are? A filthy cumslut desperate for any cock that will have you? Maybe this is your chance to finally be honest, to let him see the real you.
"I...I've fucked a lot of people," you whisper, your eyes downcast. "Guys from school, random hookups. I've let them all use me, brother. I'm nothing but a horny slut."
Jace's hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your air. "Did you enjoy it?"
You can barely breathe with Jace's hand around your throat, cutting off your air supply. Your lungs burn, and your vision starts to blur at the edges. But even through the haze of oxygen deprivation, you can feel the heat pooling in your core, your treacherous body responding to his show of dominance.
"Y-yes," you manage to choke out, your voice strained. "I loved it. Loved being used like a cheap whore, like a set of holes for them to fuck."
Jace's eyes flash with something dark and dangerous. His grip on your throat tightens even more, making spots dance across your vision. "Did you let them cum inside you? Fill you up with their seed like the dirty cumslut you are?"
You nod frantically, tears streaming down your face. "Yes, brother. So many times. I wanted to be claimed. Please, please fuck me. Use me like they did. I'm your filthy slut, yours to ruin."
Jace releases your throat abruptly, letting you gasp and cough, drawing in desperate gulps of air. He flips you back over onto your hands and knees, your ass presented to him like a bitch in heat.
"Spread yourself," he commands, giving your rear a sharp smack. "I want to see those slutty holes that have been so eagerly fucked."
You obey immediately, reaching back to spread your cheeks wide. Your swollen pussy lips glisten with arousal, your puckered asshole twitching hungrily. You're so empty, aching to be filled, to be used like the cum-hungry whore you are.
"Please, Jace," you beg, your voice trembling with desperate need. "I'm yours, only yours. No one can make me feel as good as you do."
You jiggle your round ass, spreading your cheeks to expose your soaked holes to his hungry gaze. Slick arousal trickles down your inner thighs, your pussy clenching around nothing, aching to be filled.
"I'll be your personal fucktoy, your cocksleeve to use whenever you want. Just please, fill me up again. I need your big cock stretching me open, claiming me as yours."
Your eyes are pleading, your body shaking with need. You've never felt so vulnerable, so utterly at someone's mercy. But you trust Jace, know that he'll give you exactly what you crave.
"No one else will ever touch me again," you promise, your voice breaking. "I'm yours, brother. Yours to fuck, yours to fill with your seed. I'll be the best little cockwarmer you've ever had."
Jace's eyes darken with lust as you present yourself to him so wantonly, your trembling body an offering to his basest desires. He drinks in the sight of your glistening folds, swollen and desperate for his touch.
"Such an obedient little slut," he purrs, trailing his fingers through your slick heat. "So eager to be bred by your own stepbrother, fucking dirty incest whore."
He notches the swollen head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with the promise of fullness. Your hips buck back instinctively, trying to impale yourself on his thick length.
But Jace holds you in place, his grip bruising on your hips. "Ah ah, pet. You'll take my cock when I give it to you. Not a second sooner."
He drags the blunt tip through your folds, coating himself in your arousal. Each pass of his cockhead sends sparks of electricity racing up your spine, your body singing with need.
"Please," you whimper, tears of frustration leaking from your eyes. "Please, Jace. I can't take it anymore. I need you inside me, need you to fill me up."
With a satisfied growl, Jace lines himself up and thrusts forward, burying his massive length in your aching cunt again in one brutal stroke. You scream as he splits you open, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth. It's almost too much, the delicious burn of being filled so completely.
Jace sets a punishing pace, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, punctuated by your whiny moans and his grunts of effort.
"Take it, you filthy whore," he snarls, slamming into you. "Take my fucking cock like the cum-hungry slut you are. This is where you belong, speared on your stepbrother's dick."
It truly was, and you wouldn't change a thing about it. The degradation, the filthy words falling from his lips, the way he uses your body for his pleasure. You've never felt so complete, so utterly owned.
"I lo-ove your f-fucking cock," you sob brokenly, your fingers digging into the soft cushions of the couch. Drool spills from your slack lips and your eyes roll back in your head as Jace pounds into you with brutal force.
You're lost, drowning in a sea of pleasure, your mind short-circuiting under the onslaught of sensation. His thick cock stretches you impossibly wide, the wet slap of skin on skin filling your ears. You can't think, can't breathe, you can only focus on the feel of him splitting you open over and over again.
"Fuck, Jace!" You wail, your body convulsing around his pistoning length. "You're ruining me! Oh god, don't stop, please don't ever stop!"
Your hips rock back to meet his thrusts, desperate for more. You've never felt so full. At this moment, you're not even a person, just a hole for Jace to fuck.
You clench your hole around him, trying to milk his cock for all it's worth. You want him to use you, to fill you with his cum until you're leaking with it. You want to be his personal fucktoy, to exist solely for his pleasure.
You moan, your voice is ragged and broken. "All yours, big brother. Ruin me, break me, I can take it. Just please, please don't stop fucking me!"
Jace's thrusts become erratic, his cock pulsing inside you as he nears his peak. He leans forward, pressing his sweat-slicked body against your back. One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back as he growls in your ear.
"Gonna fill this slutty cunt up," he pants, his hips snapping forward even harder. "Gonna breed you like the filthy whore you are. You want that, pet? Want to be knocked up by your stepbrother's seed?"
The thought sends a shockwave of lust through you, your already tight walls clamping down on his pistoning length. You've never wanted anything more, never ached to be claimed in such a primal way.
"Yes," you keen, pushing your hips back to meet his brutal thrusts. "Yes, fuck! Please! I wanna leak with your cum."
Your words seem to shatter the last of Jace's control. With an animalistic roar, he slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt. His cock jerks and pulses, painting your insides white with his thick seed.
"Gonna ruin this tight hole," he grunts, slamming into you harder. "Paint these filthy walls with my cum. You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be bred by your own fucking brother?"
You can only moan in response, your tongue lolling out of your mouth as you lose yourself to the relentless pounding of his cock. Your mind is blank, all thoughts consumed by the feel of him inside you, claiming you, owning you.
Jace's balls slap against your sensitive clit with each thrust, the added stimulation pushing you closer to the edge. Your toes curl, your nails scrabbling uselessly at the cushions as your body tenses, ready to shatter.
You scream as your own orgasm crashes over you, your cunt milking him for every last drop. Pleasure explodes behind your eyelids, whiting out your vision as you're consumed by ecstasy.
Jace collapses on top of you, both of you gasping for breath. His softening cock slips from your abused hole, a trickle of cum following in its wake. You can feel it running down your thighs, marking you as his.
As the post-orgasmic haze clears, reality starts to sink in. You just let your stepbrother fuck you raw, just begged him to cum inside. What have you done? What kind of sick, twisted person are you?
Shame and self-loathing wash over you, warring with the afterglow of pleasure. You should feel disgusted, should push Jace away and run as far away from this shame as you can.
When he finally pulls out, you feel empty. Your abused hole gapes obscenely, a trickle of his release leaking out. But Jace isn't done with you.
"We're not done yet, slut," he promises darkly.
"What?" You whisper hoarsely, your body still throbbing in the aftermath of Jace's brutal fucking. But even through the haze of pleasure, truth starts to creep in. You were the one who drugged him, who set this whole thing in motion.
"Wait," you whimper, twisting in his arms to face him. Your lips are swollen, your eyes glazed and unfocused. You can feel his cum leaking out of you. "Jace..."
Jace grabs you by the hips, pulling you flush against his body. His semi-hard cock nestles against your sensitive folds, making you gasp.
"You drugged me," he accuses, his voice low and dangerous. "Slipped something in my drink to make me fuck you. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
Your heart pounds in your chest, dread and arousal warring within you. You've been caught, and your sick game exposed. But why does the danger only excite you more?
"I...I'm sorry," you stammer, trying to squirm out of his grasp. But Jace just tightens his grip, his fingers digging into your soft flesh.
"Don't lie to me," he snarls, shaking you roughly. "You wanted this, wanted me to fuck you senseless. Admit it."
He grinds his hips against you, his cock hardening further. You can feel him throbbing against your slick heat, the promise of more pleasure making you dizzy.
Your legs tremble, barely able to support your weight after the brutal pounding Jace just gave you. But it's not just exhaustion making you shake - it's the anticipation, the promise of more in his heated gaze.
"Y-yeah..." you admit meekly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to embarrass you. Wanted to see you lose control."
You look up at him through your lashes, biting your plump lower lip. "Did it work, big brother? Did I make you forget all about being a gentleman?"
You can feel his cock twitch against your slick folds, already hardening again. The knowledge that you've reduced him to such base lust, that you've corrupted him with your depravity, sends a thrill through you.
With a feral growl, Jace slams your head against the couch, pinning you there. His hands are everywhere, groping and mauling your sensitive flesh.
"You're playing with fire, little sister," he warns, grinding his rock-hard length against your aching core. You can feel him throbbing against you, hot and hard and ready.
Jace leans in, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "I should punish you for drugging me, you know. Bend you over my knee and spank that juicy ass until it's red and raw."
He punctuates his words with a sharp smack to your rear, making you yelp and arch into him. Your body craves more of his touch, your pussy clenching on nothing.
"Please," you whimper, too far gone to care how desperate you sound. "Punish me, Jace. I deserve it."
Something dark and hungry flashes in his eyes at your admission. "Filthy little slut," he growls approvingly. "Trust me, I will."
With a vicious smile, Jace scoops you up, throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. He carries you towards his bedroom, his grip unyielding.
You shriek as Jace picks you up, your body going limp in his strong grip. You can feel his muscles flexing beneath your fingers as he throws you over his shoulder like a rag doll, carrying you effortlessly towards his bedroom.
Jace kicks open the door to his room, dumping you unceremoniously onto his bed. You bounce once, twice on the firm mattress before coming to rest on your back. You stare up at him, your chest heaving, your skin flushed and glistening with sweat.
"What are you going to do to me?" You ask breathlessly, your voice barely above a whisper. But you both know the answer.
Jace looms over you, his eyes dark with lust. He crawls onto the bed, covering your smaller body with his own.
"I'm going to ruin you," he promises darkly, his fingers finding your dripping slit. "Gonna fuck this greedy cunt until you're screaming for mercy."
He drives two thick fingers into your tight channel, making you cry out. Your walls clench around the intrusion, trying to suck him deeper.
"So eager," Jace croons, pumping his fingers in and out of your slick heat. "Such a desperate little slut, always hungry for cock."
He curls his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. Pleasure crashes through you, stealing your breath.
"Nngh, fuck!" you moan, your back arching off the bed. Your hips buck into his hand, chasing more of that delicious friction.
Jace just smirks down at you, his eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, how he's reducing you to a mindless, cock-hungry mess. And god help you, you love every minute of it.
"Beg for it," he demands, scissoring his fingers inside you. "Beg me to fuck you like the desperate little whore you are."
"Please, Jace," you whine, your voice high and needy. "Please fuck me! I need your cock so bad! I'll do anything, be anything, just please use me!"
With a triumphant grin, Jace withdraws his fingers. He lines up his thick length with your entrance, the swollen head nudging against your fluttering hole.
"Since you asked so nicely," he purrs, slamming forward in one brutal thrust.
You scream as he splits you open, the stretch bordering on discomfort. But it's the good kind of pain, the kind that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back in your head.
Jace's thrusts are relentless, his thick cock pistoning in and out of your stretched hole. Even though he just fucked you, split you open and bred you like a bitch in heat, you can never get enough of him. Of his fat dick stretching you so full, claiming your body as his own personal fucktoy.
You moan like a whore, your voice high and keening as he pounds into you. Thank fuck Dad and his mom and brother aren't home, because the sounds you're making would make a porn star blush. Obscene wet slaps fill the room as Jace's hips slam against you, driving him deeper with every thrust.
"Harder," you beg, your nails raking down his sweat-slicked back. "Fuck me harder, Jace! Ruin me with that big cock!"
He snarls, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he slams into you even harder. The headboard bangs against the wall, the rhythmic thumping obscenely loud in the quiet room.
You can feel another orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Jace is hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, stoking the flames higher and higher. Your pussy flutters around him, your walls clenching greedily.
"Filthy slut," Jace grunts, pounding into your abused cunt. "Can't get enough of your stepbrother's cock, can you? Fucking desperate to be ruined."
He drives into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your eyes roll back, drool leaking from the corner of your slack mouth as he fucks you stupid.
Your cunt is making obscene squelching noises, overflowing with Jace's cum from the last round. It dribbles down the crack of your ass, staining the sheets beneath you.
"Aaahh, fuck!" you moan, your toes curling as another orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clamps down on Jace's pistoning cock, milking him for all he's worth. You claw your nails down his back, leaving red marks in their wake as he fuck you through your intense climax.
"Gonna flood this slutty hole again," he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Fill you up with so much cum you'll be leaking for days."
With a roar of completion, Jace slams into you one last time. His cock jerks and pulses, painting your insides white with his thick seed. You can feel it filling you up.
Jace collapses on top of you, both of you gasping for breath. His softening dick slips out of your sore pussy, followed by a gush of cum. It pools between your thighs, oozing out onto the bed.
"Aah..." you whimper as your hole is throbbing, so sore and used from Jace's relentless pounding. You try to catch your breath, your eyes squeezed shut as aftershocks of pleasure course through your spent body.
But it feels so right, being claimed by him. Like you were made to be fucked thoroughly by your stepbrother's massive cock. Your pussy is still twitching from the sheer intensity, his cum leaking out of you in a steady stream. You're absolutely wrecked, but you've never felt more satisfied.
You open your eyes, looking at him. Seeing him just as messed up, makes you smile with adoration. His hair is messy, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat and his lips swollen from biting them so much.
Jace rolls off you, flopping onto his back with a groan. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, sweat cooling on his skin.
You turn to face him, propping yourself up on one elbow. Your eyes roam over his body, taking in every dip and plane. He's beautiful like this, dark hair tousled, muscles flexing with each laboured breath.
"That was..." You swallow hard, struggling to find the words. "Intense."
A wry smile tugs at Jace's lips. "You can say that again. Fuck, I don't think I've ever cum that hard in my life."
He turns his head to look at you, his eyes softening. "I meant what I said, you know. About you being mine now."
Your heart skips a beat at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. "I know. And I'm not going anywhere."
Jace reaches out, cupping your cheek with his calloused palm. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, the gesture surprisingly tender.
"I never thought I could feel this way about anyone," he confesses, his voice low and rough. "But you...you're under my skin. I can't imagine my life without you in it now."
You smile softly, emotion welling up inside you. You lean into his touch, nuzzling his palm.
"I never thought I could want someone as much as I want you," you admit softly. "I don’t care if it’s wrong. I need you..."
"And I need you," Jace murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. "Always. You're mine, and I protect what's mine."
He seals his promise with a kiss, his lips moving against yours with aching tenderness. It's a stark contrast to the furious fucking that just took place, but no less meaningful.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. Jace tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your skin.
Jace's touch lingers, his fingers trailing down your cheek to your neck, your collarbone. He traces idle patterns on your skin, mapping out the contours of your body like he's trying to commit it to memory.
You smile drowsily at Jace, your hand caressing his handsome face, your thumb brushing tenderly over his cheek. "My beautiful boy," you murmur softly, your gaze locked with his intense brown eyes. Your heart flutters in your chest, the intimate closeness between you sending shivers down your spine. Never before have you felt so deeply connected to someone, so utterly exposed and vulnerable. But with Jace, it feels safe.
Jace leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. A soft sigh escapes his lips, his body melting into yours. He nuzzles into your palm, pressing a kiss to the centre.
"My sweet girl," he breathes, his voice low and rough with emotion. "You've ruined me for anyone else. No one will ever compare to you."
Jace wraps his arms around you, holding you close. You melt into his embrace, your head tucked beneath his chin. The world falls away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other's love and passion.
need fics about jace miraculously surviving that arrow to the neck and gets found by reader and they fall in love and live happily ever after by my desk RIGHT NOW!!!
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
summary: you meet peter in your new job, a job that you hate, and in one way or another he makes it easier and you fall in love with the wrong person
word counter and tw: (9,8k) smut, sex without protection, cheating…
The snow crunched under your new boots as you walked toward the Ennis, Alaska police station. The wind cut like knives, and even though you were wearing three layers of thermal clothing, you could feel the cold seeping into your bones. You had arrived two days earlier, but this was your first official shift. The uniform was a bit big across the shoulders, you had requested the smallest size available and it still looked borrowed.
“Just one year,” you repeated to yourself mentally, like a mantra. “You fulfill your dad’s last wish and you leave. You go to Anchorage, or Fairbanks, or anywhere that doesn’t smell like frozen fish.”
Your father had been a cop his whole life. On his deathbed, voice broken by cancer, he had taken your hand and whispered: “Promise me you’ll try it. Just once. I know you hate guns and paperwork and… all of this. But I want to know my daughter walked where I walked.” You promised. And now here you were, fresh out of Criminology, hating every second before you even walked through the door.
You pushed open the double metal door. The artificial heat hit your face along with the smell of burnt coffee, old sweat, and disinfectant. The main room was small: four desks, a map of Ennis covered in red pushpins, and a sad Christmas tree that no one had taken down yet, even though it was already March.
“New, right?” said a deep, tired voice from the back.
You looked up and there he was.
Peter Prior.
You had seen him in the internal WhatsApp group photo they sent you when you were hired. Short blond hair, blue eyes that always seemed half closed. Tall, but not imposing, more… tense. Like a compressed spring ready to snap. He wore the uniform impeccably, badge shining, but there was something in his posture that screamed “don’t fuck with me today.”
He approached with quick steps, extending his hand.
“Peter Prior. I’m the liaison officer for new recruits. Danvers asked me to show you everything before he throws you into the icy water. Welcome to the shithole that is Ennis.”
You smiled, shaking his hand. His palm was warm, but the grip was brief, almost mechanical.
“Thanks. I’m… well, the new one. Call me whatever you want, just not ‘rookie’ if you can help it.”
Peter let out a short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Deal. Come on, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine. Lucky you.”
You followed him between the desks. The place was organized chaos: stacked reports, coffee mugs with dregs, a police radio that crackled every so often with distorted voices battling the cold. You sat down. The seat was still warm, someone had just gotten up.
Peter leaned against the edge of his own desk, arms crossed. He looked you up and down, not in a rude way, but evaluating.
“You just finished college, right? What brought you to this frozen hell? Most new grads run to the big cities.”
You hesitated for a second. You didn’t want to tell him the whole truth yet. Not a stranger, even if those blue eyes seemed… interested. Genuinely interested.
“My dad,” you said finally, shrugging. “He wanted me to try. Last wish and all that. So here I am, pretending I know what I’m doing.”
Peter nodded slowly. Something in his expression softened for a moment.
“I understand that more than you think.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “My father was a cop here too. Hank Prior. You’ve probably heard the name. He’s… not the best example, but anyway. Guess we all have our chains.”
Before you could reply, the back door slammed open. It was Hank, his father, storming in like a bull.
“Prior! Where the hell is last night’s report? Or did you spend the whole night playing house with your little wife?”
Peter visibly tensed. His shoulders rose half an inch, his jaw clenched. He said nothing, just slowly turned his head toward his father. But you saw it: how his fingers gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white.
Hank kept talking, louder, gesturing with open hands, breathing heavily through his nose as if every word was a personal grievance.
“…and now on top of that we’ve got a little girl who doesn’t even know how to load a damn rifle. Great. Just what we needed.”
Peter didn’t answer. He just exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. But you noticed the detail: every time Hank breathed heavily, Peter’s jaw tightened a little more. Every time his father raised his voice in that dramatic way, Peter blinked more slowly, as if counting to ten to keep from exploding.
Hank finally left, muttering something about “brats and favors.” The silence he left was heavy.
Peter released the desk and turned to you. His voice came out calm, almost kind.
“Sorry. My father is… intense. Don’t take it personally.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip, a nervous tic you were already starting to recognize. “Want me to show you the evidence locker or would you rather I explain the reporting system first? Your choice. I don’t want to overwhelm you on day one.”
You smiled, even though inside you felt a strange mix. You liked him. Really liked him. He had this calm way of talking to you, as if he genuinely cared that you didn’t feel lost. But at the same time… it bothered you.
That constant tension. The way he went rigid whenever someone breathed too hard, spoke too loud, or simply existed too noisily.
You didn’t know why he was like that. You didn’t know that behind that clenched jaw were years of shouting in his house, of his father blaming him for everything. You didn’t know that Peter had learned as a child that any strong emotion was a threat. That a sigh too long could mean someone was about to break… and he would have to pick up the pieces.
All you knew was that it bothered you. Because you were tense too. Because you hated being there too. And seeing someone else carrying that same rigidity all the time made you want to grab him by the shoulders and yell “breathe, damn it.”
“Reports first,” you said finally, resting your elbows on the desk. “And if you explain how the hell to file this so Danvers doesn’t kill me, I owe you a decent coffee. Not the poison in that machine.”
Peter let out a real laugh this time. Small, but real. The corners of his eyes crinkled.
“Deal.” He sat in the chair next to yours, turning it to face you. His knees almost brushed yours under the desk. “Official welcome, then. We’ll try to make sure you don’t regret it… too soon.”
And while he explained the system, you watched him out of the corner of your eye. You liked him. Way too much for day one.
The day dragged on as if the station clock were frozen. Twelve hour shift that felt like twenty four: patrols on icy roads where the wind made the car shake, false calls about “strange noises” that turned out to be foxes rummaging through trash, and tons of paperwork that left your fingers numb from typing. Peter stayed by your side almost the whole time, patiently correcting you when you messed up an incident code, explaining how to avoid getting chewed out by Danvers for a badly filed form. He spoke little about himself, but when he did it was in that low, measured voice, as if every word cost him effort.
At the end of the shift, past nine at night, both of you stayed a bit longer tidying up. The station was almost empty, only the hum of the fluorescents and the occasional creak of the radio remained.
“Survived your full first day,” Peter said as he put on his jacket. “You didn’t die, that’s already a win.”
You smiled, exhausted but strangely content.
“Thanks for not letting me drown alone. Tomorrow will be better, right?”
He let out a short laugh.
“Or worse. Depends on the day. Rest. See you at seven.”
You said goodbye with a nod and a murmured “take care.” You stepped out into the night cold, breath forming white clouds under the streetlights. You walked the three blocks to the small apartment you rented in the old part of Ennis. The living room light was on, your mother wasn’t in bed yet.
You entered, taking off your boots at the door so you wouldn’t dirty the floor.
“How’d it go, honey?” she asked from the couch, teacup in hand, TV on mute.
“Good,” you answered, unwrapping your scarf. “Lots of cold, lots of paper, but good. The partner they assigned me is… patient. Helped me a lot.”
She smiled, satisfied.
“I’m glad. Your dad would be proud.”
You climbed the stairs with heavy muscles. In your small bedroom, with its single bed and window overlooking a snowy alley, you collapsed onto the mattress without even changing. Your phone buzzed in your pocket: Instagram notification. You pulled it out on autopilot.
You didn’t know why you did it. Or maybe you did, but didn’t want to admit it. You opened the app, typed “Peter Prior” in the search bar. You hoped he had nothing, that he was one of those guys who didn’t use social media. But he appeared. Public profile, few posts.
Most from years ago.
Photos of snowy landscapes, a couple of blurry selfies in uniform, and then… a child. A baby with big eyes and very light blond hair, wrapped in a snowsuit, smiling with two teeth. In another photo, the same child a bit older, maybe two or three, sitting on a sled, laughing while Peter pushed from behind. No elaborate captions, just dates and snowflake emojis.
And then, one single photo of him with a woman. She was pretty, dark skin, long black hair, shy smile. The two of them on a pier, summer, his arm around her shoulders. The photo was old, four or five years. No more recent ones.
You stared at the screen too long. Your thumb brushed the screen by accident… and you liked it. The little red heart appeared like a gunshot.
“Shit,” you whispered.
You unliked it instantly, heart in your throat. Closed the app, turned off the phone and threw it to the other side of the bed like it burned. Buried your face in the pillow.
“Please don’t let him see it. Please don’t let him see it.”
The next day you arrived at seven sharp, dark circles hidden under concealer and stomach in knots. Peter was already there, sitting at his desk, reviewing something on the screen. He looked up when you entered.
“Morning,” he said in his usual calm tone. “Sleep well?”
“More or less,” you replied, sitting quickly and avoiding his eyes. “You?”
“Like always. Come on, today I’ll teach you how to do the chain of custody report.”
The shift started the same as the previous one: detailed explanations, gentle corrections, the occasional dry but funny comment from Peter that made you smile despite the exhaustion. He said nothing about the like. Not a word. You started to relax a little.
Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Maybe he didn’t even check the app often.
At lunchtime, when everyone started pulling out their Tupperware or heading to the diner next door, you stood up.
“You’re not eating?”
Peter shook his head, eyes still on the screen.
“No time. Gotta finish this before the afternoon shift. Go ahead.”
You left, but couldn’t help feeling a strange pang. You came back twenty minutes later with two to go coffees from the corner machine. You placed one on his desk.
“It was the least I could do,” you said, shrugging. “For being so patient with me.”
He looked up, surprised. Took the cup, sipped, and nodded.
“Thanks. Really.”
You sat in your chair, sipping yours in silence. The coffee was awful, but it warmed your hands. After a while, Peter cleared his throat.
“Hey… last night I saw you liked an old photo of mine on Instagram.”
You choked. Coffee came out your nose. You started coughing like an idiot, wiping yourself with your sleeve while your face burned.
“Sorry, sorry,” you stammered between coughs. “Yeah, that was me. I’m so sorry. It was an accident. Well, not an accident, but… I unliked it right away.”
Peter let out a low, genuine laugh.
“No problem. Seriously. Doesn’t bother me.”
You stared at him, still red.
“It’s just… I like to check out the people I work with a little. You know, curiosity. I’m not a stalker, I swear.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Didn’t think you were. Relax.”
There was a short silence. You took a breath.
“That baby in the photos… is he your son?”
Peter nodded slowly, looking at the coffee cup as if the answer were there.
“Yeah. His name’s Darwin. He’s three.”
“He’s beautiful,” you said, and you meant it. “He has your eyes.”
Peter smiled, but it was a small, almost sad smile.
“Thanks. Most people say he looks more like his mom.”
You didn’t ask more. No need. You knew there was a story there, one he wasn’t telling yet.
And he went back to work, as if nothing had happened.
The day passed in an exhausting fog: more reports, a minor accident call on the main road, a truck that slid on ice, no serious injuries, and Peter following you step by step with that patience that was starting to seem almost supernatural. When nine o’clock came, you both stood up almost at the same time.
“Another day survived,” he said, stretching a little as he put on his jacket. “Rest. Tomorrow might be busy.”
“You too,” you replied with a tired smile.
He just nodded, gave that half smile that never fully reached his eyes, and you each went your separate ways. The night cold hit you as always, but this time you walked faster toward home, head full of thoughts you didn’t want to organize yet.
The next day the shift started with the usual routine until Danvers appeared in the main room with a sour face.
“Prior, new girl. I want both of you at West Lake. A fisherman reported something weird in the ice: footprints that don’t match, a hole that shouldn’t be there, and a bunch of trash thrown around. Probably nothing, but go check before someone calls the press saying it’s another ‘unsolved case.’ Prior, you’re in charge. Teach her how it’s really done in the field.”
Peter glanced at you sideways. Your stomach rose to your throat.
“Me? In the field?” you asked, trying not to sound as pathetic as you felt.
Danvers was already leaving.
“It’s not an action movie, it’s walking on ice and taking pictures. You’re not gonna die. Move.”
In the patrol car, silence lasted the first five minutes. You clung to the seatbelt as if it could save you from something. Peter drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, staring straight at the snowy road.
“Breathe,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the road. “It’s not your first time on ice, right? You’ve walked in snow before.”
“Sure, but not in uniform with a gun that weighs like a brick,” you replied, voice a little shaky. “What if I screw up? What if I see something weird and don’t know what to do?”
Peter exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.
“Then you look at me and I tell you what to do. You’re not alone. Relax. Your body gets tense when you’re nervous, and on ice that’s dangerous. Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it now.”
You tried. Inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. It helped a little. The knot in your chest loosened enough for you to speak without trembling.
“Thanks. It’s just… this isn’t my thing. I’m doing it for my dad, but every time I go out in the field I feel like I’m betraying him if I quit.”
Peter turned his head for a second to look at you. His blue eyes were softer than usual.
“I get it. My dad forced me into this too. It wasn’t a ‘last wish,’ it was more like ‘become a cop or you don’t exist to me.’ So yeah, I know what it’s like to feel you’re keeping a promise you never asked for.”
The car stopped at the edge of the lake. The ice crunched under your boots as you got out. The wind was weaker there, but the cold felt rawer in the stillness. You walked together toward the hole the fisherman mentioned: an irregular circle about two meters wide, jagged edges, footprints around it, big boots… and smaller ones, like someone dragging something.
Peter crouched first, pulled out the flashlight and started scanning.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing. “This isn’t a normal ice fishing hole. Someone cut it with a saw. And those footprints… two types. One big person and one lighter.”
You crouched beside him, imitating his movements. You took photos with the department phone, like he’d taught you. While you worked, the silence broke again.
“Was your dad one of those who pushed you hard?” Peter asked, not looking directly at you.
“A lot. He said I had to be strong, that I couldn’t be ‘just another face in the crowd.’ When he got sick, the last thing he told me was that he wanted to see me with a badge. That it was his way of knowing I wouldn’t break easily.” You paused, staring at the black hole in the ice. “But I break easily. I hate the cold, hate guns, hate feeling like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Peter stayed quiet for a while. Then he spoke, voice low.
“My dad broke me when I was a kid. Yelled about everything: if I cried, if I didn’t cry, if I breathed too loud. I learned to stay still, to make no noise, to show nothing. That’s why I get like this when someone raises their voice or breathes like they’re about to explode. It’s… automatic.” He straightened up, looking at the horizon. “Kayla, my wife… she knows, but she still gets tired. And Darwin… he shouldn’t grow up with a dad who can’t find a moment of peace.”
You stared at him. It was the first time he’d talked so much about his personal life. You felt a lump in your throat, but not from nerves, from empathy.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t know.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” He shrugged. “Just saying that… neither of us is here because we want to be. We’re keeping promises that weigh on us.”
You worked in silence a bit longer: marked the perimeter, took ice samples, photos of the footprints. When you were finally heading back to the car, Peter stopped.
“Hey… what we just talked about. Let’s forget it, okay? I don’t want this turning into ‘the day Peter opened up like a book.’ And I’m guessing you don’t want to be seen as the one who hates her job either.”
You nodded quickly.
“Forgotten. Completely. It was just… two people talking.”
He smiled, that small, tired smile.
“Exactly. Two people talking.”
You got in the car. The ride back felt lighter. You didn’t talk about the deep stuff, but the silence was no longer uncomfortable. It was shared.
When you got back to the station and handed in the report, Danvers just grunted “good” and let you go. As you said goodbye at the door, Peter looked at you a second longer than usual.
“Tomorrow at seven. Try to sleep.”
“You too,” you replied.
And as you walked home, the cold stinging your face, you thought that maybe, just maybe, being in Ennis wasn’t going to be as unbearable as you’d believed.
A month later, Ennis no longer felt like the end of the world. The cold was still brutal, but you’d learned to dress in layers that actually worked, to stop slipping so much on black ice, and to tolerate the station coffee without grimacing. Work had become routine: patrols, reports, absurd calls that led nowhere. And Peter… Peter made everything more bearable.
Not that he was the perfect movie partner. He was still tense, still clenched his jaw when someone raised their voice or breathed too hard, still disappeared into long silences. But with you he was different. He explained things with infinite patience, covered for you when you messed up a form so Danvers wouldn’t find out, and every now and then dropped a dry comment that made you laugh in the middle of the heaviest shift. You’d shared more car conversations, more comfortable silences, more glances that lasted a second too long. Nothing explicit. Nothing that crossed the line. But enough that, alone in your apartment at night, you scolded yourself for noticing how attractive he was: the way he ran his hand through his short hair when frustrated, how his blue eyes softened when he talked about Darwin, the line of his jaw when he focused on the road.
“He’s your partner. He’s married. He has a kid. Stop,” you repeated like a mantra. And it worked… until the next day.
That day was one of the worst.
You arrived early, as always, and found him already at his desk. He wasn’t reviewing reports or talking on the radio. He was just staring at the blank screen, elbows on the table, head in his hands. Shoulders slumped, hair messy as if he’d spent the night pulling at it. When he saw you come in, he tried to straighten up quickly, but it was too late: you’d seen him vulnerable.
“Morning,” you said, dropping your backpack on the chair. “Everything okay?”
He let out a long, painful sounding sigh.
“Not exactly.”
You sat across from him, unsure whether to ask or wait. Peter rarely opened up like this. In the end, he spoke, voice low, almost hoarse.
“Kayla kicked me out last night.” He paused, as if saying it out loud made it more real. “We fought. A lot. She says I’m absent all the time, that I’m not there for Darwin, that I bring work home… and that she can’t stand seeing me wound tight like a steel cable every time I walk through the door. So… I went back to my father’s.”
You froze. You didn’t know what to say. The image of Peter sleeping in the same house as the man who broke him as a kid… hurt in your chest in a way you didn’t expect.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured finally. “That… sounds awful.”
Peter shrugged, but it wasn’t convincing.
“That’s how it is. Not the first time. I just… need a couple days for her to calm down. Or for me to calm down. I don’t know.”
The silence stretched. You looked at him: dark circles, red eyes like he hadn’t slept. And something inside you, that soft side that always got you in trouble, spoke before you could stop it.
“Hey… my apartment isn’t big. It’s small, there’s an extra room I use for storage, but… there’s space. If you need a place to stay for a few days, no questions, no drama… you can come. Seriously. You won’t be in the way.”
Peter slowly raised his eyes. His gaze locked onto yours, surprised, almost vulnerable.
“Thanks. Really. But no. I don’t want to drag you into this.”
“You’re not dragging me into anything,” you insisted, leaning forward a little. “It’s just a sofa bed. Or the room. Whatever. You don’t have to sleep at your dad’s if you don’t want to.”
He smiled, but it was a tired, sad smile.
“It’s not about that. It’s that… if Kayla finds out I’m staying with a coworker, a woman… she’ll explode even worse. And she’d be right. I don’t want to give her more ammunition to fight with. I’ve already fucked up enough.”
You understood. Of course you understood. You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“You’re right. Sorry. I just wanted… to help.”
Peter reached across the desk and touched your forearm for a second. Brief, warm, electric.
“Don’t apologize. It’s sweet that you offered. Really. Means a lot.”
He pulled his hand back quickly, as if realizing the touch had lasted too long. He looked back at the blank screen.
“Let’s work. Distracting myself is the best thing I can do right now.”
The rest of the day was strange. Peter ran on autopilot: patrols, statements, filing. He spoke just enough. You tried not to look at him too much, not to notice how his neck tensed every time the phone rang, how he rubbed his eyes when he thought no one was watching. But you noticed. Everything.
And deep down you scolded yourself again. Because while he was dealing with his broken marriage and his son far away, you couldn’t stop thinking about how much you liked seeing him vulnerable. How much you wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay. How unfair it was that someone so good still smelled so good after twelve hours on shift.
At the end of the shift, as you said goodbye at the station door, Peter looked at you a second longer than usual.
“Thanks for today. For listening. And for the offer. Really.”
“Anytime,” you replied, voice a little hoarse. “Take care, okay? And if you change your mind… door’s open.”
He nodded, pulled up his jacket hood, and walked off into the snow that was starting to fall.
You stood there a while watching him walk away, hands in your pockets, heart beating too hard.
“Fuck,” you thought. “This is getting complicated.”
It didn’t take long. Just three days after that conversation at the station, Peter showed up at the end of the shift with a small backpack over his shoulder and an expression that mixed relief and shame. He found you gathering your things and approached slowly, as if he was still deciding whether to take the step.
“Hey… is the sofa bed offer still good?” he asked quietly, looking at the floor.
You looked at him, surprised but not entirely. You knew Hank’s house was hell, he’d mentioned it in passing a couple of times, minimizing it the way he always did: “It’s just temporary,” “It’ll pass.” But that night his voice sounded different. Bone tired.
“Of course it’s still good,” you answered without hesitation. “You sure?”
Peter nodded, running a hand over the back of his neck.
“Things with Kayla… got a little better. We talked on the phone, didn’t yell as much. But it’s still not enough to go back. And living with my dad…” He paused, exhaled hard. “I can’t take it anymore. I need to get out of there even if it’s just a few days.”
You didn’t say anything else. Just nodded and tilted your head toward the door.
“Come on then. My mom’s home, but she’s leaving for her town tomorrow. You’ll like her, she adopts anyone who looks lost.”
The walk to the apartment was short and quiet. The snow had stopped, leaving the air still and biting. Peter walked beside you with the backpack hanging off one shoulder, not saying much. When you reached the building, you climbed the stairs in silence. When you opened the door, the smell of lentil stew and fresh baked bread greeted you like a hug.
Your mother came out of the kitchen drying her hands on her apron.
“Oh honey, you’re late today…” she started, then saw Peter behind you. “And who’s this?”
“Mom, this is Peter. My work partner. He’s going to stay a few days in the back room. Things at his house are… complicated.”
Your mother looked him up and down: wrinkled uniform, dark circles, tense but polite posture. Instead of asking more, she smiled with that warmth that always disarmed people.
“Come in, come in, son. Don’t stand there at the door like you’re going to rob us. Are you hungry? There’s plenty of stew and I just took bread out of the oven.”
Peter looked startled for a second, but then smiled and stepped inside.
“Thank you, ma’am. I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not a bother. And call me Elena, ‘ma’am’ makes me feel old.” She gave his arm a gentle pat. “Sit down, I’ll serve you a plate. And take off that jacket, it’s warm in here.”
Dinner was… easy. Your mother chatted about everything: how the cold wouldn’t let up, how she missed the sun from her childhood which she said was warmer, silly stories from when you were little. Peter listened more than he spoke, but answered when asked: about Darwin, he showed a photo on his phone and your mother said “how gorgeous, he looks like you”, about work. By the end of the night, when your mother went to bed saying “I’m leaving early tomorrow, but take care of my daughter, okay,” Peter helped you wash the dishes in silence.
“Your mom is amazing,” he said while drying a plate. “She made me feel… good. Thanks for this. Really.”
“No problem,” you replied, glancing at him sideways. “The sofa bed is made up in the little sitting room. The back room has a bed, but it’s full of my boxes. If you want more space, we can move them tomorrow.”
“The sofa’s fine. I don’t need much.”
He settled in quickly: backpack in a corner, uniform hung over a chair. Before turning off the light, he looked at you from the doorway of the sitting room.
“Good night. And… thanks again.”
“Good night, Peter.”
The next day the shift started as usual: seven sharp, uniforms on, horrible coffee in hand. No one at the station asked anything, Danvers just raised an eyebrow when he saw you arrive together, but said nothing. The day was calm: routine patrol, a noise report at an abandoned house, just wind, paperwork. Peter seemed more relaxed, though that baseline tension never fully left.
You talked normally, but there was something different in the air: a new complicity, as if sharing a roof had brought you closer without needing big words.
That night you returned to the apartment together.
The door opened to the same smell of home cooked food, your mother had left leftovers and a note: “Eat well, don’t fight over dessert”, Peter took off his boots at the entrance, as he’d already learned to do, and dropped onto the couch with a long sigh.
“Long day,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“They all are,” you replied, sitting in the armchair across from him with a cup of tea. “How are you?”
Peter nodded slowly.
“Much better. No yelling here. I can breathe.” He paused, looking at you intently. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay, but… thanks for letting me in. Literally.”
You smiled, feeling that treacherous warmth in your chest you tried to ignore.
“No rush. Stay as long as you need.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you a second longer, as if he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words. In the end he only murmured:
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
And as he settled on the sofa bed and you went to your room, you closed the door carefully, leaned your back against it, and let out the breath you’d been holding.
“This is temporary,” you told yourself. “Just a favor to a friend. Nothing more.”
But deep down you knew it was no longer that simple.
During that first week, the routine settled in almost unnoticed. At first it was practical: you came back exhausted from the shift, cold clinging to your clothes and stomach growling after hours of bad coffee and stale station cookies. You’d open the fridge, see the little that was there and say something like:
“Tonight it’s whatever we find. Eggs? Pasta? Or shall we revive Elena’s leftovers?”
Peter, who upon arriving took off his boots and hung his jacket with automatic movements, always answered with that tired half smile:
“As long as it’s not lentil stew again, I’m in.”
And that’s how it started. Cooking together became the moment of the day when the uniform was forgotten. Peter wasn’t a great cook but he chopped onions without complaining and quickly learned not to let the pan dry out. You put on soft music on your phone and between laughs at how clumsy he was peeling garlic or how you almost dropped the pot trying to drain the noodles, time slipped away.
After eating, you’d stay at the small kitchen table or on the couch, with mugs of tea or coffee. You talked about everything and nothing. At first it was work stuff: Danvers anecdotes, the latest idiot who called about “ghosts in the basement” that turned out to be rats, how Hank kept sending passive aggressive messages that Peter deleted without reading. But little by little the guards came down.
One night you talked about your father, how his last wish had dragged you here and how sometimes you felt you were betraying him by hating every second of the uniform. Peter listened without interrupting, just nodding, and when you finished he said quietly:
“You’re not betraying him. You’re fulfilling it. And afterward… afterward you can choose your path. No one’s forcing you to stay forever.”
Another night it was him who opened up more. He told you about Darwin: how the little boy had started saying “daddy” in that tiny voice that melted him, how much he missed him that sometimes he stared at photos on his phone until his eyes hurt. He spoke of Kayla without anger, only with deep sadness: that he loved her, still loved her, but didn’t know how to become the man she needed again. You didn’t give advice, you knew he didn’t want any, you just listened and occasionally placed your hand on the table near his, without touching.
Sleep overtook you late. Eleven, midnight, one. You said good night in a murmur and each went to their side: him to the sofa bed in the sitting room, you to your bedroom. But not always did you sleep through.
Some early mornings you woke up from the cold, the heating was crap, or from a noise, or simply because your brain wouldn’t let you rest. You’d go out to the living room in pajamas and socks, and there he was: awake on the couch, dim table lamp light, staring at the ceiling or at his phone with the screen off. The first time it happened, you stayed in the doorway.
“Can’t sleep?” you asked softly.
Peter turned his head, surprised but not annoyed.
“No. Thoughts. You?”
“Same.”
You sat in the armchair across from him, wrapped in a blanket. You didn’t talk much that time. You just stayed there, in shared silence, listening to the wind against the window and the distant tick tock of the wall clock.
It happened two, three more times that week. Sometimes you chatted a bit: about bad movies you’d seen, how Darwin was turning four soon and Peter didn’t know what to get him, how strange it was to wake up in a place that wasn’t his house or Hank’s. Other times you just looked at each other in the dim light, saying nothing, and the silence was enough.
Every morning you got up early, as if nothing had happened. Coffee, quick shower, uniform, out together to the station.
No one at work suspected anything, or if they did, they said nothing. But at home, between the smell of home cooked food and talks until dawn, something was being built.
Slow, subtle, inevitable.
And you, every time you saw him sleeping on the couch with an arm hanging off or caught him really smiling at something silly you said, scolded yourself less. Because it was no longer just physical attraction. It was something more dangerous: connection.
It was Friday night and the shift had been one of the worst in weeks: a domestic fight that ended in an arrest, a road accident with two minor injuries, and a false shots fired call that turned out to be some idiot’s fireworks celebrating nothing. You got home past eleven, exhausted, clothes smelling of smoke and gasoline. Peter took off his boots at the entrance as usual, and you went straight to the bathroom because you needed a hot shower before the cold got permanently into your bones.
“I’m going first,” you said, already taking off your jacket. “If not, I’ll freeze.”
Peter nodded, dropping onto the couch with a sigh.
“Take your time. I’ll make something to eat after.”
The bathroom was small, like everything in the apartment: old white tiles, narrow shower with plastic curtain, mirror that always fogged up. You undressed quickly, leaving your clothes piled on the floor, and turned on the hot water. Steam rose almost instantly, filling the space. You stepped under the spray, closed your eyes, let the water wash the day away.
You didn’t hear the door open at first. The sound of the water covered everything. But then you felt a thud: the door flew open because Peter, distracted and with his mind elsewhere, thought you’d finished or simply forgot to knock. He came in looking for the soap he’d left there earlier and froze.
You turned instinctively, water running down your back, and he was there: half a step inside the bathroom, hand still on the doorknob, eyes wide open. The steam enveloped you both, but it wasn’t enough to hide anything. You were completely naked, water sliding over your skin, and he… he was too close. The bathroom was so small that when he took a step back to leave, his chest brushed yours. Body against body. Wet heat against the cold fabric of his t-shirt. The contact was electric, accidental, inevitable.
Neither of you moved for an eternal second.
“Sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse, but he didn’t pull back completely. His eyes dropped for an instant, involuntary, then returned to your face. He swallowed. “I didn’t… mean to…”
You didn’t finish hearing the apology. Something broke. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe the whole week of stolen glances and loaded silences, maybe it was simply that you could no longer pretend. You raised your hand, placed it on his chest, right over the heart pounding like crazy under the now wet fabric, and looked at him fixedly.
Peter didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slowly rose to your waist, wet fingers brushing your warm skin. The steam wrapped around you like a curtain. And then it happened.
The kiss was rough at first, almost desperate. Lips against lips, no preamble, as if you’d both been waiting for this moment since the first night you cooked together. You pulled him closer, he pressed you against the cold bathroom wall, water now falling on both of you. His mouth tasted of salt and exhaustion and something neither wanted to name yet. His hands moved up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, and you tangled your fingers in his wet hair, tugging a little.
You separated for a second, gasping. His eyes were dark, dilated.
“This is wrong,” he whispered, but his forehead rested against yours, and his hand never stopped caressing your hip.
“I know,” you replied, voice trembling. “But don’t stop.”
And he didn’t stop.
He lifted you easily and you wrapped your legs around his waist. The water kept running, soaking both of you, but it didn’t matter anymore. He walked the few steps to the next room, your bedroom, leaving a trail of water on the floor. He laid you carefully on the bed without breaking the kiss and yanked off his soaked t-shirt. The fabric fell to the floor with a wet sound.
He lay over you, skin against skin. The feeling of his hot, heavy body against yours was like fire. His hands roamed your sides, your waist, your thighs, as if he wanted to memorize every inch. You arched your back when his lips moved down your neck, leaving open kisses, soft bites. He let out a low moan against your skin.
“Your skin… it’s so warm,” he murmured, almost to himself, as if he couldn’t believe it. His fingers dug a little into your hips and you felt him trembling. “Fuck…”
You watched him from the bed, water still dripping from your hair and his skin, forming small puddles on the sheets.
Peter stood at the edge of the mattress, t-shirt already on the floor, chest rising and falling fast, muscles tense with anticipation and something that looked like fear. His uniform pants hung low on his hips, belt buckle still closed, but the erection was already straining against the dark fabric.
You rose onto your knees, the cool room air contrasting with the heat still burning your skin. You extended your hands toward him slowly, giving him time to back away if he wanted. He didn’t.
Your fingers found the belt buckle.
You opened it with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silence broken only by your breathing. You lowered the zipper slowly, brushing the hardness beneath with your knuckles. Peter let out a low, almost inaudible moan and closed his eyes for a second.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, broken. His hands rested on your shoulders, not to stop you, but to hold on. “If we say stop now… we can stop. I don’t want you to regret this tomorrow.”
You looked at him steadily, eyes locked on his. The blue of his irises was almost black from dilated pupils.
“I’m sure,” you answered, and you meant it. For weeks you had wanted him like this: vulnerable, needy, yours even if only for this night. “I want this.”
Peter exhaled shakily. Nodded once, as if he needed to confirm it to himself.
Your hands pulled down his pants and underwear in one gentle tug. He stepped out of them, standing completely naked in front of you. He was beautiful. More than you had imagined in the nights you scolded yourself for looking too much. And that line of blond hair running from his navel down to his erection, hard, thick. The tip already glistened with a drop of pre cum.
You moved closer, still kneeling on the bed. Your fingers wrapped around his length carefully at first, feeling the heat, the smooth taut skin, the veins pulsing under your palm. Peter gasped loudly, head tilting back for a moment.
“Fuck…” he murmured, hands tightening on your shoulders.
You stroked him slowly, up and down, feeling him harden even more in your hand. Then you guided him toward you. You lay back, spreading your legs, and pulled him closer with your other hand on the back of his neck. He leaned over you, bracing his knees on the mattress, his body weight covering you without crushing you.
With the hand still holding him, you guided him to your entrance. The brush of the tip against your wet folds made you both gasp at the same time. It was electric: hot, slippery, perfect. You were soaked from the kiss in the bathroom, and he… he was trembling all over.
“Slow,” you whispered against his mouth, though your voice came out broken.
Peter nodded, teeth clenched. He pushed just barely, the head entering first. You both let out a simultaneous moan. You felt him opening you, filling you inch by inch, slow, careful. The stretch was intense, delicious, and when he was halfway in, your nails dug into his back.
“More,” you begged, arching your hips to help him.
He obeyed. One deeper thrust, and he sank all the way in. You both stayed still for a second, panting. You felt everything: the way he filled you completely, how he throbbed inside, how his pelvis pressed right against your clit. It was too much and perfect at the same time.
Peter lowered his forehead to yours, breathing against your lips.
“You’re… so tight,” he whispered, voice broken. “So warm… fuck, I don’t know if I’m gonna last.”
You smiled, though it came out shaky, and rolled your hips in a slow circle. The friction made you moan loudly, uncontrollably.
“Move,” you pleaded. “Please.”
He started slowly. Pulled almost all the way out and slid back in, a controlled rhythm that drove you crazy. Every deep thrust pulled a moan from you, every brush of his pubic bone against your clit made you arch your back. Your hands roamed up his back, nails digging in, sliding down to his ass to pull him harder against you.
“Harder,” you moaned, voice cracking. “I want to feel all of you.”
Peter growled, a raw, animal sound you’d never heard from him. He sped up. The thrusts became harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room along with your moans and his. You watched him as he took you: sweat on his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, lips parted releasing hoarse gasps. He was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt. Seeing him like this, undone, lost in you, forgetting for a moment everything that broke him, was better than any fantasy you’d ever had.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured suddenly, opening his eyes to stare at you while he kept moving inside you. “So fucking beautiful… I can’t believe you’re like this with me.”
You moaned louder, the words hitting you straight in the chest. You kissed him desperately, tongues tangling, while your hips rose to meet every thrust. The pleasure built fast, too fast, coiling in your lower belly like a wave.
“Peter…” his name came out like a sob. “I’m close…”
He shifted the angle just slightly, hitting exactly where you needed. One, two, three more times and you shattered. The orgasm ripped through you, hard and intense, making your muscles clamp down around him, your nails dig into his back, a choked scream tearing from your throat. Peter growled your name against your neck, thrust once more, twice, then tensed completely. He came inside you with a long, broken moan, body shaking, filling you as he collapsed on top of you.
You stayed like that for a long while: panting, sweaty, joined. Him still inside, softening now, but not pulling out. You stroking his wet hair, his back, feeling his heart racing against yours.
Neither of you said anything yet. Just breathed. Together.
Neither of you wanted to talk about what had just happened. There was no “this can’t happen again” or “it was a mistake.” Just loaded silence, still ragged breathing, and the weight of Peter on top of you, still inside you, soft and warm. He slowly lifted his head, looked into your eyes for a long second and, instead of saying anything, lowered his mouth and kissed you. It was a slow, deep, almost tender kiss, as if he wanted to memorize the taste of your mouth before reality returned. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair and you kissed back with the same softness, no hurry.
Afterward he rolled to your side, pulled you against his chest and covered you with the blanket. You rested your cheek on his warm skin, listening to his heartbeat slowly calm. Neither spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, breathing in the same rhythm until sleep took you.
The next morning you woke first. Gray morning light came through the window, cold and soft. Peter slept on his side, back to you, sheet low on his waist, revealing the curve of his back and the small tattoo on his shoulder blade. The heat from the night before was still there, smoldering under your skin like an ember that hadn’t gone out. You moved slowly, pressing yourself against him from behind, and felt his body react even in sleep: a deep sigh, his back tensing slightly.
You slid one leg over his hip and climbed on top of him carefully. Peter opened his eyes slowly, confused for a second, but when he saw you there, naked, sitting on his thighs, hands on his chest, the blue of his eyes darkened instantly.
“Good morning,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss his neck.
He let out a low moan and his hands automatically rose to your hips.
“Fuck…” he whispered, still hoarse from sleep. “Are you…?”
He didn’t finish the sentence. You moved slowly, grinding against him, feeling him harden beneath you in seconds. Peter closed his eyes for a moment, breathing hard through his nose.
“Wait,” he said suddenly, opening his eyes with concern. “I don’t have condoms here. Yesterday was risky enough.”
You smiled, leaned down and gave him a slow kiss on the lips while your hand slid between you both to guide him.
“Relax,” you whispered against his mouth. “I’m on the pill. Have been for years. You can enjoy… everything.”
Peter swallowed hard, visibly relieved, but the worry mixed with pure desire when you felt the tip of him brush your already wet entrance. You guided him yourself, sinking down slowly, inch by inch, until you had him all inside. You both gasped at the same time. This time there was no rush, the rhythm was yours. You began to move in slow circles, rising and falling calmly, feeling every vein, every pulse inside you.
Peter couldn’t take his eyes off your breasts. His hands rose and cupped them with reverence, thumbs brushing your hardened nipples while you moved.
You sped up a little. The wet sound of your bodies colliding filled the room along with your soft moans and his low growls. Peter gripped your hips, helping you slam down harder, but without taking control. Just enjoying. Enjoying the view, the feeling of being inside you, the way you clenched around him every time you sank fully.
“Just like that… fuck, just like that,” he gasped, eyes fixed on your breasts rising and falling with each movement. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop.”
You braced one hand on his chest and with the other touched yourself, finding the exact spot you needed. The orgasm came fast, intense, making you tighten around him and release a long moan that was almost a sob. Peter followed seconds later, fingers digging into your hips as he spilled inside you with a deep growl, body shaking beneath you.
You stayed joined for a long while, breathing hard, you still sitting on him. Then, with a tired smile, you got up and offered him your hand.
“Shower. Both of us. Before we’re late for shift.”
Peter laughed softly, taking your hand.
You went in first and he waited outside, sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel around his waist.
While the water ran over you, you heard Peter’s phone ring in the bedroom. You heard him answer in a low voice.
“Kayla? …Yeah, I’m fine. What’s wrong?”
The rest of the conversation was murmurs you couldn’t quite catch. But when you came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, Peter was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. The phone was silent now.
He looked up at you. His eyes were red.
“It was Kayla,” he said quietly, almost broken. “She said she misses me. That Darwin asks for me every day. That… she wants me to come home. That we should try again.”
The world crashed down on you in an instant. You felt a cold void in your stomach, as if someone had ripped the air from your lungs. But you didn’t show it. You forced a small, fake smile.
“Then you should go back,” you said, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “It’s the right thing. For Darwin. For her.”
Peter stood up slowly.
“I didn’t want this to happen like this. Last night… this morning… it wasn’t just…”
“No,” you cut him off, soft but firm. “It’s okay. Really. It was… nice. But we both knew it was temporary.”
You turned quickly and went into the other room, closing the door behind you. You leaned your back against the wood, eyes squeezed shut. Peter followed almost immediately.
“Hey, let’s talk,” he said from the other side, voice muffled. “Please. Don’t shut me out like this.”
“Go, Peter,” you replied, and your voice came out weaker than you wanted. “It’s for the best. For both of us.”
He tried the knob, but you’d locked it.
“Please…”
You didn’t answer. You slid to the floor, hugging your knees, and let the tears come in silence. No sobs. Just hot tears falling one after another while you listened to his footsteps slowly move away toward the front door.
Peter left without saying anything more. You heard the front door close with a soft, almost respectful click, as if he didn’t want to make noise while breaking your heart. The silence he left was deafening. You stayed sitting on the sitting room floor, back against the closed door, knees to your chest, the towel still damp against your skin. The tears kept falling silently, hot and slow, until they dried on their own and only the burning in your eyes remained.
You felt dirty. Not because of the sex, that had been the most real and beautiful thing you’d felt in months, but because you had wanted him so much. Because you had let him into your home, your bed, your skin, knowing he had a family waiting for him. Because you had been selfish.
Before it got much later you grabbed your phone and sent a short message to Danvers:
“Feeling really sick. Vomiting and fever. Not coming in today. Sorry.”
You sent it before you could regret it. Then turned off your phone and threw it across the room. You didn’t want to see if Peter tried to contact you. You didn’t want to see his name on the screen and have to decide whether to answer or not.
The day was hell.
You dragged yourself to the bathroom and vomited everything in your stomach: the breakfast you hadn’t eaten, yesterday’s coffee, bitter bile that burned your throat. It wasn’t just your body, it was the disgust you felt for yourself. Every heave came with a thought: “How could you? He has a wife. A son. And you… you wanted him for yourself. You’re pathetic.” You looked in the fogged mirror: swollen eyes, messy hair, pale face. You hated yourself so much you wanted to scream.
You went back to bed and curled up under the sheets that still smelled like him, his mint soap, sweat, sex. You tried to sleep, but every time you closed your eyes the images came back: his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment. And then Kayla’s voice on the phone, distant but clear in your head: “Come home.”
You vomited again at noon. And again in the afternoon. Your empty stomach hurt, but your chest hurt more. You felt like an idiot for believing, even for a second, that something between you could be real. That the nights cooking together, the talks until dawn, the shared silences in the dark… meant anything more than a temporary escape for him.
The phone vibrated several times on the floor. You ignored it. You knew who it was. Peter. First messages: “Are you okay?”, “Please answer”, “I’m worried.” Then calls. One after another. The sound of the phone against the wood was like a hammer in your head. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. If you heard his voice, if you heard the worried or guilty or whatever tone he had, you would break completely. And you were already broken enough.
At dusk you got up only to drink water and vomit again. The apartment was too quiet without him: without the sound of his boots in the entrance, without the clatter of the pan in the kitchen, without his low laugh when he burned his fingers peeling garlic. You sat on the sofa bed where he had slept those first nights, hugging the pillow that still carried his scent, and cried for real this time.
Muffled, ugly sobs that left your throat raw.
When it got dark, the phone stopped vibrating. Maybe Peter gave up. Maybe he understood you weren’t going to answer. Or maybe he was already on his way home to Kayla and Darwin, trying to fix what he broke for one night with you.
You crawled back into bed, curled into a ball, and stared at the ceiling. The self disgust didn’t go away. The “love” for him didn’t either. And that was the worst part. You still thought about how his skin felt against yours, how he told you you were perfect while looking at you with those blue eyes.
Tomorrow you would have to go back to work.
You would have to see him.
You would have to pretend nothing had happened.
And you didn’t know if you could.
i didn't remember the boy (Darwin) in the series and i portrayed him as i wanted, then i looked for him but i didn't have time to change his description, SORRY, if i write more about Peter i'm going to do it well
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now carrying his child, your prince dotes on you with the devotion of a man utterly enamored with the woman he loves
genre/warnings:
fluff, pregnancy, protective!valarr, lots of romance bc valarr is devastatingly in love, lover's quarrel, mentions of curses, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent
notes:
a continuation to in one's heart of hearts but can also be read as a standalone. *sigh* i'm so in love with him
“My beloved, from this day forth, this heart of mine… is yours to keep.”
That was his wedding vows to you. And those sweet words would be carried by singers and spun into countless songs and verses afterwards.
They would have the realm believe you ensnared Prince Valarr Targaryen with some enchantment that he tumbled into love with you overnight and chose you as his princess consort.
But the truth is far sweeter.
He was the one who fell first, and he fell hard. In watching him love you so fiercely… you found yourself falling too, drawn by the love that had already chosen you.
In all the years you spent by his side, he never once gave you cause for disappointment. Through every joy and sorrow, Valarr remained steadfast, his love unwavering even as the two of you endured even the most painful heartbreaks.
And now, as he pressed his face against your growing belly, smiling giddily and mismatched eyes sparkling—
“My little one,” his voice was warm with affection. “Will you look more like your mother or me, I wonder?”
—you found yourself falling in love with him all over again, as you had done countless times before.
You let out a chuckle, your fingers slipping into his hair, gently combing through his white strands.
“I wish he’ll have your eyes,” you said, your voice fond. “A little prince who resembles you... yeah, I’d love that.”
At that, Valarr lifted his head that was on your lap, his gaze finding yours—bright, almost boyish. “My eyes?” he echoed, amused. “On the contrary, I think a princess like you would be nice too.”
“A princess?” you hummed, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “She will have you wrapped around her little finger the moment she is born.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m already hopeless where you are concerned. What chance would I stand against a daughter of yours?”
“Then you are doomed.”
“Gladly.”
You giggled and your husband only rolled his eyes, caressing your belly in slow, absent circles as though he could already soothe the child within.
“Did you hear that? Your lady mother loves having me doomed… and you haven’t even been born yet.”
Valarr had been overjoyed when he knew you were with child again, but he also worried. After two stillborns, he had sworn he would not see you suffer in childbed again, but now that his seed had taken, he was determined this was to be the last.
The heir of Dragonstone pressed a gentle kiss against the swell of your belly, his voice dropping to a soft whisper meant only for the child you carried.
“Prince or princess… it matters not. As long as you come safely to us.”
His protective hand lingered there, before he glanced up at you—his expression gentler now, threaded with the love he had for you.
“As long as you keep your mother safe too,” he added quietly, the cool blue and warm brown of his eyes blinked then, almost like a plea.
Your heart lurched at his words. He had always feared for you, and though there was something endearing in the way he held you so dearly, you could not bear seeing it weigh heavily upon him.
“Valarr…” You cupped his cheek, guiding him to look at you fully. “You must not carry that fear alone.”
For a heartbeat, he said nothing—only leaning into your touch, his hand moving to cover yours where it rested against his face.
“I would bear far worse, if it means keeping you safe.”
You knew he would.
For if there was one thing all of the Red Keep had come to know, it was this: Prince Valarr was utterly protective of his princess consort.
At your smallest call, he came. At your faintest discomfort, he was already at your side. There was no hesitation or manly pride that stood in the way. It was sweet to see really, but the servants scarcely had time to breathe before he was giving them instructions of more cushions, warmer cloaks, cooler drinks, softer linens—
And it wasn’t just the servants who noticed.
“Gods, nephew,” Prince Maekar grumbled. “She is with child, not made of glass.”
One afternoon in the gardens, as Valarr hovered just a step too close while you walked, his hand always ready at your back, his uncle, Prince Maekar, watched the display with a raised brow.
Valarr did not so much as glance his way, his hand settling securely at your waist in response. “And yet I would rather treat her as such than risk otherwise.”
His uncle snorted, which made him look eerily like his son Aerion. “You fret like an old nursemaid. I have seen squires with steadier nerves.”
At that, his father, Prince Baelor, let out a warm chuckle from where he stood nearby, the sound rich with amusement.
“Let him be, brother,” he said lightly. “It is a rare thing, to see a man so devoted.”
“Devoted? Bah. The boy looks ready to faint if she so much as stumbles.”
“And you did not, when your first was expected?” Baelor returned, one brow lifting.
Maekar fell silent at that—begrudgingly. And Baelor held back his smile. Unlike the others who may feel Valarr’s concern was excessive, he was proud with the man his son had become.
He still remembered it all too clearly—how Valarr, still so young, had stood vigil before the funeral pyre of his two lost sons. That was a grief even Baelor himself had never known, and yet his son had borne it with a strength that was both admirable and heartbreaking. Not once had he faltered or wept while the flames still burned.
Only when it was over did Valarr finally look at him—
“Father.”
And only then would he break. The composure he had held so fiercely gave way all at once, his frame trembling as Baelor gathered him into his arms. He wept like a child in that brief moment... but when it passed, as all storms must, Valarr drew back, steadied himself… and returned to you stronger, as though even his sorrow was something he had to bear so you would not have to.
His bold yet gentle boy. Baelor’s gaze softened as he watched you now, leaning close to murmur something into Valarr’s ear that made him smile.
The Hand of the King found himself wishing, with all his heart, for nothing but happiness for the two of you.
. . .
While it was him who was well-known throughout the Red Keep, there were moments where it was you who were being protective of him in return— mostly behind closed doors though.
“From now on, no more tourneys,” you had said firmly one evening, your arms crossed despite the softness of your voice.
Valarr blinked at you. “No tourneys...?”
“Yes,” you emphasized with a frown. “No melees, no tilts, no… whatever it is you men insist on doing to break your bones for sport.”
A hint of a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “You would deny me my honor?”
“I would deny you a broken limb—or worse,” you countered. Your hand found his, squeezing gently. “Do you know what it does to me, watching you ride out there?”
His amusement faded at once, his fingers instinctively curling around yours, as though to reassure you.
“You would send me into early labor with such stress. Is that what you want?”
“Never,” he answered at once, his grip tightening around your hand, a faint frown settling as his gaze found yours.
“Then you will stay. For me.”
There was no hesitation as he kissed your palm. “Your wish is my command, my love.”
And that was how your husband cheated his way out of the lists for the upcoming celebration of his father’s nameday. My lady wife worries for me, was what he told the small council as though that alone was reason enough.
. . .
Two days of lavish feasts, followed by five days of jousts, melees, and hunts held to celebrate Baelor Breakspear’s name day were as grand as it could be.
While your husband didn’t partake in any of the potentially harmful activities, the two of you still made your rounds through the nightly balls, as was expected.
“Are you tired?” Valarr asked gently, his hand coming to rest at the small of your back. You were only in your sixth moon, yet there were moments your breath came a little shorter—and he took notice of it.
You glanced up at him, thoughtful for a moment before giving a small shake of your head. “No…”
The soft tune of waltz had already begun and it caught your attention. You had always loved to dance. Turning back to your pliant husband, you looked up with a twinkle in your eyes.
“Dear husband,” you said sweetly, “dance with me?”
Valarr blinked, caught off guard for a brief moment. His gaze dipped instinctively to your belly before returning to your face. “Are you certain? You should not overexert yourself, and besides—”
“Besides?” you echoed, one brow lifting.
He hesitated and that was all it took for your expression to change, a pout forming as you looked away.
“Ah… I see. Perhaps you are embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed...?”
“To be seen with me,” you continued petulantly, your hand resting over the curve of your belly. “A woman grown fat and ungainly with child… I suppose it is not a pleasant sight next to the prince second in line to the throne.”
It took him a good three seconds to take in your words, and a smile spread across his face at the realization—whenever you were with child, you grew softly needy, seeking reassurance in the most endearing ways.
And every time, he found himself just as helpless against it.
His hand came to your face then, turning you back to him, and before you could say another word—
“Mm!” He captured your lips with his.
It was not hurried, nor harsh, but firm enough to squash any foolish thought before it could take root. When he drew back, his warm breath lingered against your lips, and a dashing smile on his face.
“If there is anyone in this hall worth looking upon tonight… it is you— my princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms.”
His thumb brushed along your cheek, mismatched gaze softening as it lingered on you—as though he could not quite fathom how you could think so little of what he held so dear.
“I would move heaven and earth for the right to stand beside you. You—and the child you carry—are my whole world. There is no one who could ever compare.”
Your breath caught slightly at the sincerity in his voice.
“You are beautiful…” he murmured, still smiling, his hand slipping down to rest over yours atop your belly. “More so now than ever. And I would count it an honor to have every eye in that hall see me at your side.”
The tension in your chest eased, your lips curving despite yourself.
“…Then you will dance with me?”
Valarr took your hand in his, lifting it to press a tender kiss against your knuckles, a roguish smile playing upon his lips.
“Always, love.”
And once more, the Young Prince and his princess consort left the court spellbound on the dance floor— dazzling them all with the unwavering devotion they so effortlessly showed one another.
Your union was harmonious… but even the sweetest of bonds was not without trouble in its paradise.
And this time, it was in the form of your husband conjuring terrible images inside his own head after seeing you together with the bastard brother of the king.
“You should keep your distance from him,” Valarr said, his tone stern, and he looked mildly vexed by how you merely crossed your arms before him.
“From Lord Bloodraven?” you replied, glancing at him with a hint of incredulity. “Valarr, I know. I’m not a child.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “Nor do I think you one. But I have told you time and time again— Brynden Rivers is not to be taken lightly. Don’t exchange many words with him, he’ll twist your words sooner or later.”
“I know how to handle him and how to take care of myself!” you returned, your voice sharpening just enough to show blatant irritation.
The very notion that your husband thought you were incapable of navigating the court wounded your pride, and you looked as if you resented him, which Valarr took notice.
“Don’t look at me like that, love. That still doesn’t mean I should stand idle when I feel something is amiss.”
“And it does not mean you must hover over every step I take. You cannot guard me from every shadow you imagine!”
“I speak only of what I see, and what I see is carelessness. In your selfish pursuit to be a princess who pleases everyone as if that is a trophy in and of itself, you are too blind to the consequences of overlooking this.”
A heavy silence fell between you. You had quarrels before—small disagreements born out of concern that twisted into bursts of anger, and usually you would understand him.
But this time, his words pierced you too deep. Selfish pursuit? A princess who pleases everyone? Did he not see it? That everything you did was for his name?
Valarr exhaled quietly, choosing to give in as he realized that he might have been too harsh. “I only wish to keep you safe.”
“And I only wish for you to trust me,” you answered with wobbling lips, though no less firm.
Then suddenly, your breath hitched as the child within you kicked your ribs sharply. Your hand flew to your belly, instinctively soothing it.
“…I am tired, husband,” you decided at last, trying to remain icy and hiding the cold sweat that had run through your spine. “I should rest.”
His expression faltered, regret flickering across his face. For a moment, it seemed he might say more, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down because he feared that pressing further would only upset you more, and it was the last thing he wanted.
“Of course.”
You did not wait for more. Turning, you excused yourself, leaving him standing there.
. . .
The small council chamber that followed felt stifling just as it usually was. King Daeron sat at its head, composed as ever, with Prince Baelor at his side. Across from them sat Brynden Rivers—Lord Bloodraven—his pale gaze as unreadable as the rumors that surrounded him.
Valarr took his place among them, his expression guarded, mood still sour from that argument with you earlier. Though he listened and offered his thoughts when required, there was an edge to him that was apparent to at least his own father.
And when Lord Bloodraven brought up the next topic, his patience had nearly reached its limit.
“There is a matter worth noting... Among the smallfolk, a children’s song has begun to spread.”
Prince Baelor’s brow furrowed. “A song?”
“A foolish one, no doubt,” King Daeron added, though his tone suggested he already disliked where this was going.
“And yet such things have a way of shaping thought,” Lord Bloodraven continued. His gaze shifted to Valarr, giving him a nod. “They speak of the princess.”
Valarr stilled for a moment, before leveling his sharp gaze on him.
“Of her misfortune,” Lord Bloodraven went on, voice calm, almost detached. “Since she has yet to carry a healthy child to term, some have begun to wonder if she bears… a curse. And coupled with the whispers of infidelity with Prince Aerion before, it may be prudent to consider whether the princess consort remains fit to make public appearances amongst the smallfolk—”
To Valarr, that was enough.
“Words are wind, and I will leave them as such,” Valarr said, his voice cutting clean through the chamber, sharp as drawn steel, “But if it is you who are questioning the honor of the princess, or her ability to conceive...”
His gaze locked onto Lord Bloodraven’s, unflinching.
“Then I will consider it a slight against her— and by extension, against me. Mind your tongue, Lord Bloodraven, for I do not take such matters lightly.”
Prince Baelor watched his son closely, absently turning the ring on his finger. In that moment, he saw himself reflected… and yet not entirely. Where Baelor would have tempered his words, Valarr did not. He was bolder, brasher, and less willing to bend for the sake of diplomacy.
So much for the “prince among men” they so often liken him to, Baelor mused, a faint smile on his lips.
King Daeron exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once against the table. “Enough,” the king said at last. “We will not give weight to idle songs.”
Lord Bloodraven inclined his head slightly, though whether in concession or calculation, none could quite tell.
. . .
Today couldn’t have gone any worse, but fate really decided to test him today, it seemed.
Valarr had barely stepped out into the corridor when hurried footsteps broke through his thoughts.
“Your Grace—!”
He turned sharply. It was your handmaiden, rushing to him while trembling with tears streaking her face.
“Your Grace, we are looking for you!” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath, “the princess—she—she has collapsed!”
For a single, terrible moment, the world fell silent.
And then Valarr had broken into a run.
Fear seized him mercilessly, his steps echoing sharply against the stone halls as he made for your chambers, heart pounding with a dread that made his chest burn.
The doors to your chambers were thrown open without ceremony. Inside, the air was thick— but you were not lying still as he had feared.
You were awake, propped against the pillows, your hand resting over your belly, though your expression was still dazed. Relief struck him so sharply it nearly brought him to his knees.
“What happened?” he demanded from the maester, breathless.
“My prince,” Maester Yormwell greeted, stepping forward. “Her Grace suffered a spell of exhaustion. Too much stress, and perhaps too little rest, but all things considered… she is well.”
Valarr was at your side the moment the maester finished speaking. His hands found your shoulders at once, drawing you into an embrace— yet with a tinge of hesitation, as though he feared holding you too tightly might somehow harm you.
A shuddering breath left him, and your fingers lifted, curling gently into his doublet as you leaned into the familiar comfort of him, seeking his scent.
And then you felt it— the rapid pounding of his heart and tremor running through him.
“Valarr…” your voice still faint, your head swimming slightly as you looked up at him. Just like that, all your grievance vanished, realizing how deeply this had shaken him. “I’m fine.”
But he only shook his head, his grip tightening.
“I should not have argued with you,” he blurted, the words spilling out strained. “Not like that—not when you are— This is my doing. I upset you.”
“It is not—”
“I should have known better.”
“Valarr.” You held him a little tighter, grounding him. “I’m fine,” you said again, more firmly this time, before easing back just enough to look at him. “It was nothing more than a moment’s weakness.”
The blue and brown of his eyes wavered, caught between relief and lingering fear, failing to bring himself to believe it so easily.
But you were insistent in reassuring him. Leaning in, you peppered soft kisses to his neck, your voice gentle against his skin.
“I promise you… this time, both me and the babe are well.”
He drew in another shaky breath before pulling you back into his arms, holding you closer and burying himself in your warmth, as though he could not bear even the smallest distance.
“I’m so… so glad you’re safe,” he choked out against your shoulder. You could have sworn he was near tears himself.
And your heart warmed so much, because this man was still the same kind man you had given your wedding vows to.
Before you knew it, the time for your confinement had come.
The days grew quieter, slower—your world narrowing to the comfort of your chambers as the heavy weight of the child you carried made even the simplest movements a monumental effort.
And most fortunately, you were not alone in it. Brightening your days like the sun, Valarr was always there.
Far more than anyone expected of a prince with duties as many as his, he found his way back to you each time—to the point of stealing moments between council meetings, trainings and all obligations that had kept him away.
You sat propped against a mound of pillows, a soft moan leaving you as you shifted, your hand instinctively reaching for your aching back.
“I swear,” you muttered under your breath, “this child is determined to make a sport of my suffering.”
A quiet chuckle sounded beside you.
“Hmm? Already so wilful, aren’t they,” Valarr mused, settling himself on the bed before gently guiding you back—until you were seated between his legs, your back resting against his chest. His hands came to rest over yours, warm and steady, feeling the firm skin of your belly that housed his babe.
“This child takes after you, I’m sure of it,” you huffed. “I was never so troublesome, my mother can vouch for me.”
He hummed, his chin coming to rest lightly atop your head. “Mm, what a slanderous thing to say. I seem to recall otherwise.”
You tilted your head just enough to shoot him a look, lips pursed. “You are an insufferable prince through and through.”
“And yet,” he said, mismatched eyes twinkling and lips curving, “you chose me.”
You shifted slightly to settle more comfortably against him, though not without a faint wince. His hands went to massage your hips at once, attentive and careful as ever, his expression focused.
“You are far too stiff when you put on the face of Prince of Dragonstone,” you said playfully, eyeing him. “It makes you… rather frightening.”
“Frightening?”
“Yes.” You feigned solemnity as you placed a hand on your chest. “Terribly so. I fear I may be getting nightmares from it. A prince who accuses me of having selfish pursuits...”
You felt him pause, but then he chuckled, warm against your skin as he pressed a kiss to your face.
“Oh?” His voice changed—dramatic, almost exaggerated, as he gently took your hand and lifted it with mock reverence. “Then perhaps I must remedy that at once.”
You narrowed your eyes, almost bursting out in laughter at the way he composed himself into a princely air.
“Oh, fair lady,” he began, his tone rich with theatrics. “I find myself madly in love with you. Please become my wife. I can offer you fresh meat and wine daily—”
You snorted, swatting his hand away.
“—and soft sheets too,” he winked, leaning closer, a grin tugging at his lips. “What say you? Come with me to Dragonstone? I assure you, this prince is thoroughly harmless.”
Turning within his hold, you faced him with equal dramatics. “How bold of you, to make such an offer to a lady already wed.”
“A tragedy. I shall have to win you over regardless.”
“I fear you shall fail, my prince. My husband would not take kindly to it.”
Valarr’s grin softened, warmth settling in his gaze.
“Then... I suppose I shall simply have to remain him then.”
Your breath caught, just slightly, when suddenly he closed the distance. But this time, there was no jest—only warmth as his lips met yours.
The kiss was deep, unhurried—filled with a warmth and devotion and certainty. He nibbled on your lip, and you pressed yourself closer to him in response.
He shifted, easing your back against the cushions as he hovered over you, mindful as ever—careful not to press any weight, never forgetting the life you carried between you.
His lips brushed yours again and again, softer this time, and while he could not quite bring himself to stop anytime soon, he had to.
“My love,” Valarr murmured against your lips, voice threaded with something achingly tender, “if I had a hundred lives, I would spend each one finding my way back to you.”
When he pulled away, his gaze swept over you, the beauty of his two-colored eyes stilled you in place. His hand came to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin.
“I know more than anyone of what you have gone through.” His gaze was solemn. “And I only regret that I was not strong enough to spare you from it.”
The memory of that bleak birthing chamber and the grief of losing your sons made your chest tighten, tears rising—but he caught your hand, lacing your fingers together and guiding them to rest over your swollen belly.
“I swear it, there is nothing in this world that I wouldn’t cast aside if it meant sparing you pain. And if any hardship remains to come...”
The way he paused made lump rise in your throat. But then your prince smiled that pure, dashing smile of his.
“Then let it find me first. I will stand between you and it all. Be it fear, fate, or the will of gods themselves… I will not yield.”
Your first tear fell, overcome by the weight of his words, while his hold on your hand tightening just a fraction.
“I could not protect you in childbed,” he admitted, “but I will spend the rest of my life ensuring that nothing touches you without first going through me, for as long as I live…”
His forehead rested against yours then, his voice barely above a whisper now—
“You and our child are mine to protect.”
—and you smiled tearfully at what he promised as you knew it to be true.
“Your Grace, it’s alright… take deep breaths— Yes, yes! Just like that!”
Your time had come when on one night, your waters broke just after you’d gone to bed. You had woken up to persistent contractions afterwards, which fully sealed your fate.
You had gone through this twice before, and you learned that there was nothing to be done when pain seized your womb with its merciless hold that made you cry out, except to let it run its course.
You lay on your side on the bed clad only in your shift, eyes closed, whimpering as another pain came over you.
“Valarr—” Your voice faltered, trembling with tears as you clutched your handmaiden’s hand. “W-where is he…? Has he— has he returned…?”
She squeezed your hand in return, promising you before she ran, “I shall fetch the prince, Your Grace!”
Though it was considered improper for men to enter the birthing chamber, Valarr had always been present during all your labors. This time, however, he had ridden into the city on urgent business just as your pains had begun.
And now you were terrified, haunted by the memories of the previous births that led to stillborns— and desperately wanted him here.
. . .
When Valarr was alerted with the news of how your pains had started and that you were asking for him, he marched back towards Red Keep with everything he had.
The doors to the chamber flew open with a force, and Valarr strode in, breathless. His gaze found you at once and something in his expression shattered.
“My love—!”
Your name broke from him as he seized your hand, his grip firm, grounding, as though anchoring you to him might somehow lessen what you endured. You scarcely had time to register his presence before another contraction seized you, fiercer than the last.
“I’m here!” He engulfed you in his embrace as you wept. “I’m here...”
The pains came without mercy, one upon the next, stealing what little rest you might have. Your body trembling as the agony built and built— until your moans dissolved into anguished wails.
Valarr felt his heart splinter.
Your sweet face was drawn tight with suffering, your hair damp and clinging to your skin, your fingers crushing his as though he were the only thing keeping you from being swept away entirely, all the while withstanding the pain he couldn’t even begin to fathom.
Guilt gnawed at him— he was the one who put you in this suffering… and more so when your voice broke:
“No! Please— I can’t! I can’t take this!”
He leaned close at once, pressing his lips to your temple, then to your ear, his voice low, tinted with grief. “Yes, you can, my love. You can. Don’t fight it… Breathe. It will pass.”
Hours blurred into one another, marked by pain and the brief moments of reprieve between. Through it all, Valarr never once let you go. His voice remained at your side, soft and steady, murmuring against your skin.
Until, at last, the maester’s voice broke through the haze.
“Your Grace—it is time. You must push.”
Valarr’s grip tightened around your body, and you bore down, summoning what strength you had left.
Each push felt as though it was tearing you apart, the compelling urge to push with all your might rising until it consumed you as a whole. Your world narrowed to the searing, all-encompassing agony.
“Oh Seven, it hurts!” you wept and your husband pressed another kiss to your temple, trying to soothe you.
“You’re doing so well.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Just a little more… I know you can.”
And so you gave in to your body's demands. Knees bent, you pushed again, feeling your baby move down through your body. Again and again you pushed until the fire between your legs was unbearable, until you felt being split in two, tears endlessly falling from your eyes—
A scream tore itself from your throat.
The pain surged to its peak in one final blazing rush, and with it came a foreign sound.
A weak, feeble cry. Your baby’s first cry.
For one stunned heartbeat, silence swallowed the chamber. Everyone stood frozen as the newborn was caught, while you collapsed back upon the pillows.
“A prince!” the maester cried, joy breaking through at last as he carried the tiny life to be cleaned by the handmaidens. “The princess has given birth to a healthy prince!”
But unlike the others who hastened toward the babe, Valarr did not move. He remained exactly where he was, his eyes never leaving you, who lay unconscious in his arms.
“Love...?” His voice trembled as he leaned over you, his free hand brushing your cheek, his heart lurching violently in his chest. “Stay with me—please—”
Around him, the noise dimmed, the celebration stilled into a breathless hush as all eyes turned back to the bed. They all saw their prince, who ignored his heir, for the sake of the woman he loved.
“Wake up,” he urged softly, desperately, his thumb trembling against your terribly pale form. “Wake up. Please… open your eyes.”
A moment stretched with you staying still.
Then another.
And then—
Your lashes fluttered. A breath seemed to pass through the room all at once.
Relief hit the Young Prince so sharply that he buckled, and a broken sound escaped his chest as he bent to you, pressing a lingering, trembling kiss to your lips.
“You did it,” he whispered, tears spilling now as he pressed his forehead to yours. “You did it, my love. Thank you... Thank you...”
Only when he had made sure you were fine did Valarr finally turn to see his son. Carefully, he took the tiny, swaddled bundle from the maester and placed him gently into your arms, guiding him close to your chest.
“A boy,” he murmured softly, pulling you into his embrace again. “Just as you wished… Isn’t it something? We have a son…”
His hand came to rest over yours, both of you cradling the small, warm weight between you. You were utterly spent, your strength all but gone, and so you leaned into the steady rise of his chest.
This little one was too precious—perfect, with all ten fingers, and not cold like the ones you held in your nightmares. He had drawn his first breath in this world, and in time, he would only grow stronger beneath your care.
A breathless sound left you when the babe stirred and opened his eyes.
Cool blue and warm brown.
“He has your eyes…” you cooed, your voice thick with awe as you looked up at your prince, tears shimmering in your gaze.
Valarr only looked at you. Not at the heir you had just given him— but at you, as though the very sight of you, alive and breathing in his arms, eclipsed all else.
Then, with a tenderness that trembled at its edges, he leaned down and kissed you again.
All those who bore witness to it—the maester, the handmaidens, every soul within that chamber—fell silent, for they knew that their beloved prince and princess had deserved this.
Their lives, once fractured by grief and shadowed by loss, had finally been made whole.
And so the years that followed would come to tell the same story—
Life, at last, had found its completion for the Young Prince and his princess.
Though Prince Valarr had hoped for a daughter he could spoil and cherish as his little princess, it became plain that he doted on his son from the moment he first took him in his arms. The realm delighted in the little prince as well—he was cherished and adored, bearing the fine features of his sire and the gentle disposition of his dam.
Yet even so… there was something all had come to understand. For all the love and pride Prince Valarr bore his son, it never rivaled what lived in his gaze when it fell upon his mother— you, his sweet princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms.
That though he was a devoted father, a proud prince, and one day, hopefully, would be a great king…
Above all else, he was still and forever would be yours.
-18+ explicit sexual content, p in v!! breeding/pregnancy talk, spanking, creampie, slightttt overstimulation, mentions of pregnancy and children, pillow talk!!! multiple orgasms, andddd clingy aerion! xoxo! ᥫ᭡
the first rays of dawn were just beginning to creep through the blinds of your shared bedroom painting stripes of light across the worn hardwood floors. you woke before your husband, as you often did, and became acutely aware of the firm, warm pressure against your ass from behind.
a mischievous thought took root. slowly, deliberately, you began to shift your hips, pressing back against him. the friction was exquisite, even through the thin layers of your nightgown and his boxers. you did it again, a slow, deliberate grind that had his cock twitching against you. a soft sigh escaped your lips at the pleasurable contact.
behind you, aerion stirred with a low groan. his arm, which had been draped loosely over your waist, tightened, pulling you more firmly against him. "mmmph," he mumbled into your hair, still mostly asleep. "what're you doin', baby..."
"wakin' you up," you whispered, pressing your ass back again.
"i can feel that." his hand slid down from your waist to your hip, his fingers gripping the soft fabric of your nightgown.
with a gentleness that contrasted the morning wood pressing insistently against you, he slowly bunched up your nightgown, lifting it inch by inch until it was pooled around your waist. his other hand moved to his own boxers, the sound of elastic snapping as he freed himself.
you felt the hot, velvet-smooth skin of his cock as he guided it between your thighs, the blunt head nudging against your already slick folds. he was leaking pre-cum, and he used it to paint your pussy, spreading the wetness around with slow, deliberate circles of his cockhead.
"sh sh sh," he murmured against your ear, his voice still thick with sleep but laced with growing arousal. "don't wanna wake the baby just yet."
you bit your lip to stifle a moan as his cockhead caught on your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. he did it again, then again, teasing you mercilessly.
"so wet already," he whispered against your neck.
his words were filthy, but his touch was tender. he continued to rub himself against you, coating his shaft in your wetness.
"gonna slide right in," he promised softly. "gonna fill you up before the sun's even properly risen."
you pushed back against him, a silent invitation. he took it, aligning himself with your entrance and pushing in just the tip. you gasped at the stretch, your body already craving more.
"shhhh," he soothed gently, though his own voice was strained with the effort of holding back. he pulled out slightly, then pushed in a little deeper. “i know baby, i know…”
he continued his teasing, shallow thrusts that had you squirming with need. each time he pushed in a little deeper, until finally, with one smooth stroke, he buried himself to the hilt. you both moaned softly at the feeling of being completely joined.
"fuck," he breathed, his forehead resting against your shoulder. "how come you are always so perfect? hmm? y’made for me?”
all you could do was nod and press your face further into the pillow under you. he began to move, his strokes slow and deep.
his hand came around to find your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. "wanna make you cum like this," he whispered. "then fuck you proper. gonna fill this pretty pussy with so much cum it'll be leaking out of you all day. maybe we'll get lucky and put another baby in you right now."
his dirty talk, combined with the sensations building inside you, had you spiraling toward your release faster than you expected. his fingers on your clit became more insistent, his thrusts a little harder, a little deeper.
"that's it, baby," he encouraged, sensing how close you were. "cum on my cock. let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock, cm’on."
his words were your undoing. your orgasm washed over you, waves of pleasure that had you clenching around him. he groaned at the feeling, his hips stilling as he let you ride it out.
as you came down from your high, he pulled out. “y’still want me to fill you? work for that cum, baby.”
“are you gonna help me?” you whisper sleepily to which he only nods and pulls you up onto his lap, straddling him. his hands gripped your ass, his expression peaceful as he rested leaning back, hands gripping any soft skin he could grasp on your warm body.
you finally sink down onto his cock, taking him deep inside you. the new angle allowed him to hit that perfect spot inside you, and soon you were building toward another orgasm.
"look at you, pretty girl…" he breathed, his eyes fixed on where your bodies joined. "gonna make me cum so deep inside you..."
his words spurred you on, and you increased your pace, grinding against him with abandon. his hands tightened on your ass, and suddenly he brought one down in a sharp smack that echoed in the small room.
"aerion!" you gasped, the sting mixing with pleasure.
"shhh," he grinned, smacking you again. "you'll wake the baby."
he brought his hand down again, a sharp crack that made you jolt and clench around him. "fuck, look at that," he breathed, mesmerized.
"i fuckin’ love this ass," he panted, his voice rough with desire.
he spanked you again, the sound sharp and dirty in the quiet room. his nasty talk sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you rode him harder, chasing your release. his hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips, your waist, your tits, before returning to your ass.
"can feel you drippin' all over me. my pretty wife has got the wettest pussy in the world…” he groaned, his voice a low, guttural rasp.
“i love you aerion- i love- oh fuck.”
he kneaded the flesh of your ass, his thumbs spreading you open slightly as you bounced on him. his gaze was intense, burning with a primal hunger that made your stomach clench.
he leaned up, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking hard. you cried out softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. he bit down gently before releasing it with a wet pop.
"gonna get these tits all full of milk again soon, mama," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he used the name that always made you melt. "gonna knock you up again. can't wait to see it."
the word sent a jolt straight to your core. "don’t stop aerion," you whimpered, your movements becoming more frantic.
"i won’t, i won’t," he soothed, though his hips were snapping up to meet yours with increasing urgency. "i know what you need.”
his hands tightened on your ass, holding you in place as he began to thrust up into you from below, taking control of the rhythm. "gonna make sure it takes. gonna plug her up so none of it leaks out."
he shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly his cock was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. your vision blurred, your body tensing as your orgasm began to build. "thaaaat's it," he encouraged, sensing your impending release. "there you go..."
his words, combined with the relentless stimulation, were your undoing. your second orgasm crashed over you, intense and overwhelming. you cried out his name, your body convulsing with pleasure as you collapsed against his chest.
he held you through it, his hips stilling as your pussy clenched around him. as you came down from your high, he began to move again, his strokes hard and deep, chasing his own release. the bed creaked softly in protest, but you were too lost in pleasure to care. his hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked up into you lazily.
"gonna fill you up," he panted, his rhythm becoming erratic. "gonna give you another baby."
with a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his hot cum. "fuck yes," he breathed.
you lay there on top of him, boneless and sated, his softening cock still inside you as you both caught your breath. the room was quiet now, save for your mingled breathing and the soft sounds of the morning beginning outside.
aerion's arms came around you, holding you close against his chest. he pressed a soft kiss to your sweat-dampened forehead.
"best way to wake up, bar none." his hands stroking up and down your back. you settled back against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. his heartbeat was a steady, reassuring rhythm beneath your ear.
“get some rest while we still can. baby’s gonna wake up soon…”
you laughed softly under your breath, already feeling your eyes grow heavy again as he held you tighter, both of you savoring the last quiet moments before your day started.
synopsis. reader is a skilled woodswitch who heals with herbs and whispered spells, summoned to the red keep she must heal a dragon or watch him die.
content. slight canon divergence (vaccinated valarr arc??). graphic depictions of illness & death. plague descriptions. probably incorrect folk medicine. sexism. canon typical themes. lots of grief and angst. comfort. possible tragic ending (haven’t decided yet)
word count. 8.5k
note. ahhh ok my first one shot && ofc i made it more than one part… pls go easy on me as I’m new to posting my writing on tumblr.
part i. part ii. part iii. end.
The cottage smelled of smoke, damp wool, and crushed herbs.
Bundles of drying plants hung from the rafters like small, silent guardians—sage, thyme, bitterroot, and strips of willow bark bound carefully with twine. Their scent lingered thickly in the warm air, mingling with the steam rising from a pot that simmered slowly over the hearth. The sharp bitterness of the brewing herbs stung faintly at the back of the throat, a smell both medicinal and strangely comforting.
On the narrow bed beneath the window, Lord Smallwood writhed beneath his blankets.
His dark hair clung damply to his temples, sweat soaking through the linen pillow beneath his head. Each breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, as though the air itself burned his lungs. Fever had painted his cheeks an unnatural crimson, and every so often his body shuddered violently beneath the weight of the covers.
Near the door, two servants hovered uneasily.
“Should he be sweating like that?” one whispered, glancing nervously toward the bed.
“Seven save him,” the other murmured back. “He’s been like this for three days.”
Neither of them dared step closer.
You ignored them.
Kneeling beside the hearth, you worked slowly with the stone mortar resting in your lap, grinding dried willow bark and mint together beneath the steady pressure of the pestle. The brittle leaves cracked and crumbled with each turn of your wrist, breaking down into a coarse, pale powder.
The rhythm was steady. Familiar.
Grind. Turn. Grind again.
The sound had always calmed you.
The old woman who had raised you used to say that the rhythm itself could settle a healer’s nerves. “Your hands must be steady,” she would tell you, her voice thin with age but sharp with certainty. “If the healer trembles, the patient will follow.”
You tipped the crushed herbs carefully into the pot hanging over the fire and stirred.
The liquid inside had already darkened into a cloudy amber from the earlier mixtures. As the powder touched it's surface, a sharper scent rose into the air—bitter enough that one of the servants coughed softly into his sleeve.
Behind you, the lord groaned.
You turned at once.
Lord Smallwood’s hand clawed weakly at the blanket as another wave of fever rolled through him. His breathing had grown ragged now, each inhale scraping from his chest like dry leaves dragged across stone.
You rose and crossed the small room in two quiet steps.
Pressing your palm lightly against his forehead, you felt the heat immediately. Still burning, but no worse than before. That mattered.
“Help me sit him up,” you said.
The servants hesitated.
“He’s very weak, my lady,” one said uncertainly.
“So lift gently,” you replied.
After a moment’s pause, they moved forward, carefully sliding their arms beneath the lord’s shoulders. You slipped one arm behind his back to steady him as they raised him upright against the pillows.
His body radiated heat even through the thin linen of his shirt.
You lifted the wooden cup from the bedside table and held it carefully to his lips.
“Drink.”
His eyes fluttered open at the sound of your voice, unfocused and glassy with fever. “Bitter…” he rasped weakly.
“It is meant to be.”
He managed a weak swallow, then another. A little of the liquid spilt down his chin, and you wiped it away with a cloth. When the cup was empty, you eased him back against the pillows.
The servants watched the entire process as though witnessing something sacred, and in a way, perhaps they were.
You dipped a cloth into the bowl of cool water beside the bed and wrung it out before laying it across the lord’s neck. His overheated skin steamed faintly beneath the touch. The fever had been climbing steadily all day. If it rose much higher, there would be little left to try.
“They said you brought Lord Harroway back from death,” one of the servants said quietly, as if speaking too loudly might disturb whatever fragile balance held the fever at bay.
You did not look up from the cloth in your hands, wringing and laying it again across the lord’s brow.
“People say many things when a man survives,” you replied.
The servant hesitated, glancing toward the bed. “But… It’s true, isn’t it?”
You did not answer immediately.
The fire cracked softly in the hearth, sending a brief flare of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind moved through the tall pines that surrounded the cottage, their branches whispering together in the darkness like distant voices.
At last, you said, “Lord Harroway lived because his body chose to fight.”
The servant frowned slightly. “And you?”
You adjusted the blanket around Lord Smallwood’s shoulders, tucking the wool carefully beneath his arms.
“I asked it to try.”
Silence settled once more over the small cottage.
The fevered man shifted restlessly beneath the covers, his breath quickening again as another surge of heat moved through him. You watched the change carefully, studying the rhythm of it.
Every illness had its own pattern. A rise. A fall.
Sometimes the body found its way back from the brink, sometimes it did not.
You reached for the small leather pouch tied at your belt and loosened the cord. Inside were carefully wrapped bundles of dried herbs—lavender, sage, and several others gathered from the forest hills.
You selected a few brittle lavender buds and crushed them gently between your fingers. Their soft scent drifted into the warm air beside the bed. It would not cure the fever, but it might help the body rest, and sometimes, rest was the first step toward survival.
Then, almost without thinking, you murmured the old spell. Your voice was low enough that the servants barely heard it. “Root and leaf, draw the heat. Bone and blood, remember sleep. Fever passes, and breath grows slow, Let the quiet body know.”
The old woman had insisted the words mattered less than the intention.
“People trust rituals,” she used to say. “And trust is medicine too.”
Lord Smallwood’s breathing stuttered, then steadied.
You sat beside the bed and waited; time seemed to stretch slowly in the dim light of the hearth. The servants eventually stopped whispering, busying themselves by replacing the cold cloth that lay on their lord’s head every time it warmed.
The fever burned for what felt like hours, rising and falling like a tide. Several times, the lord stirred violently, muttering half-formed words, his hands clutching at invisible things. Each time you cooled his skin and spoke softly until he quieted. Eventually, the trembling eased. His breath slowed. Then, gradually, the tight lines of pain in his face began to soften.
One servant leaned closer. “He’s sleeping.”
You waited a beat to confirm. “Yes.”
“But… he hasn’t slept in two days.”
You leaned back slightly, though your eyes never left the patient. Sleep was a good sign.
Not a victory, but a beginning.
“You saved him.” The second servant looked at you as though seeing something extraordinary.
You shook your head gently. “No.”
“But he was dying.”
“Perhaps.”
The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind had begun to calm. You rose and moved back to the hearth, setting another bundle of herbs beside the pot.
Behind you, Lord Smallwood slept on; the servants watched him as if afraid he might vanish if they blinked. After a moment, one of them whispered, almost reverently, “A miracle.”
You stirred the simmering brew, the bitter scent filling the room again. “No,” you said quietly. “Only patience.”
You sat down on the low stool near the hearth and stretched your tired fingers toward the warmth of the flames. The long hours of tending had left your shoulders stiff and your eyes heavy. Outside, the forest had grown quiet. The wind whispered softly through the trees, rustling the branches like distant voices.
Sitting again, you started to clean your tools; any moment of peace was best used and not wasted. You cleaned them slowly, more out of habit than necessity.
The mortar still carried the faint scent of crushed willow bark—sharp and bitter beneath the softer sweetness of mint—and the smell lingered stubbornly in the stone no matter how often you rinsed it. Fine green dust clung to the inside of the stone bowl, caught in the tiny scratches carved by years of grinding.
You poured a little warm water into it and rubbed the inside with a cloth, turning the bowl carefully as you worked. The sound of stone against cloth was soft and steady, almost meditative.
Every movement was practised and measured.
The old woman had insisted on that.
Clean tools meant clean work. Clean work meant fewer mistakes. And in healing, mistakes could not always be undone.
When the mortar was smooth again, you wiped it dry and set it beside the window where the cool night air could reach it.
Your hands paused for a moment over the pouch at your belt.
The leather was worn soft from years of handling, the drawstring darkened where your fingers had tied and untied it countless times. When you loosened the cord and opened the pouch, the smell of dried plants rose at once—earthy, bitter, comforting in its familiarity.
Inside were small bundles wrapped carefully in scraps of cloth.
Lavender for calming sleep.
Sage for cleansing.
Bitterroot for stubborn fevers.
Thyme for the lungs.
Each bundle was tied with a thin thread and marked with small knots that the old woman had taught you to recognise even in the dark.
You checked them one by one. The habit was older than you could remember. Healing began long before the patient arrived. A healer who did not know what she carried in her pouch was no healer at all.
The memory came to you then, the way many scents did—quietly, without warning.
One moment, you were standing beside the narrow bed in the cottage, listening to the restless breathing of a fevered lord. The next, the faint smell of crushed thyme lingering on your fingers had carried your thoughts years backwards, to a morning deep in the forest.
You had been younger then—small enough that the dew-soaked grass reached nearly to your knees. Every step soaked the hem of your dress and chilled your ankles, but you had not minded.
The forest had always felt alive in the early hours, as though the world itself were waking slowly around you.
It had been quiet that morning.
Not silent—never truly silent—but filled with the soft, living sounds of a place that had not yet been disturbed by the day. Birds called somewhere high in the branches above, their voices echoing faintly between the tall pines. A breeze moved through the needles overhead, carrying with it the cool scent of damp earth and pine resin.
Several paces ahead, the old woman walked slowly along the trail.
Her back had already begun to bend with age, though she moved with a steady patience that never seemed to falter. She leaned heavily on her crooked walking stick, which had been carved from a twisted length of ash wood so old the grain had turned nearly silver with age. Her hair had been the colour of frost—long and thin, gathered loosely at the back of her neck with a faded strip of red cloth.
She noticed everything.
Every few steps, she would pause beside the path, not because she was tired but to crouch carefully beside some small plant growing half-hidden among the roots of the trees.
That morning, she stopped beside a patch of pale green leaves. “Come here,” she called without turning.
You hurried forward, nearly slipping on the wet stones beneath your feet.
When you reached her side, she gestured toward the plant growing low against the ground, brushing aside the surrounding grass so it could be seen clearly.
“Well?” she asked.
You crouched beside her.
The leaves were thin and slightly curled, their edges jagged like tiny teeth. Small white flowers had begun to bloom at the centre of the cluster.
You studied them carefully before answering. “Feverfew.”
The old woman nodded once. “And what does it do?”
“It cools the blood,” you said, recalling the lessons she had repeated countless times before. “It helps break fever and ease aching joints.”
She plucked a single leaf from the plant and held it up between her fingers, turning it slowly so the morning light caught the faint veins running through the surface.
“And what does it not do?”
You hesitated; the question had always struck you as strange. “It does not cure death,” you said at last.
A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Good.”
She placed the leaf carefully into the woven basket hanging at her hip before straightening slowly with the help of her walking stick. For a few moments, she said nothing, simply continuing along the path as though the lesson had already ended.
You followed behind her.
After a while, she spoke again. “People will say many things about healing,” she said, her voice quiet beneath the whisper of the wind moving through the trees.
You had heard this lesson before.
“They will call you wise,” she continued. “Some will call you blessed.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “And some will call you a witch.”
You frowned slightly. “Are you a witch?”
The old woman snorted softly at that. “If I were, do you think my knees would ache this much?” That made you laugh, which only made her smile.
She walked a few more steps before stopping again, this time beside a narrow stream that cut across the forest path. The water ran clear and cold over smooth stones, its quiet rushing sound filling the space between the trees.
She crouched beside the bank and dipped her fingers into the water. “Listen carefully,” she said.
You knelt beside her, watching intently.
“The body knows how to mend itself,” she said slowly, her walking stick tapped lightly against one of the stones beside the stream. “We only remind it how.”
You studied the moving water. “But what if it doesn’t?” you asked.
The old woman did not answer immediately.
For a long time, she simply watched the current moving past the stones, the expression on her lined face thoughtful.
At last, she turned her pale grey eyes toward you, “Then it was never ours to mend.”
You frowned again. “But that means people will still die.”
“Yes.”
The word came easily; there was no cruelty in it, only truth.
She pushed herself slowly back to her feet, leaning heavily on the stick once more. “That is the hardest lesson a healer must learn,” she said quietly. “You will help many people. More than you think possible.”
Her gaze softened slightly. “But you will not save them all.”
You walked beside her again as the forest path wound deeper between the trees. “How do you know when to stop trying?” you asked.
She smiled faintly at that.
“You do not.”
She tapped the walking stick against the path again as she walked. “You try,” she said. “And when the body chooses to fight, you help it.”
The wind stirred gently through the branches above.
“And when it doesn’t?” you asked.
The old woman did not look back this time. “Then you make certain the patient does not face the end alone.”
The memory faded slowly.
The crackling sound of the cottage hearth returned, along with the smell of simmering herbs and the soft breathing of the sleeping lord in the bed behind you.
The old woman had been gone three winters now, yet sometimes—especially on long nights spent beside the beds of the sick—you could still hear her voice as clearly as if she stood beside you.
Correcting the way you tied a bundle of sage. Reminding you to watch the patient, not just the sickness. Or scolding you gently when you forgot to eat.
The cottage where she had lived still stood at the edge of the forest, though you rarely returned except to gather herbs from the familiar hills. The roof sagged more each year without her careful hands to mend it, and the garden had begun creeping slowly back into wildness. Foxglove had overtaken the old herb beds, and the mint had spread across half the yard.
It had felt wrong to stay there without her; you kept expecting to find her around the corner or to wake with her humming softly as she cleaned herbs. So you had moved, not far but somewhere else, somewhere your own.
A faint smile touched your lips. She would have liked this cottage; it had good soil, plenty of water, and hills thick with wild herbs. The mornings carried a clear light she would have appreciated.
For a while, you simply sat and listened: to the quiet breathing of the sleeping lord, to the steady crackle of the fire, to the distant rustle of the forest beyond the walls.
Healing often required nothing more than waiting; your mentor had always insisted on that.
“Patience first,” she would say.
You reached for another cloth and began drying the mortar again, though it was already clean. Your hands needed something to do while the night stretched slowly onward. Somewhere far beyond the cottage walls, a dog barked once in the distance, the sound carried faintly through the trees before fading again into silence.
Dawn would come soon enough, you thought, and when it did, the villagers would begin to arrive; they always did.
Someone with a cough, a twisted ankle, or a child burning with fever. Illness did not rest simply because one patient had begun to recover.
You set the mortar back on it’s shelf and rose quietly.
Across the room, Lord Smallwood slept on. His breath was slow now, even. For tonight, at least, the body had chosen to fight.
And that, in the end, was all a healer could ever ask for.
Morning came slowly through the forest.
At first, it was only a faint paling of the darkness beyond the cottage windows, a thin grey light filtering between the tall pines that surrounded the clearing. Mist clung low to the ground, drifting lazily between the tree trunks like pale smoke.
Inside the cottage, the fire in the hearth had burned low.
A few stubborn embers still glowed beneath the ash, casting a faint reddish light across the wooden floor. The smell of last night’s herbs lingered heavily in the warm air, mingling with the faint scent of damp earth drifting in through the open window.
Lord Smallwood still slept.
You stood beside the bed, studying him carefully.
The fever had not vanished during the night, but it had weakened. The flushed heat had not left him entirely, but it no longer burned with the same savage intensity it had hours before. His breathing had deepened, each rise and fall of his chest slower than before. The harsh rasp of fever had softened into something steadier, though his skin still shone faintly with sweat in the glow of the fire.
A cloth rested across his brow, cool from the basin of water beside the bed. He seemed content at last, and you felt safe enough to leave him alone to rest.
The servants had withdrawn to the outer room after the lord finally settled, their anxious whispering fading into the soft murmur of the wind outside. Once or twice, you could hear the creak of the bench as one shifted or the faint clink of a cup, but they kept their distance now, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that had settled.
You stepped outside the cottage quietly, pulling the door closed behind you so the hinges would not creak.
The morning air struck your skin with welcome coolness. Dew clung to the tall grass in the clearing, soaking the hem of your boots as you crossed to the wooden basin beside the door. It held water gathered from the nearby stream, it’s surface smooth and dark in the morning shade.
You plunged your hands into the cold water.
The chill bit instantly at your skin, sharp enough to make you suck in a breath. You scrubbed the faint stain of herbs from your fingers. The water stung where small nicks lined your knuckles—tiny cuts from knives, thorns, and bone needles gathered over years of work. You hardly notice them anymore.
Morning air filled your lungs as you straightened. It smelled of wet soil, pine sap, and the faint sweetness of crushed grass beneath your boots. After the thick herbal smoke and heat of the cottage, the forest air felt startlingly clean.
For a while, you simply stood there, letting the cool air wake the last heaviness from your bones. Your shoulders ached from hours spent leaning over the bed. The dull fatigue behind your eyes lingered stubbornly, but the forest had a way of easing it, as though the quiet itself could steady a weary mind.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow called harshly from the branches overhead. A breeze stirred the tall pines, sending a soft whisper of needles through the air.
Peaceful.
Familiar.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the calm.
You looked up.
A boy from the nearby village came running across the clearing, his boots slipping slightly in the damp grass. His chest heaved with effort, and his hair stuck wildly to his forehead where sweat had gathered.
You had treated him during the last harvest when he had broken his arm falling from an apple tree. When he saw you watching, he waved both arms frantically. “Someone’s coming!”
You frowned slightly. “Who?”
The boy skidded to a halt beside the basin, bending over with his hands braced against his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
“A rider,” he managed between gasps. “From the road.”
Visitors were not uncommon; farmers sometimes arrived with injured animals. Villagers occasionally came seeking remedies for coughs or broken bones.
But riders were rare.
And they almost never arrived alone.
“Did he say what he wanted?” you asked.
The boy shook his head quickly, still breathing hard, his breath coming out in little white clouds. “He asked for the healer.”
You wiped your hands against the edge of your sleeve, the rough cloth absorbing the last of the cold water.
Before you could ask anything further, the sound of hooves reached the clearing. Slow at first, a distant, hollow rhythm echoing between the trees—Then louder, like thunder over a dark sky.
The boy turned toward the narrow path leading through the trees, his eyes widening with excitement. “He’s coming!”
A moment later, the rider emerged from the forest.
The horse stepped into the clearing first, its dark coat streaked with dust from the long road. Sweat darkened its flanks, and its breath steamed faintly in the cool morning air. Foam gathered along the edges of the bit where it worked its jaw restlessly.
The man astride the horse looked little better than the exhausted animal beneath him. Travel dust coated his cloak and boots, and the deep lines around his eyes spoke of many days spent riding without proper rest.
When he reached the clearing, he pulled the reins sharply, bringing the horse to a halt. The animal let out an indignant noise and pawed at the ground sharply, it’s tail flicking like a whip.
His eyes moved quickly across the cottage, the herb garden beside it, and the two of you standing in the grass.
Then he swung down from the saddle. His cloak shifted as he moved, revealing the dark doublet beneath. Even before he approached, you noticed the emblem fastened to his clothes.
Deep red on a field of black, a three-headed dragon.
The sigil of House Targaryen.
The boy beside you sucked in a quiet breath of awe.
The rider approached with careful, deliberate steps, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. His gaze moved across the clearing, lingering briefly on the hanging herbs near the door, the drying racks beneath the eaves, and the open window where the scent of willow bark drifted faintly outward.
“Where is the woodswitch?” he asked, stepping forward, expression serious. His voice was formal, but you could tell he was tired.
You stepped forward. “Here.”
His gaze settled fully on you then, not rudely, but with the careful scrutiny of someone who had travelled a long distance in search of something very specific—and was quietly wondering whether he had truly found it.
“You are the one who treated Lord Harroway?” he asked.
“I treated him.”
“And he lives.”
“Until the gods decide it is his time, yes.” You regarded simply.
The rider’s brow creased faintly at the answer.
Then he reached into the leather pouch at his belt and withdrew a folded parchment sealed with deep red wax.
“The crown sends for you.” He held the letter out.
The wax seal bore the three-headed dragon clearly, the imprint sharp and unmistakable.
The boy beside you gasped.
You took the parchment slowly, feeling the thickness of the fine paper beneath your fingers. It was far finer than anything used in the villages.
You broke the seal hesitantly, trying not to show the slight tremble in your fingers. The parchment inside was smooth and heavy, the ink dark and precise.
You read the message slowly.
To the healer reputed to have cured Lord Harroway,
Word of your skill has reached the Red Keep. The royal family is afflicted by the spring sickness, and the maesters have not yet halted its spread.
I ask that you come to King’s Landing with all possible haste.
Prince Valarr Targaryen.
The forest seemed suddenly very quiet, like nature had held its breath along with you. Even the crow that liked to squawk in the early hours of the morning had fallen silent.
Beside you, the boy stared up with wide eyes. “What does it say? What does it say?”
You had almost forgotten he was standing beside you, but the small tug he gave your sleeve made you jolt in surprise. You gave him a small sideways glance— then your gaze shifted to the rider who was regarding the boy sharply.
Then you read the letter again.
Spring sickness.
The words carried a weight you knew too well. You had seen it before, or well, a similar affliction, it had broken out during the late autumn when all the trees turned orange.
Years ago, in a river village where the houses stood too close together, and the wells ran shallow in summer. The sickness had begun with a single fever.
By the time anyone understood what it was, half the village had taken ill.
Children first.
Then the old.
Then anyone who dared tend the sick without care.
It had spread like fire through dry brush. When the fevers finally broke, the burial mounds outside the village had doubled.
The ache of many sleepless nights assisting the old woman, treating people, crawled back violently as if it had never ceased; the feeling made you shudder. That was when you had doubted your ability to be a healer; you had cried after losing so many people you had poured all your efforts into saving.
If the old woman had not been there to pick you up, you surely would not have survived the ordeal yourself.
You folded the letter carefully, the smooth parchment sliding between your fingers easily.
“How long has it been in the city?” you asked. While you had heard of some cases of sickness in more populated areas, it had not yet leaked into the countryside, where you preferred to spend your time.
The rider shook his head, a grim expression settling over his face. “Several weeks.”
“And the maesters cannot stop it?”
“No.” He hesitated before adding quietly, “Many have already died.”
The boy’s excitement faded at once, and his gaze dropped toward the ground. Whatever he thought might happen, it was clear it was not this; to talk of such grief in front of a child… it was not savoury. The itch to send him away grew, but before you could say anything, the rider spoke.
“You are requested at once.” his tone was firm, as though he feared you might refuse.
You looked past him toward the road disappearing between the trees. King’s Landing lay many days south—farther than you had ever travelled, farther than the old woodswitch had ever allowed you to go.
Treating farmers and minor lords was one thing, but treating the royal family was something else entirely. What if they did not improve? Would they have your head for it? The thought made you shudder.
The boy tugged your sleeve again. “You have to go,” he insisted. “If anyone can help them, it’s you!”
You almost laughed.
People always said such things after someone survived an illness, as though healing were certain, as though herbs and patience could command life itself.
Your gaze drifted toward the cottage behind you.
Your gaze drifted toward the cottage behind you. Inside, Lord Smallwood still slept. If the fever returned stronger tonight, he might yet die despite everything you had done.
Healing was never promised, only attempted.
The rider waited patiently.
At last, you asked, “Why me?”
The rider blinked once, clearly surprised by the question.
“Your name was recommended,” he replied after a moment.
“By whom?”
“By those who claim you have saved lives others could not.” The words carried more belief than you were comfortable with.
You studied the letter once more, mind spinning.
Prince Valarr Targaryen.
A man you had never met. A prince you had never even seen. Yet somehow he had heard your name in a distant village and believed it worth sending a rider across half the realm.
The wind stirred gently through the clearing, and for a moment, you imagined the old woodswitch standing beside you again, leaning on her crooked stick.
“A healer listens. If someone is ill, you go. Even when you know you might fail.”
You let out a long breath, emptying your lungs completely before lifting your gaze back to the rider. For a moment, you said nothing, weighing the words of the letter against the quiet life you had built here, against the forest and the patients who came to your door each morning. When you finally spoke, your voice was calm, though the decision behind it felt heavier than you expected. “All right,” you said. “I will come.”
Relief spread across the rider’s face so quickly he made no effort to hide it. Beside you, the boy stared in open amazement before breaking into a grin so wide it seemed to light his whole face. “You’re really going?” he blurted. “To the Red Keep?” The excitement in his voice made the journey sound like some grand adventure rather than a desperate summons from a prince.
You turned back toward the cottage, already thinking through what would be needed. “If I’m to travel that far, I’ll need time to prepare,” you said, brushing the dampness from your hands onto your sleeve. “There are medicines to gather, and I’ll have to make certain the villagers are looked after while I’m gone. Illness doesn’t wait simply because its healer has ridden south.”
“That won’t be a problem,” the rider replied quickly, stepping forward as though eager to remove every possible obstacle. “If you need help making arrangements, I can see to it.”
You nodded absently, though your attention had drifted back toward the clearing. Pausing at the doorway, you glanced once more at the forest stretching beyond the small patch of open ground. It looked exactly as it always had—quiet and unchanged beneath the pale morning light. The tall pines swayed gently in the wind, their shadows moving slowly across the grass, and the familiar scent of damp earth and sap hung in the air.
It was peaceful here.
Familiar.
Safe.
For a moment, it was difficult to believe that somewhere beyond those endless trees a city was choking on sickness, and that a prince you had never met believed you might be able to save the people he loved.
You pushed the cottage door open and stepped inside, already reaching for the worn leather pouch that held your herbs. “Give me an hour,” you said over your shoulder, your voice carrying out into the clearing where the rider and the boy still waited. Then, more quietly, almost as if speaking the thought aloud made it real, you added, “Once I’m ready… we ride.”
The mule moved at a steady, tireless pace along the winding road.
When the farmer had first pressed the reins into your hands years ago—insisting you take the animal as payment for healing his wife—you had expected something slower. The mule had looked ordinary enough then: broad-backed, thick-necked, with a stubborn tilt to her ears that suggested she might refuse to move whenever it suited her. But she had proven stronger than she appeared. Sure-footed on uneven ground and patient with long distances, she walked with a quiet determination that rarely faltered once she had set her mind to the road.
“She carried sacks heavier than you through half my fields,” the farmer had said proudly, patting the mule’s neck as though the animal understood every word. “She’ll see you where you’re going.”
Now, as the road wound south through the low hills, you found yourself grateful for the gift. The mule’s hooves struck the packed earth in a steady rhythm, unhurried but relentless, her ears flicking now and then as the wind stirred the tall grasses along the roadside.
Beside you, the royal rider kept an easy seat on his horse. The animal beneath him was leaner and finer-boned, bred for speed rather than endurance, but the rider had slowed his pace without complaint to match the mule’s steady gait. Dust clung to both horse and rider from the miles already behind them, dulling the shine of leather and cloak alike.
The countryside had begun to change as you travelled.
The tall pine forests surrounding your home had gradually thinned, giving way to open hills and wide fields where golden grass rippled beneath the wind like the surface of a quiet sea. Small farms dotted the valleys below, their roofs pale against the dark soil of half-harvested fields.
Ordinarily, the road between villages would have been busy this time of year. Farmers would be hauling grain in creaking carts, neighbours walking between fields to trade news or tools, children running along the roadside until called back by impatient parents.
Today, the road was strangely quiet.
You noticed the silence first when the path carried you past a small cluster of cottages beside a narrow stream. The fields nearby lay untouched, though the harvest should have been well underway. No one worked among the rows of grain, and the doors of several houses stood closed despite the mild warmth of the morning.
A thin column of smoke curled upward from a shallow iron pan set in the middle of one yard.
The smell reached you as you rode past.
Vinegar.
You slowed the mule instinctively, studying the cottages more carefully now. One house had a cloth draped loosely across its doorway. Another had its shutters nailed shut from the outside, the boards hammered crookedly across the window frame.
From somewhere inside the cluster of buildings came the faint, ragged sound of coughing.
Your hand tightened slightly on the reins.
“We should stop,” you said quietly.
The rider glanced toward the cottages without turning his head fully, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. The mule had nearly slowed to a halt when the rider spoke again, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet morning air. “No.”
You looked at him. “If the sickness has reached this village already—”
“We ride.” He shook his head once, the gesture small but final.
Your gaze drifted back toward the cottages. Something moved behind one of the shuttered windows—a faint shape shifting in the dimness beyond the glass. For a moment, you thought you saw a hand press weakly against the pane.
“I could at least look,” you said. “It would only take a few minutes.”
The rider guided his horse slightly sideways, placing the animal squarely across the road ahead of the mule. The movement was calm, deliberate, leaving no space for you to pass.
His voice, when he spoke again, was not harsh. But there was a firmness to it that suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed. “The prince sent for you.”
“And they’re dying.”
“They are already dead.”
The words struck harder than you expected.
“You don’t know that,” you said, staring at him.
His gaze met yours steadily. “I know the sickness.”
The wind shifted across the road then, carrying the sour smell of vinegar and illness from the silent cottages behind you. Somewhere above the fields, a crow cried sharply, its voice echoing across the empty hills.
The rider spoke again, more quietly now. “If we stop at every village that coughs along this road, we will never reach King’s Landing.”
You did not answer.
Your eyes lingered on the cottages, on the shuttered windows and silent yards. The coughing had stopped, or perhaps the wind had simply carried the sound away.
Either way, the village looked still now. Too still.
You knew what the rider meant. You had seen sickness move like this before—swift and merciless, leaving little behind but empty beds and grieving families. Often, by the time a healer arrived, there was little left to do but comfort the living.
And you had been summoned somewhere far worse.
Slowly, you loosened your grip on the reins.
The rider let out a breath you had not realised he had been holding and nudged his horse forward again. The mule followed without hesitation, stepping back into her steady rhythm as though she had never intended to stop.
The cottages disappeared behind you as the road curved southward through the hills.
For a long while, neither of you spoke.
The mule’s hooves beat a quiet rhythm against the earth while the pale sky stretched wide above the empty countryside. The wind moved softly through the tall grass, whispering across the fields like distant water.
Far ahead, beyond the rolling hills and winding rivers, waited King’s Landing.
And somewhere within its crowded walls, a prince believed you might still save someone.
You had never seen King’s Landing before. But even as the city came into view from the road, you knew it could not look the way it did now.
Every traveller you had ever met who had passed through the capital described the same things: crowds thick as river reeds, shouting merchants, markets overflowing into the streets, carts rattling past one another in endless noise and motion. A city too large to ever truly fall quiet.
But the place spread beneath you now felt wrong even from a distance.
The towers of the Red Keep still rose high above the hills, catching the dull grey light of the afternoon. Ships clustered in the river below, their masts packed tightly together like a forest of bare trees.
Yet the roads leading toward the gates carried far more people leaving than arriving.
Families walked north with bundles tied to their backs. A farmer urged two thin oxen along a cart piled with sacks and blankets. A pair of septons moved barefoot along the roadside, heads bowed in prayer as they passed travellers without looking up.
All of them moving away.
You reached the city gates near midday.
Long before the walls themselves came fully into view, you could smell the city.
The wind carried it across the road in heavy waves—coal smoke, cooking fires, animal waste, and the sour odour of too many people crowded too tightly together. Beneath it all lingered another scent, sharper and more unsettling.
Sickness.
You had smelled it before in villages struck by fever.
It clung to the air in the same way smoke did, invisible yet unmistakable once you learned to recognise it.
The road climbed steadily toward the massive walls of King’s Landing. Their red-streaked stone towers loomed higher with every step the mule took, casting long shadows over the crowded approach to the gate.
Dozens of people waited there: Merchants with loaded wagons, travellers carrying bundles of belongings, a handful of farmers leading livestock.
Yet the mood was not the bustling impatience you might have expected from the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.
Most of the faces you saw looked tired, worried.
A man near the front of the line doubled over suddenly, coughing into his sleeve with such force that the sound echoed harshly against the stone walls. Those standing closest to him stepped away quickly.
The rider moved past them with a practised calm, using his horse to force them to move from his path. The guards at the gate wore golden armour that glinted in the setting afternoon sun.
One stepped forward, raising a hand. “State your business.”
The rider lifted a small token bearing the dragon crest. “Royal summons.”
The guard studied the seal briefly before nodding and waving two others closer. “Escort them through,” he instructed gruffly.
Two guards on horseback appeared, one carried a long spear, the other rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as he gestured toward the street beyond the gate. “This way.”
The moment you crossed beneath the stone archway, the sound struck you like a wave.
Voices, shouting, carts rattling over uneven cobblestones and the distant clang of hammer on metal somewhere deeper within the city.
King’s Landing was enormous.
Buildings crowded so tightly together that the streets between them seemed carved from stone and shadow. Wooden balconies leaned precariously overhead, their supports creaking beneath the weight of years.
The road beyond the gate stretched wide between rows of tall buildings, but half the shutters had been nailed closed. Others hung open like broken teeth. A market square lay just beyond the gate—but the stalls stood abandoned, their canvas awnings sagging where no one had taken them down.
Someone coughed nearby—deep, ragged, uncontrollable. The sound echoed hollowly through the narrow street. In an alley, a septon knelt beside a man lying against the wall, whispering prayers as the man trembled beneath a thin blanket.
You watched a woman stagger from a doorway, clutching a cloth to her mouth as she leaned heavily against the wall. Her skin looked pale beneath the grime of the street, and sweat darkened the loose strands of hair clinging to her temples.
No one stopped to help her.
The rider guided his horse closer to your mule. “It wasn’t like this a month ago,” he said quietly.
You believed him.
Illness had a way of changing places quickly.
The Gold Cloaks led the way through the winding streets, pushing aside the few pedestrians who wandered too close.
“Make way!” Out of the road!” they barked harshly.
People stepped aside reluctantly and ducked their gazes while you passed, some stared openly though, and you worked to keep from meeting anyone’s desperate eyes, nausea welling inside you.
You could see the signs everywhere now.
At the edge of the empty market square, a cart rolled slowly across the stones. Two men pushed it together, swatting at the flies that buzzed around them like a thick cloud. A rough blanket covered the long shapes piled inside; the cloth shifted as the cart lurched over a rut.
A pale hand slipped briefly into view before one of the men hurried to pull the blanket back down.
You looked away.
Farther along, a doorway had been marked with a crude smear of white chalk.
A warning. Sick inside, do not enter.
You tightened your grip on the mule’s reins.
One of the Gold Cloaks muttered under his breath. “Seven save us.”
The rider beside you said nothing, only kept his gaze forward, expression unreadable.
The smoke thickened again as you passed a small square where several makeshift bonfires burned brightly, fueled by flesh instead of kindling.
“Nowhere to bury ‘em,” one of the Gold Cloaks said when he noticed you watching.
Behind you, another cart rattled slowly over the stones, heading toward the square with the fires. You did not turn to look this time, afraid of what or who you may see it carrying.
Even without ever having seen the city before, you could feel it. A place this large should have been chaotic with energy. Instead, the streets felt strained.
As if the entire population were holding its breath.
The road began to climb again as you approached the hill where the Red Keep stood.
The castle rose high above the city, its massive red walls glowing faintly in the late afternoon sun. From below, it looked less like a home and more like a fortress watching over the sprawling chaos beneath it. The closer you came, the quieter the streets became. The poorest districts gave way to wider roads lined with sturdier stone buildings. Fewer people lingered outside.
More guards appeared.
The mule’s hooves rang loudly against the cobblestones as you crossed the final bridge leading toward the castle gates.
Then the buildings parted dramatically, dropping away to nothing.
The Red Keep stood before you.
You had heard the name all your life—spoken with awe by travellers who had glimpsed it from the harbour or the city below.
But hearing of it was not the same as seeing it.
The fortress rose in layers of deep red stone, vast and uneven, its towers climbing into the dimming sky like jagged teeth. The walls were higher than anything you had ever seen, their surfaces worn smooth in places by centuries of wind from the sea. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon hung from the battlements. Even in the fading light, the scarlet dragons seemed to coil and twist as the cloth stirred slowly in the evening breeze.
The gates were large and heavily guarded.
Armoured men stood on either side of the entrance beneath the towering archway, their polished breastplates catching the last pale light of the sinking sun. Spears rested upright in their hands, and their eyes followed every movement in the yard beyond.
Unlike the guards at the city gate, these men did not wear cloth across their faces. Perhaps the sickness had not reached the castle, or perhaps they believed the stone walls protected them.
One of the guards stepped forward as your small group approached. “State your business.”
The rider lifted the dragon-marked token once more. “Royal summons. The healer requested by Prince Valarr.”
The guard stepped aside, with a small bow of his head. “Go on.”
The gates of the Red Keep swallowed you. Inside, the courtyard opened wide beneath the darkening sky.
For a moment, you forgot the sickness in the city below.
The yard bustled with movement. Stable boys hurried across the packed earth, leading restless horses toward the stables. A group of servants crossed the courtyard carrying heavy baskets between them. Somewhere near the far wall, a hammer struck metal in sharp, ringing blows. The noise felt strange after the hollow streets outside. Yet even here something felt… strained. The movements were too quick. Voices were too quiet. No one lingered to talk. Everyone seemed to be hurrying somewhere.
Your mule slowed uncertainly as you rode into the yard, ears flicking at the unfamiliar sounds.
Two servants passed carrying armfuls of fresh linens stacked so high you could barely see their faces. Another man hurried past with a wooden crate filled with glass bottles that clinked softly together as he walked. A pair of maesters crossed the courtyard near the far tower, their grey robes billowing slightly in the wind. One of them spoke quickly to the other, gesturing with a scroll clutched in his hand.
You caught the faint smell of herbs drifting across the yard.
Sage, Mint, something sharper you did not recognise.
The rider dismounted beside you at last. “Come.”
A stable boy hurried forward to take the horses. He reached for the mule’s reins cautiously, eyeing the sturdy animal with open curiosity.
You slid down easily from the saddle. After hours on the road, the ground felt strangely unsteady beneath your feet. But you could not afford to dally and quickly pulled the saddle bags from your mule, herbs you had brought from home poked out of them.
The rider handed the boy the reins without ceremony. “See, they’re watered.”
“Yes, ser.” The boy nodded quickly and led both animals away, casting another glance back at the mule as though surprised anyone had ridden such a creature into the Red Keep.
You followed the rider toward a broad doorway set into the castle wall. The doors stood open, revealing a dim stone corridor beyond.
The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.
Cooler, still.
Your footsteps echoed faintly along the floor.
Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their flames flickering gently in the draft from the open doorway behind you. The light threw shifting shadows across the vaulted ceiling above.
Servants passed through the corridor now and then, most of them carrying trays, cloths, or small bundles of herbs.
One girl hurried past with an armful of lavender tied in thick bunches. The scent followed her down the hall. Another servant carried a basin of steaming water that smelled faintly of vinegar. You glanced at it instinctively, following her form as she hurried away.
The rider continued without slowing, guiding you deeper into the keep. The corridors twisted and branched in confusing directions, passing beneath narrow archways and along staircases that climbed steeply toward unseen towers. The stone walls seemed to close in around you the further you went.
You realised quickly that you would never find your way through this place alone.
At one turning, a pair of maesters stood arguing quietly beside a table stacked with glass jars. “…the fever worsens after the second day,” one of them said.
“And the coughing?” the other replied, but they fell silent as you passed, watching you with harsh gazes.
The rider did not pause, striding with determination.
The castle felt larger the deeper you went. Passageways branched into more passageways. Stairwells spiralled upward or vanished downward into shadow. The air carried the scent of herbs everywhere now: mint, Rosemary, Something bitter, something spicy.
At last, the rider slowed before a tall wooden door set between two narrow windows. Two guards stood there, instead of the black and red of House Targaryen, they wore pearly white armour that almost glowed against their surroundings; they were members of the Kingsguard.
They straightened as you approached, and you felt small under their gaze; you could practically feel the sweep they did of you, assessing for danger, perhaps even signs of illness.
The rider muttered something to one of them, and he nodded, gesturing to the door briefly. The raider didnt hesitate and knocked once. It rang out against the thick wood, echoing around the corridor they stood in.
A voice came from within that made your skin prickle with anxiety. The king's guard didnt just guard any old rooms for fun, only when a royal lay inside. With a click, the rider pushed the massive door open and stepped inside curtly.
“The healer, your grace”, he announced with a bow.
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𖧷 summary: your lord father brings you to king’s landing for the young dragon prince’s nameday celebration, in hopes of finding yourself a suitable match.
𖧷 pairing: valarr targaryen x fem!reader
𖧷 word count: 13.6k (sincere apologies)
𖧷 content/warnings: canon-divergent, ocs included. she/her pronouns. no y/n used. no specific physical descriptions. shy/reserved!reader. reader is from a lesser noble house. lots of insecurities. fluff. mutual pining. strangers-to-friends-to-lovers.
The wheelhouse had been your father’s idea of comfort.
Cushioned seats, curtained windows. Your house’s sigil pressed into the wood of the door in pale pink and soft green.
You had spent the first two days of the journey with a book open on your lap, pretending to read while the wheels hit every stone and branch on the ground. By the third day, you had given up pretending and simply watched the curtains sway.
The Lord Aldric Sweetbriar sat across from you with his ledger, making small notes with his careful hand. He had barely looked up since you had finally crossed the Crownlands.
You did not interrupt him, you were good at that. It was one of the few things you were genuinely praised for, yet it was depressing.
Outside, the land had changed. You had noticed it gradually, the way you noticed most things; quietly and too late to say anything about it to anyone.
The usual green of the Reach; soft, fragrant, and familiar, had changed into something harder and less forgiving. The air that crept in through the tiny gaps of the curtain was different too. Heavier. It sat in your lungs differently than that of the cool, dewy mornings of Sweetfield; your home, where the mist made the village smell like wet earth and lavender.
Underneath your sleeve, you pressed your fingers to your wrist without thinking. Faintly damp. It has been since yesterday, and it is not entirely because of the heat.
The wheelhouse slowed.
You heard it before you felt it. The driver’s call, the change in the horses’ rhythm. The curtain swayed in the breeze, and you caught a glimpse through the gap.
People. More people than you had ever seen gathered in one place in your entire life. Moving in every direction with the chaos the city had always known in its entire existence.
Letting the curtain fall back into place, your fingers found your wrist again.
Wallflower, you heard your sister Rowan’s voice in the back of your head, insufferable yet full of warmth. You are absolutely going to hate it there.
“We are nearly at the gates,” Your father closed his ledger, then looked at you properly for the first time in hours. His eyes moved over your face, steadily assessing.
“How are you finding the journey?" It was not quite a question, it rarely was with him.
“Well enough,” you said softly. Though it was not much of a response, your father always accepted and understood. Understood that you were nervous in the way you were your whole life. The one where you learned from a very young age to keep away and not let it show on the outside.
Your Lord father nodded. “You will find your footing, daughter.”
You thought back to Briarkeep, in Sweetfield. The way the roses climbed the pale grey stone in the mornings. The way your youngest brother, Celyn always smelled faintly of whatever dirt he had been digging in. You said nothing.
The gates came. The noise swelled around the wheelhouse like water rising, and you sat still, letting yourself drown in it. You could hear horses and vendors, their voices layered together. It was nothing like you had ever known. Not even during the busiest mornings of the village square in Sweetfield, where you can still hear the brook.
The air was nothing like the Reach. It was thick and carried everything with it. Smoke, animals, too many people living too close in vicinity. It was not entirely unpleasant, but entirely overwhelming.
You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. The last of Lord Aldric’s daughters, the one that came after Rowan. Before her, was Edwyn and Elara. Growing up in the shadows of your older siblings, you spent your entire life finding your way in the space they had long already filled.
As Aldric’s heir, Edwyn had the house. Elara had her good match. Rowan had also found hers.
You had the garden. You had your books. You had Celyn’s tiny hand in yours on the mornings he climbed into your bed before Briarkeep woke.
Now, you had this. Trying to remember how to breathe in air that felt nothing like home.
“They call it the city of a thousand smells,” you said, mostly to yourself.
Your father glanced at you, the corner of his mouth slightly moving. “Who calls it that?”
“A book.”
“Which book?”
“I fear I do not remember.” You did remember. You remembered exactly which particular shelf of Briarkeep’s modest library it was in, how old you had been when you read it, the fact you had read everything on that shelf twice. Though, you thought of it as irrelevant, that nobody had ever thought to ask.
Aldric let out a sound of amusement, before looking out the curtain. “It is not wrong,” he responded.
As the wheelhouse continued to roll on, you thought about what your father wanted from this trip. The thought that sat in your chest the same way it did for weeks.
Lord Aldric had built his life with precision; good trade, good matches, good reputation. Every piece was placed deliberately and well.
Edwyn had married into another steady house from the Reach, his lady wife already with child. Same with Elara. With Rowan, nearly so.
Now, the last daughter, the quiet wallflower of Briarkeep, was being brought to King’s Landing like the final entry in his careful plan.
A connection beyond the Reach, he had told you over supper.
You had considered them. You laid awake in bed considering them. A Lannister would want gold and a name that rang across the Seven Kingdoms, you had neither. A Baratheon would want strength and storms, a lady who could stand tall in a great hall full of warriors, you were the girl that stood at the edge of them.
You had even thought, just once, in a weak moment you were not proud of, about what it would mean to carry a name like Targaryen. Full of dragonfire, to carry a babe with blood closer to the gods than that of humans.
You dismissed the thought immediately. You were only the youngest daughter of a house so minor that half the lords of the Reach would need a moment to think about it. Your house grew herbs, you pressed flowers and read books nobody asked you to read. When you did talk, it was mostly to a boy of six, with innocent eyes that matched her mother’s.
What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?
The wheelhouse rolled to a stop.
Around them, the noise of the city had not quieted but changed. Sounds of boots on cobblestone, distant clangs of armor, and low murmurs.
Your father had descended first, offering you his hand. You took it and stepped down onto King’s Landing for the first time.
The heat was immediate. You felt it on your skin, through the fabric of your dress, resisting the urge to press your cool fingers to your cheeks.
You stood beside your father, and looked up at the Red Keep for the first time. It was enormous. You had read the histories, the accounts of different visitors across generations. None of it had prepared you for the sensation of standing at its feet, at its mercy as the youngest daughter of a lesser house from the quietest corner of the Reach.
Lord Aldric placed a brief hand at your back. It was steady and grounding. The faint smell of his own fragrance made from herbs and oils only found in Sweetfield. It only did so much to comfort you, a reminder of how far you are from home.
Beckoning you forward, you took your first step and followed your Lord father.
Wallflower, you still heard Rowan’s voice. You hushed her in your thoughts.
The morning had already started before he was ready for it, which was becoming a habit he utterly resented.
Valarr stood at the window of his chambers while his squire worked at the laces of his doublet behind him, looking out at the courtyard below. Preparations had been underway long before dawn.
Tables being carried. The ebony and red banners being straightened. Servants moving about. There was an urgency that filled the air, that everything needed to be perfect. Perfect for a nameday celebration in the Red Keep.
His nameday.
To him, it did not feel like a celebration. It felt like a deadline.
“Too tight,” he said, without turning.
His squire murmured a soft apology and adjusted. The young prince said nothing.
Watching banners being rehung for a third time, his mind went back to the private conversation he had with his father two evenings ago. The one he had been dreading, but was inevitable.
You are not a boy anymore, Prince Baelor had said. A man of your age, your name, your station. The time has come to think seriously about what comes next.
What comes next? As though it were a simple thing. As though it was not the question that sat in the center of everything now.
The heir of the heir. Second in line to the Iron Throne.
He needed to look for a bride. A future queen of the Realm, to rule by his side when the time comes. He was definitely not ready.
His squire finished with the laces and moved to grab his cloak. Valarr finally turned away from the window, catching his own reflection in the polished mirror across the chamber.
He thought he looked exactly like someone who was about to spend the entire week being presented to the daughters of every noble house with enough ambition to secure an invitation. He was not particularly happy about it.
Valarr was far from ungrateful. From a very young age, he fully understood the weight of his name and position, and what it required. However, understanding and being at peace with it was not always the same.
A future queen. Someone whose name would sit beside his in the history books, a face he did not yet know. Someone who was somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms right now, perhaps dressing for the festivities, or perhaps already within these walls.
He wondered, briefly, what was she thinking about at this moment.
“Your Grace,” His squire stepped back. “You are ready.”
Valarr looked at himself in the mirror once more. The black doublet he wore was accented by deep burgundy, the three-headed dragon forged in steel at the breast. His dark hair was done more neatly than usual, his silver streak proudly showing.
He thought about the day ahead. The incoming introductions and careful conversations. The noble ladies that would be presented. The Lord fathers who would be watching. All enshrouded by the grand performance of a nameday celebration.
The young dragon prince straightened.
You had read about the Great Hall of the Red Keep.
It was so grand and vast in a way that made you feel your own insignificance, that you were only one person. To be standing in a room that bore witness to power and greatness.
Aldric stood beside you, feeling the complete opposite. That was the thing about your father that you never quite managed to inherit. He could walk into any room, and find his footing within moments, even as a lesser lord that merely dealt with herb trades.
By no means was he arrogant. He was simply a man that held a particular steadiness within himself, a man who knew exactly who he was.
Your father took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and became Lord Aldric Sweetbriar, a man whose house you might not immediately recognize but whose bearing you would not miss.
You secretly envied him for it.
“Come, daughter,” he said, and beckoned you forward into the noise. You only followed because it was you had to.
The hall was already full and continued to get fuller.
You stayed close to your father’s side and tried to do what you always did on occasions like these: observe, rather than participate. It was a strategy that proved to be quite successful at small gatherings in the Reach.
There were lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, some clustered together like in a map. Lannisters in their signature red and lustrous gold. Baratheons standing broad shouldered and loud across the hall, already nursing goblets of wine.
The familiar Tyrells gathered near the center of the hall, as they always did. Orbiting them were other lords from the Reach that you recognized by sigil.
Despite being the quietest in the hall, the northern lords were easy to spot. They held their demeanor so differently than those of the south, standing watchfully. You noticed that they had not yet decided to take their thick furs and cloaks off yet, even in the humid air of King’s Landing.
You recognized that particular stillness. Those who were more accustomed to silence rather than southern spectacle. Embarrassingly, you felt an unexpected affinity towards them. Perhaps you could do well in the North.
You continued observing the room, and kept your hands still like Elara had taught you.
Your father was already in conversation with a lord from the Crownlands, warm and genuinely interested. He introduced you briefly, and you smiled. Then you stepped back and let him continue, slightly behind his shoulder like a shadow.
Then you became aware of the women perhaps about an hour in. A group of highborn ladies near the far end of the hall, the kind of women who had been raised in grand castles rather than being merely invited to them.
“Is that a Sweetbriar sigil?”
The voice was not quiet, it was not meant to be. It held the character of someone who had grown up in rooms where their voice was always worth hearing. Then, light laughter. Dismissive and entirely certain of itself.
“The Red Keep allows herb merchants now, apparently.”
You kept your eyes forward, and face entirely still, with practiced grace. Instinctively, you pressed your fingers against your wrist once again. Thinking back to the brook behind Sweetfield, and Celyn’s soft giggles, you pretended to not hear their discussions.
“My dear.”
The voice came from your left. It was warm and unhurried. You turned.
Lady Ellinor Tyrell was not a young girl but a striking woman, the kind of lady that was naturally placed at the center of any space she occupied. You remembered Edwyn’s silly infatuation about her when you were younger, filling your ears with detailed descriptions of her beauty and grace.
“Lady Tyrell,” You greeted, bowing your head slightly before curtsying.
She looked at you with genuine warmth and slight amusement, like she had heard exactly what had been said earlier. Seeing your father deeper in conversation with the other lords, she gently took both your hands in hers.
“I had thought that was you,” her eyes moved over your face with fondness. “You have grown since I last saw you at Highgarden.”
“I was the age of four and ten, my lady,” your voice came out steadier than you felt. “My father had brought us for the harvest feast.”
“Aye, that is right,” the corners of her eyes creased warmly. “I remember that you spent the whole of the afternoon in the gardens, and nobody could find you for supper. The head gardener spoke of you afterward, and said that you knew more of the medicinal properties of half his plants than most of his staff combined.”
Something in your chest had loosened. “He was far too kind to say so, my lady.”
“He was truthful to say so.” Lady Tyrell then tucked your hand gently through her arm, turning you both away from your busy father.
“How does your Lord father fare? Your siblings? All is well?”
“Yes, my lady. Well enough. My youngest brother Celyn has only just turned seven.”
“The little one,” she said softly. “Seven already. The years do not slow for any of us.”
Gently drawing you forward, she says, “Come, there are some among our company who will be glad of your acquaintance.”
“Lord Fossoway has been asking for your father’s rosemary oil for the better part of the year, and has not had the good sense to simply send a raven to Briarkeep.”
A breath of a laugh escaped you, before you could stop it. Lady Ellinor’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
“There,” she said quietly, only for you to hear. “That is better.”
She then led you gradually toward the gathered group of Tyrells and other houses from the Reach. She always kept you included in the discussions, without making it feel like a charity. The Reach lords and ladies received you with easy warmth and familiarity. You were one of theirs, after all, no matter how small your house is.
Your father caught your eye from across a group of Crownlands lords, giving you a small nod. Well done, hold steady. You heard his voice in your head, before straightening your own posture.
For a fleeting moment, you were not the wallflower of Briarkeep.
Only for a moment.
The hush came without warning.
One moment the great hall was full of noise; voices, laughter, and the clink of goblets across the gathered nobility. Then, it stopped. Not all once, but in a wave.
You felt it reach you before you understood what it meant.
Every head turned toward the doors. Yours did too.
“His Grace, King Daeron the Good of House Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”
The herald’s voice carried through the great hall, ringing through the stone walls.
“His Grace, Baelor of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”
The rustle of fabric, and soft footsteps rippled around you. Lady Ellinor inclined her head with graceful precision. You lowered yourself into a curtsy beside her, eyes fixed on the cold stone floor.
“His Grace, Valarr of House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, on the occasion of his nameday.”
You heard footsteps, slow and measured. Moving through the parted crowd. The whisper of fine fabric. The soft clink of ceremonial armor.
After Prince Matarys, the family of Prince Maekar followed, filling the hall with the full weight of Targaryen blood gathered in one space. You kept your eyes down and your curtsy steady, listening to each name.
Then the herald fell silent. A beat of silence.
Then King Daeron’s voice, older and gentler than you had expected, carried throughout the hall.
“Rise.”
You rose with everyone, before finally taking a look at the royal family for the first and probably only time.
Impossible to miss, you saw the king first. White haired and measured, wearing the crown of his father, Aegon the Unworthy. Beside him stood Prince Baelor. The grey at his temples did nothing to diminish him. If anything, it had only refined what was already there.
When the older prince shifted, your eyes found the one beside him without meaning to.
Prince Valarr Targaryen.
You had heard about him from others’ accounts. The descriptions had been accurate enough, dark brown hair with a silver streak that showed his Valyrian ancestry. Somehow, it still failed to prepare you for the reality of him standing in the same room as you.
He looked on to the hall of people celebrating his nameday, with an expression you could not quite name from a distance.
He did not look unhappy. Nor entirely at ease.
Perhaps a combination of the two.
He did not look your way once. Why would he? There were higher born lords and ladies filling every inch of the hall, daughters of great and wealthy houses positioned carefully within his line of sight.
Prince Valarr stood with his shoulders straight, his face composed, and his eyes moving steadily across the room without once landing on the unremarkable youngest daughter of a lesser Reach house, standing quietly at Lady Tyrell’s side.
You told yourself you were relieved. Mostly.
“He is more handsome than the accounts would suggest, is he not?” Lady Ellinor’s voice came softly at your shoulder, with quiet amusement. You became suddenly aware that you had been staring.
Heat crept up the back of your neck.
“I fear I would not know, my lady,” you said, gathering whatever composure you had left. “I have not read many accounts.”
“No,” Lady Ellinor said, with a sound that was not quite a laugh. “I do not suppose you have.”
You kept your eyes carefully forward, your stomach filling with a slight discomfort; like you had been caught doing something you were not supposed to.
The celebration resumed itself around the royal family’s presence, noise swelling back into the great hall with ease. Lords and ladies continued to move about. Goblets were refilled. Musicians finding their place once again.
It was a nameday celebration. You reminded yourself of that.
Across the hall, you watched as the young prince was received by the first group of lords. You could not hear the words being exchanged from this distance. You did not need to. The men’s postures. The practiced smiles. Their daughters positioned themselves deliberately at their Lord fathers’ sides, lovely and composed. Like they had prepared their entire life for this moment.
Prince Valarr received them graciously. He was patient. Yet, there was something behind his eyes, even at this distance. You recognized it the same way you did for the northern lords.
A person resuming their duties, while something continues to weigh heavy on their mind.
You understood that feeling rather well.
Having detached himself from the Crownlands lords, your father appeared at your side. Lady Ellinor had since separated from you, being pulled away by her own family.
“The royal family,” he observed, in the quiet tone he always used when he took note of something.
“Aye,” you said. “So it is, my lord.”
Aldric was quiet for a moment, surveying the hall with patient yet ambitious eyes. The eyes of a man who had come to King’s Landing with a purpose, and intended to see it through.
“I spoke with Lord Brightwater this evening. A Crownlands house, good standing.” He paused. “He has a son. Second-born. Near your age, from what I understand.”
You looked at your father.
He was not looking at you. He was watching the hall with the same steady expression.
“He seemed a reasonable man,” Lord Aldric continued. “His house is respectable. Not large, but steady.”
You understood what he was not saying. You had always been good at reading between the lines of what he said.
Do not look toward the prince, my sweet daughter. We are not here for that, and you know it as well as I do.
He did not say any of it. He did not need to. Because he was kind-hearted enough to not speak of it plainly to you.
“I see,” you said softly.
“I thought it worth mentioning,” Your father said gently.
You looked back at the group of lords and ladies, with the young prince at the center of them all. The prince who had not looked your way once and would likely not think to.
You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.
“Yes,” you said. “Worth mentioning.”
The great hall had received him exactly as he expected it to. A prince of the great dragon house. The heir of the heir.
Valarr moved through the first hour with the careful patience his father had taught him his entire life. Lord after lord. Name after name. Exchanging conversations and pleasantries that always had hidden meanings and agendas underneath them.
Instead of enjoying the feast, he knew his real duty. Matarys drifted past him at some point, with the satisfied and relaxed expression of a youngest son enjoying himself without the weight of obligation on his shoulders.
“How fares my big brother?” His younger brother said, falling into place beside him for a moment with a goblet in hand.
“Well enough,” Valarr said.
The even younger prince looked at him sideways. “You have spoken to four lords in the past hour, and smiled at all of them in exactly the same way.”
“That is called courtesy, dear brother.”
“That is called exhaustion,” Matarys took a long sip. “The Lannister lord has had his eyes on you for the past quarter hour. He has his daughter with him. The one in gold.”
“I am aware.”
“Her beauty is quite astounding.”
“I am also aware of that.”
“But?”
Valarr said nothing. Matarys seemed to understand. He did not push. He simply downed the remaining wine in his goblet, and patted his older brother on the shoulder. He then drifted away into the crowd, like he still had all the freedom and time in his hands.
Valarr watched him go with a combination of envy and affection in his chest.
Making sure to keep his face composed, he let out a subtle sigh before turning back to receive the Lannister lord.
Baelor caught his eye from across the hall. A look that said nothing, yet everything. Valarr gave him the smallest nod in return.
He had lost count of how many conversations he has had. This time, it was a lord from the Stormlands. Broad and direct in the manner of his region. It felt refreshing to him, especially after the Lannister lord that seemed to only speak in glamorous riddles.
Until something in his periphery caught his attention without quite announcing itself.
Near the group of Tyrells and Reach lords. A girl at Lady Ellinor Tyrell’s side, standing with the quiet grace of someone who had been observing everything. There was nothing loud about her. Nothing deliberate. She was simply there. Her stillness was different from the other ladies he had observed this evening.
The highborn daughters were still in the same way an archer’s drawn bow was; calculated and waiting.
She was still in the way a person is when they were genuinely content to observe. She stood still, feeling like no one was watching her.
Valarr did not know why his eyes stayed on her for half a second longer than they should have. There was no obvious reason for it. She was not positioned to be noticed. Her sigil, at a distance, he could not place it. A small rose on green, it must be a lesser house he was not familiar with.
Then the Stormlands lord had said something that required his attention. The prince teared his eyes away from her.
She had not crossed his mind again. Not deliberately.
Though once, near the end of the evening, when the feast had concluded and the lords were beginning to retire to their chambers, Valarr’s eyes moved one more time toward the place the Reach group had been.
She was gone. With her father most likely. Off to retire to whatever chamber had been arranged for them.
There was no reason to notice the absence of someone whose presence he had barely registered.
He noticed it anyway. Briefly.
Then, Matarys appeared at his side to announce that the evening was finally over. Valarr let himself be steered toward the corridor, and put the evening behind him.
He tried to.
Valarr had not slept particularly well.
This was not unusual following the first night of a week-long celebration. There was always a particular kind of restlessness that came after hours of practiced performance.
He dressed unceremoniously, sending his squire away earlier than usual. He stood at the window, watching as the Red Keep woke up in the pale morning light. He stood still until a knock came.
It was not his squire. He knew his squire’s knock.
“Enter,” Valarr said.
Surprisingly, it was his father. He looked like a man who had been awake for several hours and had already put them to good use.
“Come,” Baelor said. “Walk with me.”
Entering his study, Baelor settled into a chair near the hearth. He gestured for Valarr to do the same.
He looked at his son with attention that made Valarr feel seen and measured his entire life, never unkindly. He let the silence sit, comfortable and undemanding.
Until he said at last, “Well.” The single word doing the work of a much longer question.
Valarr took a few moments to think.
“It was the first evening,” he said. “The Lannister lord presented his daughter. A Baratheon cousin. Several other ladies from the Reach.”
“And your thoughts?”
“Gracious. Well prepared. All of them exactly what they were meant to be. Or taught to be.” He paused. “The Lady Lannister especially. I could not find a fault with her if I tried.”
Baelor tilted his head forward slightly. This was his son.
“But?”
Valarr sighed softly, “But I kept looking for the person underneath the preparation and could not find her.” He said plainly, knowing his own father was the one person he could be plain with. “Perhaps she was there. Perhaps I did not look long or well enough.”
Baelor nodded slowly. He did not push. He never did.
After a moment, “There was a sigil I did not recognize. Near the Tyrells, perhaps from the Reach. A pale rose on green.” Valarr said it as casually as he could.
“A lesser house, I think. I could not place the name.”
His father looked at him with an expression that was entirely neutral, yet somehow still managing to be amused.
“Sweetbriar,” Baelor said, without hesitation. He remembered everything. “House Sweetbriar of Briarkeep. A minor house of the Reach. Loyal to the Tyrells for generations. Their trade is in herbs and botanical oils.” A brief pause. “Lord Aldric’s youngest daughter.”
Valarr absorbed all this information with a nod that he deliberately kept measured.
His father’s eyes did not leave his face. “Is she the one who has caught your eye?”
“No,” Valarr said, perhaps a bit too promptly. “I was only wondering, father.”
“Mm.” Baelor said nothing further on the subject. Valarr thought it was considerably worse than if he had said something.
“Only a few days remain,” he said at last. “The young lords and ladies your age are gathering in the gardens this morning. It would do you well to go among them. Not just as a prince looking for a bride.”
He held Valarr’s gaze steadily. “Simply as a person among people.”
Valarr exhaled slowly through his nose as he pulled the study’s door closed behind him.
The corridor was quiet. He stood for a moment with his hand still on the door, thinking about how he wished not to go to the gardens before accepting that he had to go regardless.
He turned away from the door.
“Your Grace.”
Valarr stopped.
The Lady Lannister was standing in the same corridor outside his father’s study, dressed in a gown of morning sunlight. She was as composed and lovely as she had been the previous evening. Donning the same practiced smile.
“My lady,” he said. “Good morrow.”
“And to you, Your Grace.” She gently stepped beside him, with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to handle something when given an opening. “I had heard the young lords and ladies are to gather in the gardens this morning. Might I have the honor of accompanying you, my prince?”
There was no graceful way to say no. There was no reason to say no.
“Of course, my lady,” he said.
The gardens of the Red Keep were at their best in the morning, before the heat of the day settled fully into the air. They were already gathered by the time Valarr arrived.
Groups of lords and ladies dispersed among the paths and flowerbeds, the casual mingling of people who were all here for the same unspoken reason, pretending to simply enjoy the morning air.
The Lady Lannister walked beside him and spoke beautifully of the gardens and the weather, how it reminded her of her home at Casterly Rock.
Valarr was certain that he was adequately present in the conversation; he thought of her as pleasant company.
With mild guilt in his chest, he just wished that he found her more interesting than he actually did.
He then steered her gently toward a certain group of highborn ladies. “The Lady Serrett is there,” he said. “I believe you are acquainted.”
She understood. He could see that she understood. She received it with perfect composure, dipping into a curtsy and a smile that flickered with subtle disappointment.
“Of course, Your Grace. I thank you for the company.”
“The pleasure was mine, my lady.”
After the group had received the Lady Lannister, he continued walking through the gardens, giving small nods and smiles of acknowledgement towards the other groups.
He looked along the paths. The rose arbor. The far end near the fountain where a group of younger lords had gathered.
He did not find what he was looking for.
He stopped.
What exactly was he looking for?
A pale rose on green.
Lord Aldric Sweetbriar’s youngest daughter whose name he still did not know. A girl he had no particular reason to be looking for in the gardens of the Red Keep.
Valarr was looking for her anyway.
He became aware of this with slight discomfort, a realization. He turned away from the gardens. He did not need to be there.
The young prince heads for the library.
The library of the Red Keep was not a place most guests sought out during a nameday celebration. It was tucked away in the quieter part of the castle. It smelled of old parchment and the settled dust of books that had been there for generations.
Valarr had been coming here since he was a young boy. It was the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expected him to be in.
He pushed the door open. Then stopped.
You turned a page. It was a simple gesture. Simple in the same way you breathed in air.
You had found the library by accident the previous evening, slipping away from the corridor while your father talked to yet another lord.
You have not even broken your fast yet, and you are still here. The morning light came in clean through the window beside you. You had your feet tucked underneath you on the chair, which Elara would have had something to say about, with a book open on your lap.
For the first time since leaving the Reach, you felt entirely comfortable.
Then, the door opened. You looked up.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you were on your feet with a speed that almost sent the book flying. You quickly closed it and held it tightly in your hands, before immediately dropping into a curtsy. Heat rose in the back of your neck and ears.
Seven hells. Of all the rooms in this enormous castle. Of all the people to walk through the door.
“Your Grace,” You managed, eyes fixed on the level of his boots. “Forgive me, I did not – I had not thought –” You stopped, trying to collect yourself. “I shall take my leave at once.”
“Please, do not.”
His voice was gentle. Not unkind. Not amused at your expense.
You cautiously looked up from his boots. He was looking at you with an expression you could not name. Not displeased. Curiosity?
“I did not come to drive you out, my lady,” he said. “Sit. Please.”
You sat, slowly pulling your book back to its earlier position. Trying not to look like a person who had not just been caught sitting with her feet tucked under her in the dragon prince’s library reading a book she had taken off his shelf without permission.
Prince Valarr settled into the chair across from you, a look of quiet curiosity on his face.
“May I ask what it is you are reading, my lady?” he asked.
You looked down at the cover. “A history of the Valyrian freehold, Your Grace.” You paused. “I do hope it was not – that is, I took it from the shelf without –”
“It is a library,” he said simply. “Books are meant to be read.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “What do you make of it so far?”
You blinked. The question was genuinely curious, it caught you off guard.
“It is –” You started, carefully thinking. The prince looked at you as though he actually wanted to know. “Considering the subject matter, whoever wrote it was far more interested in dates than in people. I keep finding myself wanting to argue with the written annotations.”
Something shifted in his expression. “I have written those annotations.”
You looked down at the book with sudden horror. Opening the book, you found a passage about the early dragonlords, a small annotation written neatly beside it.
This is not what the Maester Gyldayn wrote. See the Fires of the Freehold, Chapter Fourth.
You stared at it for a moment. Then helplessly, “You are correct that it is not, Your Grace. Maester Gyldayn contradicts this passage.”
Valarr looked at you more properly then. “You have read the works of Maester Gyldayn.”
“I have read most things, Your Grace,” you said, before catching yourself. It came out with more confidence than you had intended to present to a prince of the Seven Kingdoms in a library you had wandered into uninvited.
But, Prince Valarr did not seem to find it presumptuous. If anything, he found it the complete opposite.
“You are Lord Aldric’s daughter,” he said then. Not quite a question. “Of House Sweetbriar.”
You looked at him in shock. “You know of my house, Your Grace?”
“As a Prince of the Realm should,” he said simply. “It is my duty to know of the noble houses that swear their banners to the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Your house is from the Reach, loyal to the Tyrells since the beginning. Your trade is in herbs and oils.”
You stared at him. Not the careful practiced stare of a lady maintaining her composure in the presence of a prince. But a genuine, unguarded stare of someone that finally felt seen, and remembered.
“I–” You stopped. “Yes, that is correct, Your Grace.”
“You were not in the gardens this morning,” he said, before even thinking about it. His expression shifted slightly.
“No, Your Grace.” You kept your voice even. “I find I am better suited to libraries and books than gardens.” You paused, “which is perhaps strange, given that my house trade is botanical.”
“Not strange,” he said. “Honest.” The prince looked at you for a moment with the same quiet curiosity. “You were here yesterday evening as well.”
It was more of an observation than a question. You had not seen him outside the Great Hall the previous evening and yet he somehow knew.
“Yes, Your Grace,” you admitted. “I discovered it by accident. Forgive me, I hope that was not–”
“No need to apologize, my lady,” he said gently. “I have been coming here since I was a young boy. It is the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expects anything of me.” He said it so plainly. “I find that I am protective of it.”
“I understand, Your Grace.” You looked down, before shyly looking back up. “I have a corner of the garden at Briarkeep. Behind the lavender rows where they grow tallest. Nobody thinks to look for me there.”
The prince was quiet for a moment, looking at you with the same expression he had worn since he sat down. One you still could not name.
“You preferred this to the gardens this morning?” he said. “Even knowing the lords and ladies our age were gathering?”
“Your Grace,” you said carefully, “with all respect – I am merely the youngest daughter of a lesser noble house from the Reach. The lords and ladies in the gardens are not gathering for my benefit.”
Something shifted across his face. Not pity. Something more complicated and careful.
“And yet your Lord father has brought you here,” he said.
“My father,” you started, after a small pause, “he is an optimistic man. It is one of his finest qualities.” You looked down at the book briefly. “He has his eye on the second-born son of Lord Brightwater.”
“He is quite ambitious, yes. But he is realistic. That is why we are here, Your Grace.”
You said it steadily, because it was true and because you had made your peace with it, rather than thinking about the alternative. The thought you had long dismissed since before arriving at King’s Landing, that you had no business thinking about right now, sitting in the library with a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
Prince Valarr was quiet for a long moment.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” you said then, thinking the silence felt too dangerous to leave uninterrupted. “Do you not want to be in the gardens yourself? I understood that the morning was intended for–”
“For the search,” he said, with a grimace not directed at you. “Aye, it is.”
Valarr leaned back in his chair and looked at the shelves in the room, the morning light moving slowly across the long rows of books.
“My nameday celebration,” he said, “is not entirely a nameday celebration.”
“I know,” you said gently, looking down at your hands.
He looked at you.
“Everyone knows, Your Grace,” you said, with kind honesty. “The daughters who have been brought by their Lord fathers.” You paused. “It is plain enough to anyone paying attention.”
“And you pay attention, my lady,” he responded.
“I do little else,” you said, before thinking about it.
The prince almost smiled. It was close enough that you noticed it and looked away, back at the book in your hands.
“Have you made a decision yet, Your Grace?” you asked, in a quieter tone. Rowan would be slack-jawed if she were here. You were not sure where the sudden courage to ask came from. Perhaps it stopped feeling like a conversation between a crown prince and a lesser lord’s daughter. You could not name this feeling yet.
He was quiet for long enough that you thought you had overstepped.
“No,” he finally said. “I have not.”
You looked up at him.
“Does that surprise you, my lady?” he said.
“A little,” you admitted. “O-Only because you are who you are, Your Grace. Every great house in the realm would consider it an honor beyond measure. I had assumed the matter would be easily decided.”
“Easily decided,” he repeated quietly, more to himself. “Aye. It ought to be.”
“Every lady I have spoken with has been everything she was meant to be.” He looked at the open window, the sunlight getting brighter as the morning began to pass.
“Gracious and accomplished. With names that would sit well beside mine in history books. I have no reasonable objection to any of them.”
You waited patiently.
“And yet,” he continued. “I kept looking for the person underneath all of that.”
“Every exchange and conversation felt like a prepared performance. Every smile and gesture placed exactly where it was meant to be. I stood inside of all of it yet I felt–”
He paused. “Absent. As though it was happening to someone who looked like me while I watched from a distance.”
“I do not think they are false,” he said. “I think they have simply been prepared so thoroughly for this that there is no longer any distance between the preparation and the person. I keep struggling to find where one ended and the other began.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then the silence swelled even more.
Until, “My eldest sister Elara,” you started slowly, “was presented to her husband at a feast in the Reach when she was seven and ten. She spent a year beforehand learning everything about his house, his preferences, his family, the way he took his wine.” You paused. “She is also genuinely fond of him. Genuinely happy. The preparation and the person – they were the same.”
“I am not saying that it is not real,” you continued carefully. “Only that perhaps the preparation does not mean there is nothing underneath it. Perhaps it only means you have not yet been given the proper circumstances to find out.”
Prince Valarr was quiet for a moment. “And what circumstances would those be?”
You thought about it honestly. “Ones that do not feel like an audition,” you said plainly. “A room where nothing is required. Where there is nothing to perform for.”
He looked at you. “A room like this one,” he said, with an unreadable expression.
You suddenly became aware, the heat rushing back to your neck. “I did not mean–” You began.
“I know,” he said quietly, with the sincere intent of not making you feel foolish. “I know you did not.”
He looked at the book in your hands, the small annotations he wrote resting underneath your fingers.
“I do not know your name, my lady,” he started. “I know your house, your father, your trade. I know you have read Maester Gyldayn’s work, and disagree with this author’s treatment of dates.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “I do not know your name.”
You looked at him. At the prince sitting across from you in a library, who had not stayed in the gardens, who had come here instead, who was looking at you with something in his mismatched eyes –
You stopped. His eyes.
You had not been close enough the previous evening. One brown. One blue. Warm earth and still water.
You forgot, for just a moment, what he had asked you.
You told him your name.
Valarr said it once, quietly, as though he was testing the weight of it on his lips. You would sacrifice anything to the Seven to hear him say it once more.
A knock at the library door. Valarr’s expression shifted. Something concealing the openness that had been there a moment ago.
“Enter,” he said.
It was his squire, slightly out of breath. He had been looking for the prince for longer than he wanted to admit.
“Your Grace,” he bowed. “Your presence has been requested. Prince Baelor awaits you in the–”
“Aye,” Valarr rose, without hurry and hesitation.
You rose too, instinctively. He looked at you. For a moment he simply looked, in the same way he had been looking since he sat across from you.
“My lady,” he said. He was the young dragon prince again, not the person who had been sitting across from you, discussing Gyldayn’s work in the quiet of the morning.
“Your Grace,” you replied, dipping into a curtsy.
He held your gaze for just a moment longer than what was strictly necessary.
Then he turned and followed his squire out of the library. The door closed.
You stood beside your chair for a moment, the book still in your hands. Everything in the room felt like the prince had not even stepped foot in here. You sat down slowly.
You opened back to the same page you had been on before the door opened. Reading the same sentence three times.
Then you turned to the small annotations, your fingers gently brushing against the dried ink. His handwriting, small and neat.
This is not what Maester Gyldayn wrote.
You closed the book carefully. You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.
I do not know your name.
He knew it now.
You were not entirely sure what to do with any of what happened during the last hour.
Sitting in the library for a while longer, with the book closed in your lap, you did not read. Instead, you thought.
You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. Your father had his eye on Lord Brightwater’s second-born son. In five days, the prince’s nameday celebrations would conclude and you would return to Briarkeep. To the lavender rows and Celyn’s muddy hands.
In five days, the prince would have already chosen a lovely bride worthy of carrying the Targaryen name. Worthy to stand by his side as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Worthy to read small notes of affection in his neat handwriting. Worthy to get lost in those mismatched brown and blue eyes of his–
You shut the thought down before it could finish itself.
Setting the book on a small nearby table, you stood. Smoothing your skirts the way Elara had taught you.
You were here because your father is an optimistic man with a good eye for opportunity, and a second-born son of a Crownlands’ lord who was by all accounts reasonable and steady.
You were not here for mismatched eyes and written annotations.
You picked up the book once again, before putting it back on the shelf you had found it in.
Then you left the library and went to find your Lord father.
You thought about almost nothing else. Almost.
The great hall was somehow louder on the second evening than the first, which you had not thought possible.
You sat with your father among the Reach lords, several tables removed from the royal family, which was exactly where a house like yours belonged. You kept your hands folded in your lap, and did what you usually did: observe.
Your father was already in conversation with the lord beside him. You let the noise drown you and tried not to think about the library.
You were not succeeding particularly well in that regard.
Until, it happened so suddenly. You were looking at nothing in particular. The lit torches, the three-headed dragon on one of the banners, the other guests between you, a pair of mismatched eyes already looking back.
Your breath caught.
You looked away immediately. Back to your hands, to the untouched goblet of wine in front of you, to your father’s profile as he continued to speak to the lord next to him.
Your neck felt warm.
You did not look back.
Across the hall, Prince Valarr looked away a moment after you did. Just a moment.
Matarys, beside him, said nothing. But he noticed.
The feast continued. The torches began to burn lower. You kept your eyes where you belonged.
You did not look back. Almost.
Lord Aldric Sweetbriar was always gentle about things. Especially to his youngest daughter. Somehow, it made it more difficult to argue with him than if he simply raised his voice.
He had knocked on your chamber door before breakfast, ledger already closed under his arm.
“You will go to the gardens this morning,” he said. “With the other ladies.”
“My Lord father–”
“You will go,” he said again. Same tone. Same eyes. “We are here for a purpose, daughter. Your purpose is not the library.”
You had gone to the gardens.
You found the quietest corner you could, which was unfortunately not very quiet. You sat on a bench, a slight distance from the gathered lords and ladies, a book tucked under your arm like a shield.
The gardens were beautiful, with the flora being more well kept than those at Briarkeep, which was saying something.
The gathered group’s energy has shifted, as though someone significant had arrived. You looked up.
He had come alone, which surprised you. No squire at his shoulder, not even Matarys. Just the young prince, stepping into the gardens with ease.
He saw you before the group saw him.
For half a second. In that half second, his gaze found the quiet corner you sat in. His expression shifted the same way it did at the library.
Then the crowd turned, the lords and ladies straightening around his presence.
He moved toward you. Not enough to be obvious, just a slight shift in direction. A small step, the beginning of an intention.
Highborn ladies appeared on both sides, along with a young Westerlands lord that extended a hand to him in greeting. The group closed around him.
There was no gracious way to refuse. He went with them. Of course, he did.
Valarr glanced back once subtly. You had already looked back down at your book.
You read the same page four times.
After midday, your father had formally introduced you to Lord Brightwater’s son in the gardens, with the quiet satisfaction of a man ticking something off a carefully planned list.
His name was Lucian. He was tall, brown haired, and well-mannered. He smiled at you, and it felt genuine.
“My Lord father tells me you are a great reader,” he said, walking beside you on one of the garden paths.
“He flatters me,” you said. “I simply have few other hobbies, my lord.”
“I find the same is said of me.” He glanced at you sideways, “What do you like to read, my lady?”
You gave him a real answer, and he listened and responded thoughtfully. It was a pleasant conversation.
He was everything your father had said. Steady, kind, and genuine.
Yet, you waited for something underneath it.
You were still waiting when the walk concluded, your fathers gently separating you both. Lord Aldric looked quite satisfied.
Across the gardens, the young prince watched you walk with the young Brightwater lord.
He then returned his attention to the lord beside him, responding back to his question.
He did not look back across the garden path. He did look back just once.
Matarys, who was a few steps behind him, looked between his older brother and the distant figures of you and Lucian Brightwater.
He said nothing. Not yet.
On the fourth day, you had borrowed yet another book. This one was thinner than the last, a collection of botanical records from the early Andal settlements. It seemed it was forgotten, wedged in between two heavier books in one of the shelves at the library.
It seemed that there was no gathering today. Your chest fluttered, your steps lighter than usual as you approached the empty gardens.
The sunlight came in low and golden through the hedges, and the air was cooler than usual. It was enough to faintly remind you of home.
You sat down on a bench near the far end of the path, opening your book. Given the circumstances, this was one of the rare times you felt entirely content.
Then, footsteps on the stone path, gradually getting closer.
You had recognized them before you looked. You somehow learned the particular rhythm of his walk, without even meaning to.
Valarr sat down at the other end of the bench without asking, which would have been presumptuous from anyone else. From him, it simply was not.
He looked at the gardens for a moment, thinking about what to say.
“Another one,” he said, nodding at the book.
“Botanical records from the early Andal settlements,” you said. “I found it wedged between two considerably large volumes. It looked forgotten and lonely.”
“And do you have opinions about it, my lady?”
“I have opinions about everything,” you spoke plainly. “I simply do not often say them aloud.”
He turned to look at you. “You say them to me.”
You did not know how to answer. Deciding to look down at the page, you both knew it was already an answer in itself.
The silence had settled between you and the prince. It was comfortable; neither of you felt the need to fill it.
Until, “You have siblings, my lady?”
“Four, Your Grace,” you said. “Edwyn is the eldest and the heir of Briarkeep. My father has taught him well, he will be a good lord.”
“Then Elara. She taught me everything I know about being a proper lady; keeping my hands still and not saying the first thing that comes into my head.”
You looked down at your fingers inching toward your wrist. “For which, I am quite successful.”
“And the third.”
Something warmer moved through your voice. “Rowan,” you looked at a hedge across the path. “Rowan is the kind of girl that fills a room without knowing it. She is bright, yet restless, incapable of keeping her thoughts to herself if there is anyone nearby to hear it.”
Your fingers brushed against the illustrations on the page. “She is the one who started calling me Wallflower.”
Valarr stayed quiet, yet attentive. He was listening completely.
“It was not meant unkindly,” you said. You knew it never had been and you had always known it even when it brought you unease. “Rowan thought it was funny at first. Then it was simply the truth. I had become the name whether I wanted it or not.”
The corner of your mouth moved. “She always meant it affectionately. But, she was also completely certain that she was right.”
“Was she right?” he asked.
You considered it honestly. “Mostly,” you admitted. “I stand on the sidelines. I observe rather than participate. I am not fond of large rooms full of people I do not know.” You paused. “It still brings me unease when she says it. Which probably means it is true.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, “You said four.”
You looked at him.
“Edwyn, Elara, Rowan,” he said. “That is three.”
You stared at him. Valarr had been paying the same quality of attention to you that you paid to everything else. The realization sat in your chest with a feeling you could not name.
“Celyn,” you responded. “He is the youngest. Seven years of age.”
You took a moment, trying to gather his character in mere words. “He has very strong opinions about the garden. Delivers them with the full authority of a Grand Maester.”
Your mouth curved ever so slightly. “He once spent an entire afternoon in tears because a bee had died near the lavender rows. He felt personally responsible.”
Something shifted in Valarr’s expression, quiet and recognizing.
“He sounds exhausting,” he said.
An amused breath escaped you before you could stop it. Valarr’s eyebrow slightly twitched upward at the soft sound.
“He is the best person I know,” you said simply without hesitation.
Valarr looked toward the hedges for a moment. “I have a Matarys,” he said.
You looked at him.
“He is not seven,” he continued. “He is considerably older and considerably more troublesome.” He says with both exasperation and affection.
“He delivers his thoughts with the confidence of someone who thinks they are never wrong.”
“That is Celyn,” you replied, smiling down at the book still open in your lap.
“Then I apologize, most earnestly, for what is about to come,” he said.
This time, a genuine giggle escaped you. The sound made something flutter inside Valarr’s chest. It was real and unguarded. It was beautiful.
“You can call me Valarr,” he said.
You looked up at him, his mismatched eyes brighter than ever.
“When it is only us,” he continued. It did not sound like a command nor a request, just something honest. He looked toward the path, “Every conversation I have had begins and ends with my titles. Sometimes I feel as though I am merely a title rather than a person.”
He looked back up at you, “you are one of the few people I have spoken with who makes me forget that. I would rather not be reminded of it when it is only us.”
You looked down, “That is a great deal of trust to extend to someone you have only known for four days.”
“Aye,” he said plainly. “It is.”
“Then you must do the same for me,” you said quietly.
He looked at you with a slight crinkle in his eyes. Then he said your name. This time, the way he said it felt like he had known you for the longest time.
You looked back down at your book before he could notice the slight change in your expression.
Afterwards, the conversation flowed easily between you and Valarr. Just two people surprising each other with opinions and knowledge, passing the book to each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You did not notice how much time had passed until more voices began to fill the garden. The morning had ceased to belong to only you and Valarr.
He stood up slowly, before saying your name once again. He bid you goodbye, before walking back up the path to where he came from.
You sat with the book closed in your lap, letting the morning light shine on your face. The same feeling in your chest returned, the one you still could not name.
You were beginning to suspect that it did not need one.
Could the Great Hall get any more lavish? You thought. There were more candles than the previous nights, and more flowers blooming along the tables.
As usual, you sat with your father and the Reach lords. Lucian Brightwater sat nearby, smiling at you when your eyes met. You smiled back. Your father noticed it with quiet satisfaction.
Across the hall, Matarys was having a considerably better evening than his brother. He drifted through like he always did, finding entertainment in whatever space he ended up in.
Tonight, he found himself in the presence of Lady Ellinor Tyrell, sitting at the end of the Reach table. He intended to only stay for one goblet of wine. It ended up being three.
“You remind me of someone,” he told her, at some point during the second drink.
“Do I now, my prince?” she replied amusingly, like she had been told this many times and she never got tired of hearing it.
“My father,” he said. “The way you listen. Like you already know what someone is going to say and are simply giving them the courtesy of saying it.”
Lady Ellinor smiled warmly, “your father is a good man, Your Grace.”
“The best I know,” Matarys said plainly.
They sat with that for a moment. Until, “Prince Baelor is not the only good man I have observed this week.”
Matarys looked at her sideways.
“I speak of your brother,” she said. “The young prince has conducted himself with more genuine care and patience than most men even try to manage in a lifetime at court.”
She paused, then started speaking more softly. “I have also observed that he is considerably more careful about where his eyes rest during the evening feasts than he realizes.”
Matarys said nothing. He was looking at Valarr from across the hall. His private suspicions had just been confirmed by an outside source.
Valarr was listening to a lord to his left with every appearance of complete attention. He was also looking across the hall, thinking that no one would notice the destination of his gaze.
Matarys did, and it landed on you. Sitting several tables away, hands folded as you watched Lucian Brightwater speak to your Lord father. You were not looking back at the royal table, and it was obvious that you did your best not to.
He looked back at Lady Ellinor, a small knowing smile already painted itself on her face. “The gardens tomorrow morning,” she said quietly. “I intend to invite the young Lady Sweetbriar for a private walk.”
Slowly, the same smile made its way to Matarys’ face. “How curious,” he said. “I had thought of suggesting the very same to my brother.”
Lady Ellinor said nothing further. Instead, she raised her goblet slightly to him. Matarys did the same in return.
Neither you nor Valarr has noticed.
Lady Ellinor’s note arrived before breakfast.
Brief and warm; a walk in the gardens this morning. There was no gathering today. Just the two of you.
Having barely touched the bread on your plate, you folded the note carefully and put it away. Your father had read the note from beside you.
He nodded at you in approval, allowing you to leave breakfast with silent permission.
You had arrived before Lady Ellinor and stood at the entrance of the main path. Hearing footsteps getting closer from behind, you smoothed out your skirt in preparation.
“Good morrow, my dear,” Lady Ellinor greeted you. You did the same.
Then, more footsteps coming from behind you. That familiar rhythm.
You turned.
Matarys had appeared at Valarr’s chamber long before his squire usually did. “The gardens,” he said. “Walk with me, big brother.”
Valarr looked at him for a few moments, trying to read his face, as an older brother who had been on the receiving end of Matarys’ schemes since childhood.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you have spent the better part of the week in great halls and dusty bookshelves,” Matarys replied.
“Also because your nameday festivities are concluding soon, and you look like a man who has forgotten what sunlight feels like.”
Valarr hesitated, but went anyway. It was better than staying in his chambers thinking about the end of the week.
You looked at each other across the garden path. Then, from somewhere behind you, the sound of Lady Ellinor’s handmaiden hurrying toward her lady with urgency.
You turned to see Lady Ellinor already a few steps away from you. “Forgive me, my dear,” she called back, “I shall find you again later.”
Before you could respond, she was gone.
Somewhere behind Valarr, the even younger prince’s voice spoke. “By the Seven, I had entirely forgotten. Father wanted to see me this morning.”
“Terrible timing. Sincere apologies.” Matarys’ footsteps were already retreating.
Valarr did not turn around to watch him go. He only looked at you with an expression that was beyond the usual composure of a crown prince; with unguarded honesty.
You looked at each other. “That,” you started carefully, “was not subtle.”
“No,” he agreed. “It was not.”
A small pause. “Prince Matarys,” you said.
“And Lady Tyrell,” he added.
Your lips pressed together against the laugh building in your chest. “I might have to have a few words with Lady Ellinor.”
“I have been having words with Matarys since I was old enough to speak,” he said. “I will save you the effort. It does nothing to help.”
The same laugh from the previous morning escaped, the one Valarr wished to hear again. Perhaps for the rest of his days.
You pressed your fingers briefly to your lips, but it was already too late. He was looking at you with a brighter gleam in his eyes.
He said nothing, only offering his arm to you with ease.
You looked at him briefly, then at the garden path ahead. You took his arm.
It was the easiest walk of the entire week. No lords watching from the corners. No highborn daughters being positioned. No performance.
It was just the two of you on a garden path in the morning, talking the way you had talked in the library and on the bench.
He asked about Briarkeep. You described it honestly; the pale grey stone, the brook, the wet earth. The way he listened intently still caught you off guard.
You asked about Dragonstone. You could tell by his tone that he had complicated feelings about the place.
At some point, the path had curved and you were both in the quieter part of the gardens. The walk slowed naturally.
“There are only two days left,” you said plainly.
“Aye,” he said quietly, “that is true.”
You did not say anything else about it. Neither did he.
You both continued to walk until the path ended at a railing that looked over Blackwater Bay. You both stopped to breathe in the faint salty air.
Valarr turned to face you, catching the way the seabreeze blew strands of your hair away from your face.
You looked up at him. The morning light was fully on his face, and his mismatched eyes were looking at you the way they always did. Except, there was nothing careful about it anymore. Nothing held back or prepared.
Valarr lifted his hand slowly, giving you the chance to step away if you wanted to. You did not. His fingers brushed against your hair ever so gently.
His hand then rested at the edge of your jaw. You did not step away. Though, you were not sure how you were still breathing.
“I have been trying,” he said quietly, “to find a reason not to do this.”
“Have you found one?” you said, voice steadier than you expected.
He looked at you for a moment longer. “No,” he said simply.
It was not a grand gesture. It was not reckless. It was quiet and honest. Like it had always been between you and Valarr.
His lips were soft and warm on yours. His gentle hand at your jaw was careful. It only lasted a brief moment, yet it was entirely certain of itself. More certain than anything else in both your lives combined.
Your hands slowly climbed onto his chest. Your fingers slightly brushed against the three-headed dragon at his breast, where you could feel his heartbeat underneath the fabric. His other hand then wrapped itself around your waist, holding you closer.
When you pulled away, you barely did. He did not move far, his hands staying where they were. Valarr’s face was close enough that you felt his eyelashes flutter against yours.
He only looked at you with the same, genuine attention he gave to everything else you say and do. Except now, absolutely nothing was holding him back.
You had also noticed something else in his face, like great relief.
You had also finally recognized the feeling in your chest for what it was. The same one you felt since the library. Probably even before that.
Both of you stayed like that for a while. There was no reason to move. The morning belonged only to the two of you.
You did not speak. You did not need to. The whole week had been full of words; careful and measured. Now, there was simply this.
His thumb moved gently, once against your jaw, as if he was making sure you were real. You pressed your fingers slightly more firmly against his chest for the same reason.
The waves of Blackwater Bay continued to roar below you. Somewhere far away, the Red Keep continued its business, like an entirely different universe from where you were both standing.
You thought back to the journey from the Reach to here. The thought you had quickly dismissed so firmly.
What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?
You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. Valarr was already looking at you with those mismatched eyes of his. Not with the gaze of a composed prince of the Realm.
But simply a man. A man holding you tightly in the quiet corner of the gardens, like you were going to disappear if he ever were to let go.
Valarr had asked for the audience himself, which was unusual. Normally it was Baelor who called for Valarr to his study. This time, he knocked.
“Enter,” his father said.
Once his son entered, Baelor set down his quill. He gestured for him to sit by the hearth. The fire was lower than usual. Somewhere below, the Red Keep was beginning its preparations for the final evening feast.
Baelor waited patiently, as he always did, letting the silence settle for a bit.
Then, “I have made my decision.”
“I know what you will say,” Valarr continued. “I know what the considerations are. The weight of it, the court’s concern, the questions it will raise,” He paused. “I have thought about it all.”
“I know you have,” Baelor responded, without sounding dismissive.
“She is the youngest daughter of a minor house from the Reach,” Valarr said plainly. “Her family trades in herbs and botanical oils. She has no claim, no great alliance to offer.”
He looked at his father. “She has read Maester Gyldayn’s work. She found the error in the Valyrian freehold text. She talks about her youngest brother the way I talk about Matarys.” A pause. “She says exactly what she thinks, but only when she trusts one enough to say it.”
“And she trusted me with it.”
Baelor looked at him with something careful and attentive. It was deeply familiar.
“I went looking for the person underneath the preparation,” Valarr said. “With her, there was no preparation to look underneath. She was simply herself. Entirely and without apology.”
“I did not know what to do with it at first. Then I did not want to do without it.”
The study was quiet for a few moments. Until, “you have spent time with her,” Baelor said at last.
“Aye.”
“More than what was visible.”
“Aye,” Valarr did not elaborate. Baelor did not need him to.
His father looked at him. Truly. With the same eyes that had watched him grow up in this keep, ones that trusted him enough to make his own decisions.
“Lord Aldric Sweetbriar,” Baelor started, slowly. “He is an honest man. His house is small but his name is clean. Strong and steady. He has never given the crown any cause for complaint in generations.”
Something that almost resembled a smile made its way to the older prince’s face. “You said no,” he said. “When I asked if she had caught your eye, that second morning.”
“I fear I said it too quickly,” Valarr admitted.
“You did,” Baelor agreed. “I noticed.”
“She does not know,” Valarr said. “I have not spoken to her about it. I wanted to speak to you first.”
Baelor nodded slowly. “Then go speak to Lord Aldric,” he said. “Tonight, before the feast. Give the man the courtesy of warning before his world changes considerably.”
His father’s smile deepened, “And then, go find her.”
Valarr stood up, before his father called him once again.
“She sounds,” he said simply, “like someone worth finding.”
The Great Hall had truly outdone itself.
Lords and ladies moved through the hall in their finest dress, knowing that tomorrow they would need to depart King’s Landing, dispersing across the Seven Kingdoms again.
Valarr moved through it all easily, feeling the absence of the weight on his shoulders. Tonight, he actually smiled in ways that were genuine rather than practiced. He managed to actually taste the wine for once.
Matarys pointed it out first, “You look different.”
“I am the same as I have always been,” Valarr said simply.
The younger prince grinned, “You are not.” Then, he nudged his shoulder.
“How were the gardens this morning?”
“Enlightening,” Valarr replied.
Matarys’ grin grew wider.
Later in the evening, Valarr’s gaze naturally moved to the Reach tables.
Your father was there, seated among the other Reach lords, speaking to Lord Fossoway. But the seat beside Lord Aldric was empty.
He was already moving before he had even thought about it.
Excusing himself from whatever conversation he was in, he moved through the great hall. Then to the giant doors, and into the corridor, where the noise of the feast had become distant muffles.
He walked the same way he had walked since he was a young boy, to the quieter parts of the Red Keep, taking turns he had taken countless times.
Valarr already knew where to find you.
You looked up when the door opened. The faint glow of the candle illuminating the side of your face.
“The feast,” you said softly.
“Will continue without me,” he said.
Valarr crossed the room, and sat in the same chair he did that second morning. He said your name softly.
Closing the book on your lap, you said, “you came to find me.”
The candle flickered between you.
“I always seem to,” he said simply.
“I was not supposed to be here for this,” you said quietly, more to yourself than anything. It was not a protest. Just the simple truth.
“I know,” he replied.
“I was here for Lord Brightwater’s second son.”
The corner of his mouth moved, “He is, I am sure, a perfectly reasonable man.”
“He is,” you said. “He was very pleasant.”
“Then it is deeply unfortunate,” Valarr said, “that you spent the entire week in my library.”
A soft, genuine laugh escaped your lips. Then, you both looked at each other, the feeling in your chest settling into something permanent.
He rose from the chair, simply and quietly. He moved towards you. You uncurled your feet from beneath you, moving to stand, but he was already lowering himself on one knee before you.
You stared at him. Words dying in your throat.
Valarr Targaryen, heir of the heir, second in line to the Iron Throne, was kneeling on the floor of the Red Keep library in the soft candlelight, looking up at you with those mismatched eyes as though there was nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms he would rather be.
He took both of your hands in his. His thumbs resting against your knuckles.
The candle threw golden light across the side of his face. Across the silver streak in his dark hair.
You could not speak. You were not certain that you were breathing.
"I have spent this entire week," he said, quietly, only for you, "looking for the person underneath the preparation." His eyes did not leave yours.
"Instead, I have found someone who had no preparation at all. Someone who argued with my annotations and told me plainly, in my own library, that she was here for Lord Brightwater's second son."
His lips pressed together briefly.
"Someone who described her little brother crying over a bee with more love in her voice than most people do in a lifetime of grand declarations." He paused.
"Someone who kept ending up exactly where I was looking."
Your eyes were beginning to do something you refused to allow in the Red Keep library, so you pressed your lips together and held very still.
His hands tightened slightly around yours.
"I know what I am asking," he said lowly. "I know the weight of the name I am asking you to carry. I am not asking you to carry it lightly."
A breath. "I am asking you to carry it with me. Every part of it."
His mismatched eyes were very bright in the candlelight. "I would face all of it considerably better with someone beside me who tells me the truth, who reads the books nobody else thinks to read, who finds the quiet corners of every room she enters."
He looked at you, and there was nothing held back in it.
"Who reminds me," he said softly, "that I am only a man."
You looked down at him. The prince who had left his own nameday feast just to sit in the silence with you.
Your free hand moved before you decided to move it. Your fingers found the side of his jaw, gently. He leaned into your touch.
"Have you spoken to my father?" you asked softly.
"I have. He asked very precise questions.” Valarr paused, "I believe I was able to curry his favor."
"He is not an easy man to impress," you said.
"I am aware." His hands were still holding yours. "I made sure I prepared thoroughly."
Then, something broke loose in your chest. A small sound escaped you that was not quite a laugh. Something that happened when your heart was too full.
Valarr looked up at you.
"Well," he said. Very quietly. "What say you, my lady?"
You looked at him for a long moment, kneeling before you in the library where it had all begun. Holding your hands in both of his, the candlelight warm between you, and the final feast’s noise almost non-existent.
You thought of Briarkeep, of Sweetfield. The lavender rows. The brook. Edwyn’s strength. Elara’s grace. Rowan’s brightness. Celyn’s innocence. You loved every piece of it.
You had not expected to find something here that you could love just as completely and certainly.
"Yes," you said. "I accept, most ardently."
Something shifted across his face that you had never seen before and would spend the entirety of life learning the name of.
Valarr rose slowly, your hands still in his. You rose after him.
He whispered your name. Then he raised your hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles.
“My love,” he whispered again. You answered him in the only way you felt that was right.
You closed the distance between you. His hands gently find their way to your cheeks, while your hands rested against his chest.
When you parted, he rested his forehead gently against yours. You stared into his mismatched eyes.
You knew you had a whole lifetime ahead of you, giving you more than enough time to do so, but you never want to miss a single second ever again.
You both stayed like that for a long moment in the quiet library.
What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?
The answer was simple. The same thing you had always offered to the gardens and library shelves at Briarkeep. To your youngest brother, Celyn.
Warnings: Reader is Maekar's Daughter (They're Targaryens Y'all); Grief / Mourning; RIP Daddy Baelor; Marriage Troubles; Pregnancy; Mentions of Death; No Physical Description of Reader (Minus Having Hair, but No Color Mentioned)
Word Count: ~3000 words
Plot: After Baelor's death, you and Valarr struggle to put the pieces of your marriage back together.
Master List
Staring at the ceiling of your quarters, you breathed in and out, trying to not cry as the hours dragged on. You reached for the table beside your bed and picked up your journal. You sat up in your bed, glancing at the empty spot beside you as your shaking hands etched another line onto the page. Counting each group, you rested your hand on the page as a teardrop smudged the last group.
Three moons and six days. Three moons and six days since your good father Baelor took his last breath. Three moons and six days since your own father struck the fatal blow. Three moons and six days since your husband looked at you with any fragment of joy or care.
Angrily wiping the tears away, you closed the journal and set it aside. You threw back the blankets and pulled on a thick cloak to fight the chill in the air. You slipped your feet into slippers before marching towards the door. The guard on duty seemed startled at your presence at the late hour, but quickly straightened up under your sharp gaze.
“Where is my husband?” you demanded, allowing the door to shut behind you.
“I believe his study, my lady.”
“Thank you,” you murmured, already moving down the hall at a brisk pace.
You knew the halls and corridors like the back of your hand. King’s Landing had long been your home and you weathered what felt like every possible war or trouble within these walls. But the chill in the air, the distance between you and those around you, was a feeling you had never expected to feel within these familiar corridors.
Was one supposed to feel so alone in their own family home? You did not think so. But you were not sure how to repair the divide.
King Daeron the Good, at the news of his eldest son’s demise at the hands of his youngest son, had seemed to slip from reality. You had spent some time with him, but he never seemed to find the strength to speak in your presence.
Your father, Maekar, had only grown harsher and angrier since returning to King’s Landing. You knew that Aerion’s banishment and Aegon’s disappearance weighed heavily on his shoulders. And his brother’s face surely haunted each step he took. He could not seem to look at you either, and you were left to wonder what you had done for your own father to be unable to stomach the sight of you.
And your husband . . . he was not the same. Nor did you think he ever would be again. When Baelor took his last breath, you worried that he had taken the foundation of your marriage with him.
Valarr had always been a serious man since his youth. The weight of the Iron Throne seemed to stamp out the indulgences and whims that other children sought in him. He took his role seriously, striving to live up to Daeron and Baelor’s names.
But you knew another side to him.
One that enjoyed skipping rocks on the shores of Dragonstone and nearly threw himself into the surf once when he tried to out throw another. One that had a habit of stuttering when he was flustered, which only seemed to increase as his cheeks reddened. One that enjoyed braiding flowers into your hair, murmuring how he would do the same with your daughters in the future.
But you had not seen that man since Ashford. And you had nightmares about never seeing him again. You could only wake up to his side of the bed undisturbed before you broke.
Turning the corner, you headed down the stairs to the study that until recently belonged to Baelor. The guards at the entrance straightened up and opened the door for you. Stepping into the room, you let the door shut behind you before you spoke.
“It is late,” you murmured, stepping farther into the room. Valarr looked up from the scroll that he had been reading and sat up in his seat more. He seemed to struggle to meet your eyes and you pursed your lips, fighting tears. “Mayhaps you should retire to bed.”
“I cannot,” Valarr responded quietly, which only made the tears harder to hold in. “There is still much work that I must do.”
He fiddled with the papers on his desk as you looked towards the fire, trying to gather yourself. Beneath your cloak, your arms folded protectively over your abdomen before you forced them to straighten out, lest your husband notice. Though you did not know why you would be concerned with him noticing. He did not even look you in the eye when he broke your heart, so how would he notice that?
“I did not mean to cause you concern,” Valarr stated, and you knew that he was sincere. But it still sounded so cold.
“I know you did not,” you murmured tiredly, collecting yourself once more. “But I cannot help but worry about you.”
Valarr looked away. “You should not.”
“I am your wife,” you reminded him. Your voice broke at the end, which caused Valarr’s fist to tighten. Anxious, he turned to fiddle with his ring. “It is my duty to worry about you.”
Valarr did not reply, simply because he did not know what to say. The cavern between the two of you seemed to crack and deepen as the silence dragged on.
You knew that you could not be angry with him. He had lost his father at the hands of your father in a battle that your brother had provoked. He was now thrust into the position of heir apparent, a role that he believed he had decades to prepare for, rather than moons.
But you were not your father, nor Aerion, nor the hedge knight. You were his wife and his future queen, a woman who would do anything to have a sliver of his prior self in her life once more.
“Do you wish for me to leave?” you finally spoke up, causing Valarr to look up from his hands. “Would that be more pleasing to you?”
“Of course not,” Valarr replied, sitting forward in his seat. “I . . .” He sighed, staring at his hands once more. “I simply have much work to do.”
It was an excuse—a pathetic one—and you both knew it.
Summoning all the poise that you could muster, you nodded deeply to him, which caused Valarr to look up once more. “Then I will leave King’s Landing to Dragonstone, where I will not disturb you while you have much work to do, my lord husband.”
Valarr stood up from his seat at your statement, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Dragonstone?” He searched your face for any jest. “Why do you wish to return to Dragonstone?”
You licked your lips and tried to hold the tears back. “I believe that it might be best. For all of us.” You turned to the floor, sniffling. “I do not wish to interrupt your work any further.”
You turned for the door, but Valarr stepped around his desk and reached for your hand before you could get too far. As you spun around to look into eyes of your husband, you waited for him to speak. To plead or beg for you to stay. To fight for your marriage, for your family, for your love. But it seemed that words had abandoned him.
You could see the tears in his eyes and you felt your own drip down your cheeks. Smiling painfully, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingering for a moment. “I love you,” you whispered into his skin. “And when you have need of me again, I shall return.”
You stepped back and turned for the door again. Your hand slipped from his grip and he did not reach out once more.
When the heavy door shut behind you, Valarr returned to his seat. Dropping into the chair, Valarr rested his head in his hands. His fingers curled, digging his nails into his scalp as the emotions rolled over him. He was a man of action, but yet he could not even rise from his chair to rush after his wife. He had not meant for her to be a casualty in his grief, but yet there their marriage laid, broken and shattered on the floor of his father’s study.
Climbing back to your quarters, you did nothing to hide your tears as they dribbled down your cheeks and neck. You stepped into your chambers and pulled the cloak from your shoulders. Tossing it onto a chair, you moved to lay down in your bed.
Resting your hand on the swell of your growing bump, the one you had carefully hidden from everyone but your trusted maid, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to finally sob.
*~*~*~*
Valarr fiddled with the rings on his finger as he sat through another Small Council meeting. King Daeron had been unable to join them and Valarr was forced to sit at the head of the table. His skin prickled the moment that he sat down in the chair and he was certain that he would not be comfortable until he left the chair once more.
At least Maekar handled most of the remarks. Valarr would speak up when he felt that he had something to suggest of importance, but otherwise, he remained silent, fiddling nervously with his rings.
“And what of the Princess?” one foolish councilor demanded, causing both Valarr and Maekar to stare daggers at him. “It has been too many moons since she left for Dragonstone. She should return here, where the Young Prince remains, for he is still without an heir.”
“You dare question the choice of my daughter?” Maekar snapped, looking ready to cleave the man’s head clean off his shoulders.
But before Maekar could properly threaten the lord, Valarr stood up from his seat and rested his hands on the table. Staring the lords at the table down with an icy glare, Valarr straightened up, seemingly channeling his father in that moment.
“The Princess was ill and needed fresh air to recover. Until she returns, which she will when she is able and healthy, her name is not to cross this table with anything other than the proper deference and honor that her station and title afford her.”
The room was silent, minus a few murmurs of agreement from the lords. Valarr, satisfied, resumed his seat and took to fiddling with his rings under the table once more. He grunted out, “I believe that we should discuss the expansion of the trade routes in the east once more.”
The meeting adjourned and Valarr sat quietly in his seat as the lords filed out of the room. Maekar remained seated beside him, staring at the door until it was shut behind the last lord. Neither Valarr nor Maekar spoke for the first few moments that they were alone. Not until Maekar finally found the way to face the image of his brother seated beside him.
“Have you heard from her?” Maekar asked quietly, all of the strength evaporating from his tone.
Valarr shook his head. “Only a note that she had arrived safely.”
Maekar nodded and the lines on his face seemed to deepen at the knowledge. Turning back to Valarr, Maekar opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated for a moment. Almost as if the pain in his heart had clogged his windpipe.
“You must go to her.”
Valarr turned to Maekar, almost incredulous, as he sat up in his seat. “She does not want to see me. Why do you think that she traveled a sea away from me?”
“Do not play a fool.” Maekar’s jaw clicked as his teeth grit together, trying to hold back the emotions that naturally welled at the thought of his brother. “And do not punish her for my sins.”
“I . . .” Valarr began to protest, though it died on his tongue a moment later. He stared down at his rings, twisting them around his fingers once more. “I did not intend to.” Valarr bowed his head, letting out a sigh of frustration. “I never meant to hurt her.”
“Then go to her,” Maekar urged once again. “Do not allow her to slip further away.”
Valarr sat quietly, staring at the table. “And what if she tells me to return here? Without her?”
“Mayhaps you should go and find out for yourself what her reaction will be, rather than stewing in the throes of hypotheticals.” Maekar stared at Valarr, trying to read his expression. “Such a path will only lead to madness, not resolution. That I can tell you with certainty.”
Maekar stood up from his seat, leaving Valarr alone with his thoughts.
*~*~*~*
“My lady,” your maid called, bursting into your room as you soaked in a private bath, “your husband. He is approaching as we speak.”
You stopped lathering yourself and set the soap down. Resting your hands on the edges of the tub, you stared at the fire before turning to your trusted maid. “You are certain?”
“I am, ma’am. He sent a man ahead with the news.”
You nodded and rinsed the soap from your skin. With a sigh, you turned back to your maid. “I suppose you should help me up then. I will have to dress to greet him.”
Meanwhile, Valarr walked up the stairs to Dragonstone. He was nervous, though he did not let it show. He was waiting for you to deny him at the gate. After all, he sent no letter and showed up unannounced, interrupting your private peace after moons of silence between the two of you. Nodding to the guards as they opened the doors, Valarr stepped inside.
A guard stepped forward, bowing to Valarr before straightening up. “The Princess has indicated that she wishes to greet you in her chambers.”
“Thank you.”
Valarr headed up the stairs to your room. Fiddling with his rings once he rounded the corner and saw your door, Valarr let out a breath and stepped forward. He knocked on the door and waited for your affirmative before stepping inside.
You stood with your back to him by the window as you stared out at the waves. Turning around at the sound of his footsteps, you stared up at your husband, who appeared frozen in shock at your appearance. With winter winding down, you had forgone a heavy cloak and allowed your husband to see your full pregnant bump for the first time.
The maesters estimated that you would deliver within a moon or two and there was no possibility of hiding the news from your husband. Valarr’s eyes stared at your belly as his breathing became increasingly shallow. His heart felt like it was going to burst through his ribs.
You stepped towards him, but the reminder that you were not simply a painting on the wall seemed to undo the lock on his knees. Valarr dropped to his knees as you stood before him, tears streaming down his cheeks. You could not join him on the floor, not easily anyways, so you gently rested your hand in his hair, brushing the strands with your fingers.
He grabbed your hand in his own and pressed a shaky kiss to the palm of your hand. You remained silent, allowing Valarr a moment to take in the news.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered out, staring up at you. “I am so sorry, my love.”
“You are here now,” you replied, brushing his hair once more. “And that is all I need.”
Valarr stood up from the floor and engulfed you in a hug. You quickly buried your nose into his chest as he pressed a kiss to your head. The two of you stood in silence, simply rocking to the beats of your hearts, and basking in the warmth of the other.
“How long?” Valarr asked softly, murmuring into your shoulder.
“I suspected it when we returned to King’s Landing.” You trailed your fingers up and down his back. “I feared that the news would strike you down. And if I were to lose the baby . . . I feared that you would never recover.”
“I’m sorry,” Valarr begged you once more, causing you to press a kiss to his cheek. “Please . . . please, forgive me, my love.”
You rested your hand on his cheek. “I have already forgiven you.”
“You should not,” he protested shakily.
“And yet, I do.”
Pulling him in for a soft kiss, you were relieved at how naturally the two of you seemed to fall into the embrace once again. Valarr cupped the back of your head and gently begged for your touch with each kiss from his lips. He pulled back and rested his forehead against your own, staring into your eyes.
“When . . . how long do we have?”
“A moon or two, as the maesters believe.”
“I shall stay here,” Valarr vowed, “until the babe is born and your health has returned.” His hand dropped to your bump, gently pressing his palm against the swell.
“Will they not miss you in King’s Landing?”
“I do not care,” Valarr remarked, pressing another kiss to your lips. “My duty is here.”
Tears welled up in your eyes as you pulled him in for another kiss, relieved that your husband had finally returned to you.
*~*~*~*
It was said that Prince Baelor Targaryen was born the moment that his great-grandsire, King Daeron the Good, finally succumbed to the Great Spring Sickness miles away from him in King’s Landing. He was named for his grandsire and reportedly bore a striking resemblance to the departed prince, save for the silver hair atop his small head.
His father, warned of the sickness enveloping King’s Landing, ordered that the entrances to Dragonstone be shut and sealed until the sickness passed. And when the sickness finally passed and the new king and queen could safely return to King’s Landing, the first to greet them at the docks was Prince Maekar, who reportedly wept at the sight of the babe.
Author's note: completely forgot i wrote this lmao
The bath was warm, steam curling through the air and clinging to the stone walls of your private chambers.
Outside, the last light of dusk painted King's Landing in shades of amber and rose, but here there was only the gentle lap of water and the steady beat of your husband's heart beneath your ear.
Valarr's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chest pressed against your back as you both soaked in the heated water. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses against your skin.
The tension of the day, of every day, seemed to melt away in these quiet moments, when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world could not intrude.
"You're quiet tonight, ābrazȳrys," he murmured against you, using the Valyrian endearment he favored when you were alone. Wife. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and you felt him smile as you shivered slightly.
You turned in his arms, water sloshing gently, until you faced him. His dark hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, and that striking streak of silver-gold caught the candlelight like spun moonlight.
You traced your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight roughness where his beard had begun to grow by evening's end, then down to where his pulse beat steady and strong beneath your touch.
"Just tired," you whispered. "I've felt... strange today. Queasy."
His brow furrowed immediately, the lazy contentment in his blue eyes replaced by sharp concern. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking gently across your cheekbone. "Strange how? Should I call for a maester? Is it your stomach? A headache?"
You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his chest as you leaned into him. The warmth of him, the solid reality of his love, it was the only anchor you needed. "Valarr, I feel a bit ill, not dying. Besides, you know what the maesters will say." You pulled back, offering him a wry smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "That my courses are late again, perhaps? They've said that a hundred times."
Something flickered in his expression, pain, quickly masked, but you knew him too well to miss it. He pulled you closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your wet hair with infinite gentleness.
"One day," he promised, his voice rough with emotion. "One day, yndys—"
"I know." You kissed his chest, just above his heart. "I know you believe that."
Two years. Two years you had been married to Valarr Targaryen, and your belly remained empty, your courses as regular as the turning of the moon. Two years without even a hint of a pregnancy, not even a miscarriage to prove that you could conceive. Two years of hope and heartbreak, of seeing the pity in kind eyes and the cruelty in cruel ones.
Two years of rumors.
---
The first time you heard them, you had been walking through the gardens, seeking respite from the stuffy confines of the Keep and the weight of courtly expectations. The roses were in bloom, their scent heavy and sweet, and you had thought to steal a moment of peace before the evening's duties called you back.
You rounded a hedge and caught the tail end of a conversation between two of your ladies-in-waiting. You recognized their voices—Lady Celia, young and pretty and recently wed herself, and Lady Jeyne, older and sharper-tongued, who had served in court since before you arrived.
"...two years is telling, isn't it?" Jeyne was saying, her voice carrying clearly through the afternoon air. "Not even a miscarriage. My sister miscarried twice before she birthed her first, and even that was considered unusual. But nothing? For two years? There has to be something wrong with her."
Celia's voice was softer, hesitant. "Perhaps the prince... perhaps he does not... I mean, if he cannot—"
"No, no, there's nothing wrong with him." Jeyne laughed, the sound ugly. "I've heard the serving girls talk. He's perfectly capable. It's her. Some women just aren't made for bearing children. It happens."
"But what will happen?" Celia asked. "To their marriage, I mean? The prince needs an heir—the realm needs an heir. If she's barren..."
You had frozen mid-step, your heart plummeting into your stomach. The words barren, annulment, new wife echoed in your mind, each one a knife. Before you could retreat, before you could compose yourself into the mask of a princess, a voice like winter cut through the air.
"Enough."
Valarr stood behind you, you realized. He must have followed you from the chambers, must have heard everything. His face was cold, controlled—the face of a prince, not the warm, loving husband you knew. But his eyes... his eyes burned with a fury you had never seen.
The two women went white as milk when they saw him. Celia dropped into a curtsy so low she nearly fell. Jeyne's face lost all its color, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"You will return to your families," Valarr said, his voice leaving no room for argument. There was no heat in it, no emotion, and that was somehow more terrifying than if he had screamed. "By morning. You will pack your things tonight, and you will be gone before the sun rises. If I hear so much as a whisper of such slander again—from anyone, about my wife—it will not be banishment they face. Am I understood?"
They fled. And then Valarr's arms were around you, his cold prince's mask crumbling as he held you close, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your hair.
"Pay them no mind," he begged you, his lips pressed to your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach. "They are fools. They know nothing. They are nothing. You are everything—"
"But what if they're right?" The words tore from you, raw and bleeding, before you could stop them. You pulled back just enough to look at him, to let him see the tears streaming down your face. "What if I am barren? What if I can never give you children, never give you an heir, never—"
He kissed you then, fierce and desperate, swallowing your fears with his lips and his love. When he finally pulled back, his own eyes were wet.
"Then we will have no children," he said, his voice steady despite the tears. "And I will love you just the same. I will love you until my last breath and beyond. I will love you in this life and the next and every life after that. You are mine, Y/N. Not for your womb. Not for your ability to give me heirs. For you. For your laugh. For the way you crinkle your nose when you're annoyed. For the way you hum in your sleep. For you."
---
The rumors never stopped, of course. They simply grew quieter, more insidious. You saw the looks at feasts, the whispers behind fans and goblets, the pity in some eyes and the smug satisfaction in others. You heard the murmurs of annulment and new wife and barren floating through the halls like poisoned butterflies.
But you also saw the way Valarr shut them down. A cold stare here, a sharp word there. Once, a lord who spoke too loudly at a feast about the "prince's unfortunate marriage situation" found himself assigned to the farthest, most miserable post in the Seven Kingdoms within the week. His wife wept. His children wailed. And Valarr watched it all with an expression of stone.
He never told you about that. You heard it from a servant who thought you should know how fiercely your husband protected you.
He protected you. He cherished you. And every month, when your courses came, he held you while you cried and then he held you while you made love, as if he could pour all his love into you and make the pain disappear.
"Next month," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with his own unshed tears. "Next month, my love. We'll try again next month. And the month after. And the month after that. For as long as it takes. For forever, if that's what it takes."
And you would believe him, because believing him was easier than believing the whispers. Because loving him was the easiest thing you had ever done, and being loved by him was the greatest gift you had ever received.
---
In the bath, with the warm water soothing your aching body, you tried to push away the queasiness that had plagued you all day. Probably something you ate. Perhaps the fish at supper had been off. Perhaps the heat was too much. There were a hundred explanations, and none of them were the one you had stopped allowing yourself to hope for.
Valarr's hands moved gently along your back, soothing, loving, tracing patterns on your skin that he had memorized long ago. His touch was reverent, as it always was, as if you were something precious and fragile and infinitely worthy of worship.
"You work too hard," he murmured against your shoulder. "You exhaust yourself with duties. You're up before dawn, you don't rest during the day, you attend every function, you smile at every lord and lady who looks down on you." His arms tightened around you.
"Perhaps we should retreat to Dragonstone for a moon. Just the two of us. No court, no duties, no whispers. Just us."
"That would only give the gossips more fuel," you sighed, leaning your head back against his chest. "The prince hiding away his barren wife. She must be even more defective than we thought, if he can't bear to be seen with her."
"Stop." His voice was gentle but firm, and he turned you in his arms so he could look into your eyes. "Do not let them live in your head, my love. They are not worth a single one of your tears. They are not worth a single moment of your peace. You are more than their words. You are more than their cruelty. You are mine, and I will not let them hurt you."
You opened your mouth to respond, to tell him that his love was enough, that you were trying so hard to believe him, that some days you even succeeded—
But the words never came.
Instead, a pain ripped through you—sharp, sudden, agonizing. It seized your lower belly, your womb, with such ferocity that a scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. Your body curled inward, hands flying to your stomach as if you could somehow contain the agony.
"Y/N?" Valarr's hands caught you as you doubled over, the water splashing wildly around you both. His voice was sharp with terror. "Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?"
"Pain—" You gasped, another wave crashing over you, deeper and more intense than the first. "Valarr, it hurts—something's wrong—"
He was already moving, lifting you from the bath with strength you forgot he possessed. Water streamed from both of you as he carried you to the bed, his face ashen with terror, his arms shaking but steady. He laid you down as gently as if you were made of glass, but even that small movement sent another spike of agony through you.
"Did I hurt you?" he was asking, his voice breaking as he knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering over you, afraid to touch, afraid not to. "Sweetheart, did I—was it something I did—in the bath, did I—"
You couldn't answer. Another pain, deeper than before, had you curling in on yourself, a keening cry escaping your lips. It felt like something was tearing inside you, something vital and essential, and you clutched at Valarr's hand with desperate strength.
He wrapped a vest around you, his hands trembling so badly he could barely manage the ties, and then he was on his feet and shouting—screaming—for servants, for guards, for a maester.
"NOW!" he roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "GET THE MAESTER NOW! RUN!"
---
The hours that followed were a blur of agony and confusion.
Maester Edric came, his face grave as he examined you. You lay in the bed, sweat soaking your hair, the linens beneath you, pains ripping through you at irregular intervals that made no sense to anyone. Valarr never left your side. He held your hand through every wave of pain, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered words of love and terror in between calling for answers no one could give.
"I can find nothing wrong," the maester said finally, his brow furrowed deep with confusion and frustration. He had examined you twice, three times, each time with the same result. "No fever, no swelling, no sign of injury or illness. Her stomach is soft, not rigid. Her pulse is strong. I... I do not understand."
"Then look again!" Valarr demanded, his voice cracking. He had not slept, had not eaten, had not left your side for a moment. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a wild mess, his tunic stained with your sweat where he had held you. "She is in agony—look again! There must be something! There has to be something!"
They gave you milk of the poppy. It dulled the edges of the pain but did not stop it entirely. You drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of Valarr's voice, of his hand gripping yours, of the whispered fears of servants who thought you were dying.
Dying. The thought floated through your poppy-fogged mind. Was this death? This endless, ripping pain that came in waves like the sea? Was this how it ended—not with a grand tragedy, but with some mysterious illness that even the maesters could not name?
"The Seven are taking her," you heard someone whisper—one of the servants, a woman who had served your household for years. Her voice was thick with tears. "It's a punishment. It must be. For something."
"Hold your tongue!" another voice hissed, but the damage was done.
You saw Valarr's face harden, saw the fury flash through his terror, but he didn't leave your side. He couldn't. He was trapped between his need to protect you and his need to protect your honor, and in the end, you were more important.
"Leave," he said quietly to the room at large. "Everyone except the maester. Now."
They fled. And then it was just you, and Valarr, and the maester who could do nothing but watch you suffer.
"There's something," you gasped during a lucid moment, when the pain had receded enough to allow thought. Your voice was barely a whisper, cracked and broken. "There's something—I can feel it—inside me—trying to come out—"
Valarr was instantly alert, leaning close. "What? What do you feel?"
"I don't know—" Another wave of pain crashed over you, and you screamed, your back arching off the bed. "Something—there's something there—I can feel it—please—"
A servant girl—who had been allowed to stay to fetch water and linens—hurried to look when Valarr gestured frantically. She lifted the sheets, peered between your legs, and then stumbled backward with a sharp intake of breath.
"Gods," she whispered, her face going white as bone. "Gods above—"
"What?" Valarr was on his feet, his heart in his throat. "What is it? What's wrong?"
The girl's face was white as bone, her eyes wide as saucers. She pointed with a trembling hand. "It's—my prince, it's a head—the princess is giving birth—"
The next hour was chaos and wonder in equal measure.
Maester Edric rushed back in, his composure completely shattered. More servants were called, women who had experience with birth, who knew what to do. Linens, hot water, cloths, all the preparations for a birth that no one had known was coming.
Through it all, Valarr stayed at your side, his face a mask of shock and awe and desperate fear. He held your hand through every contraction, wiped the sweat from your brow, pressed kisses to your temple and whispered words of love and encouragement.
"How?" he kept asking, his voice wondering and terrified all at once. "How did we not know? How did no one know?"
But you knew. You knew, even through the pain, even through the haze of milk of the poppy. Your courses had come—light, yes, irregular, but present enough that you had never thought to question. Your belly had remained flat, your weight unchanged, your body showing no signs of the life growing within. You had never felt the quickening, never felt the child move, never experienced any of the symptoms that every book and every woman said you should have felt. A hidden heir. A secret kept so perfectly that even the mother hadn't known.
"The babe is coming," the head midwife announced, her voice calm and professional despite the extraordinary circumstances. "My prince, you may want to—"
"I'm not leaving." Valarr's voice was steel. "I'm not leaving her. Not for a moment."
And then, with one final, agonizing push that tore a scream from your throat, a new cry filled the room.
Not your cry, a new voice, small and fierce and alive, cutting through the chaos like a ray of sunlight through storm clouds.
Silence fell. Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing, to stop moving, as the midwife lifted the tiny, squalling bundle.
"A boy," she said, her voice awed. "My prince, my princess... you have a son."
Valarr didn't look at the babe at first. He looked at you, his eyes streaming tears, his face pressed to your sweat-damp hair, his whole body shaking with relief and joy and a love so overwhelming it seemed to fill the entire room.
"You did it," he whispered, his voice broken and beautiful. "You beautiful, perfect, impossible woman—you did it. You gave me a son. You gave us a son."
The midwife approached, the babe wrapped in clean linen, still crying with the fierce determination of new life. "Would you like to hold him, my princess?"
You nodded, unable to speak, and they placed him in your arms.
He was small—smaller than you had expected, though you had no basis for comparison—and wet-faced from crying, with a tuft of in his tiny head. His eyes were squeezed shut, his little fists clenched, his cries slowly subsiding as he settled against your chest.
Valarr leaned down, one trembling finger reaching out to gently touch that tiny head. His face crumpled, and for the first time since you had known him, your strong, fierce husband wept openly.
"He's perfect," he managed. "He's absolutely perfect. Just like his mother."
You looked up at him, at your husband who had defended you against a kingdom, who had loved you when the world called you barren, who had held you through every disappointment and every fear and never once wavered in his devotion.
"I told you," you whispered, your voice broken but triumphant, a smile spreading across your exhausted face. "I told you there was something wrong with me."
Valarr laughed—a sound of pure, overwhelming joy, bright and free and wonderful—and kissed you with all the love in his heart. He kissed your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, each kiss a promise and a prayer and a celebration.
"Nothing wrong with you," he agreed against your lips. "Nothing but perfection. Nothing but miracle. My wife. My love. The mother of my son."
The news spread through the Red Keep like wildfire.
By dawn, the entire castle knew. The princess who was whispered to be barren had given birth in the night, to a healthy son, without anyone even knowing she was with child. The servants who had thought she was dying now spoke of miracles and blessings. The ladies who had whispered behind her back now hurried to offer congratulations, their faces flushed with embarrassment.
And in your chambers, as the first light of dawn crept over King's Landing, you held your son and watched your husband pace the room like a man possessed.
"A son," Valarr kept saying, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "We have a son. I have a son. We have a son."
"You've said that seventeen times now," you teased gently, though your own smile hadn't faded since the babe was placed in your arms.
"And I'll say it seventeen hundred more." He came to sit beside you on the bed, his hand reaching out to stroke the babe's cheek with infinite gentleness. "Have you thought of a name?"
You looked down at the tiny face, peaceful now in sleep, and felt your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost hurt.
"He'll need a cradle," you murmured, suddenly realizing all the things that would need to be done. "And clothes—we have no clothes for him. And a wet nurse—I don't know if I can—"
"Shh." Valarr pressed a kiss to your forehead. "All of that will be handled. Right now, you rest. You've done enough for one night." His voice cracked with emotion. "You've done everything."
---
The days that followed were a blur of visitors and well-wishers, of lords and ladies coming to pay their respects to the prince and princess and their miraculous son.
King Daeron II came himself, his aged face bright with joy as he held his first great-grandson. "Auriom," he said, testing the name. "A fine choice. First of his name"
Prince Baelor, Valarr's father, stood tall and proud, his nose wrinkling as he smiled "The boy looks the same as valarr did as a babe," he observed. "And he his mother's strength. He'll go far."
Even the rumors changed. No longer was there talk of annulment and barrenness. Now the whispers were of miracles and blessings, of the Seven's favor shining upon the young prince and his devoted wife. The same ladies who had once pitied you now sought your favor. The lords who had whispered of setting you aside now bowed low and offered congratulations.
You didn't care about any of them. You cared about the tiny life in your arms, and the husband who looked at you as if you had hung the moon and stars.
One night, a week after the birth, you woke to find the cradle empty and your husband standing by the window, holding Aurion in his arms.
You watched them for a long moment—Valarr, his dark hair messy, that silver streak catching the moonlight, swaying gently as he hummed a soft Valyrian lullaby to the babe in his arms. His voice was low and sweet, the ancient words wrapping around the quiet room like a blessing.
"Ōños iā hūrenkon qrinuntys," he sang. "Jemī iksis zālagon." Light and shadow, my little prince. Forever there is fire.
You must have made a sound, because he turned, his face softening when he saw you awake.
"Couldn't sleep?" you asked softly.
"He was fussing," Valarr said, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. "I didn't want him to wake you. You need your rest."
You reached out, touching his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. "So do you."
He turned his head, kissing your palm. "I can't stop looking at him," he admitted quietly. "I keep thinking... what if we had listened to them? What if I had let the whispers sway me? What if I had let them convince me that you weren't enough?" His voice broke. "I would have missed this. I would have missed him. I would have missed everything that matters."
You moved closer, resting your head against his shoulder, looking down at your son together.
Aurion slept peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling, one small fist pressed against his cheek.
"You never wavered," you reminded him. "Not once. Even when I doubted myself, you never doubted me."
"Because I know you," Valarr said simply. "I know your heart. I know your soul. I know that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure you know it too."
- valarr targaryen x wife!reader x aerion targaryen
to the realm, your marriage with the young prince is a storybook union worthy of songs. but after tragedies befell you one after another, the love that once seemed effortless begins to fracture... and it doesn't help that another prince has his obsession set on you
genre/warnings:
suggestive, tw. miscarriages, angst, smut, hurt/comfort, mentions of infidelity, arguments, injury and blood in tourney (aka valarr and aerion fighting each other for you), pregnancy, fluff
notes:
wc. 5.8k ! reposted with rewritten & extended scenes! i fell in love with valarr at the first sight really *sigh* and aerion is my sidepiece i loved writing this so i hope you will enjoy it too <3
You and the Young Prince are beloved by many in King’s Landing.
Valarr, the gallant heir of House Targaryen, and you, his graceful princess, seem to embody everything the realm hopes for: beauty, devotion, and a love that appears effortless beneath the watchful eyes of the court. You married young, and despite all whispers and warnings the elders told you, both of you were tremendously happy in your marriage.
“A toast to my beloved princess—my constant strength and guide through another year added to my name!”
His voice would ring proudly through the hall, rich with affection as goblets were lifted in your honor. He would gaze at you with such tenderness afterwards, and anyone with eyes would gasp at the breathtaking show of love.
A love match. Yours was the picture-perfect royal union… at least until the tragedies began.
“Valarr, I—” you would choke on your own tears each time you carried a child to term only to lose them before you could ever hold them in your arms.
And every time, he would pull you into his arms.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” he would murmur softly, shushing your sobs as he held you close, mourning the loss just as deeply even as he tried to be your comfort.
A loss that the maesters called misfortune. Another that the septas named the will of the Seven. Each time, the court offered condolences, and each time you and Valarr stood side by side, composed and dignified as a royal couple ought to be.
But grief, no matter how carefully hidden, has a way of changing things.
Behind closed doors, the silences between you began to grow longer. The smiles you once shared became sparser, weighed down by sorrow neither of you quite knew how to speak aloud. Yet before the court, you both still played your roles flawlessly.
Because in King’s Landing, the prince and his princess were meant to be perfect.
“Your Grace, do you feel well?”
Your maid’s gentle voice broke through your reverie. You had been staring at the skies above Summerhall for far too long, your gaze distant and unfocused.
You turned to her with a placating smile. “I’m fine, Rose. Come, let’s go.”
Summoned to Summerhall by Prince Baelor, the moment you arrived, Valarr was swept away into discussions with his father and the other men of the court, leaving you with little to do but free time for yourself.
The castle grounds had grown quiet by the late afternoon, most servants busy with their duties. Your steps eventually carried you beyond the courtyards, towards a humble district where smallfolk lived and worked beneath the protection of the castle.
However, your walk was cut short.
An old woman stood near the edge of the road, her back bent with age, her thin hands clutching a bundle of herbs. Yet it was not her frailty that caught your attention.
It was the way unsettling way she stared at you.
Her eyes were too sharp for someone so old—watching you with an unsettling intensity. You slowed, uncertainty prickling along your spine, and then the woman spoke:
“The princess of love and beauty,” she murmured, her voice thin and rasping. “Yet cursed with the misfortune of having shadows strangling the brave prince’s sons in her womb.”
A cold shiver crawled down your spine. The words struck like a blade and it felt as though your darkest nightmares had been dragged into the open for the world to see.
You did not stay to hear more.
Your breath came quicker as you fled— the woman’s voice still echoing, stirring those bleak memories of the silent chambers, the hushed voices of maesters, Valarr’s arms around you while you wept until your body ached.
You only wanted distance—from that witch, from her terrible eyes, from the shame. And in your haste—
You collided with someone.
A solid figure stood in your path, and the sudden impact forced a startled breath from your lungs. Strong hands caught your waist before you could fall.
“Well now...” a smooth, velvety voice drawled above you, low with unmistakable amusement. “Where is the princess rushing off to in such distress?”
You wouldn’t mistake that voice for anyone else’s.
Prince Aerion Targaryen stood before you, tall and imposing as ever, silver hair gleaming in the afternoon light. His grip on your waist was firm enough to keep you from retreating so easily.
“Unhand me, my prince,” you proceeded to say afterwards, and he did. For a three good seconds, he observed the lacy black dress you were wearing, and let out a snort.
“You are not in mourning. Why do you always wear this unseemly dress?”
His words offended you really. It hadn’t even been three moons since you lost your babe, and he dared to ask this?
“I am, in fact, in mourning. Please let me be.”
Aerion snorted again.
“Do not mourn too hard, sweet cousin. A fine fruit can only grow from a good seed. One cannot expect much from… defects.”
Your eyes hardened. “What are you insinuating?”
“I’m merely suggesting that the fault may not lie with you at all, my princess,” Aerion replied, a thin, cruel smile curving his lips.
Valarr’s face rose unbidden in your mind—his gentle patience, the way he would tighten his arms around you on the nights he mourned your lost babes. Never once had he spoken a word of blame. Never once had he let you feel alone in it.
The insult burned hotter than if it had been aimed at you.
“You will hold your tongue, Aerion,” you spat, your voice suddenly sharper, eyes flashing with apparent rage as you didn’t bother to address him properly. “You speak of a prince of the realm. And a far better man than you will ever be.”
Aerion’s smile faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before it returned, colder than before.
“How fiercely you defend him,” he scoffed. “How touching.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur meant only for you.
“Think about it. If it were me, I surely will not fail you. The blood of the dragon runs stronger in my veins than it ever will in his.”
Talking with Aerion always felt like talking to the wall. You didn’t deign him with more response, simply turning on your heel to head back towards the castle.
However, you failed to realize that watchful eyes had taken note of the closeness between you and your cousin-by-law. Only later would you learn that this encounter with Aerion would bring consequences you had never anticipated.
The tale that soon spread was a wild one: you, the princess consort, is having an affair with the Bright Prince himself.
“T-that— that is bloody outrageous!”
You paced restlessly in your marital chambers, righteous anger coursed in your veins— it wasn’t enough that they had insulted you, but to pair your name with that mad prince?
Your husband, calm as ever, only stared at you quietly from his desk.
“You must not believe that treason—” you turned to Valarr in a flurry. “There’s no truth in it! I just stumbled into him while we were at Summerhall, that’s all!”
Valarr remained silent, studying you as he twirled the quill in his hand. He hadn’t voiced any accusation or anything, and it made your heart twist.
“I swear to you—” you pressed on quickly as you approached him, almost breathless now. “I barely spoke to him, and whatever he implied, I shut it down immediately—”
Valarr finally set the quill down. The soft tap of it against the desk sounded far too loud as he rose from his chair. His gaze never left yours as he crossed to where you were, and your heart thudded painfully under the weight of that unreadable stare.
He stopped before you, seemingly disregarding whatever it was you were saying, and it was without any warning when—
“I would never dishonor you like that, dear husband, you must believe me— Mmph!”
He pulled you into a sudden, searing kiss.
His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck as though the gesture alone could silence the storm of words tumbling from your sweet lips. You almost gasped, instinctively curling your fingers around his doublet.
It was nothing like the tender kisses you were used to. The kiss was rough, intense—almost hungry. His grip tightened slightly at your nape as his mouth claimed yours again and again. The force of it made you stumble a few steps back before he steadied you against him.
When Valarr finally pulled away, he sighed, a haze settling into his gaze.
“I do not wish to speak of my vile cousin, love.”
“But those rumors— I swear it, I—”
“Shush,” Valarr smiled then, pressing a finger on your lips. It was soft at first glance, reassuring even—yet it did not quite reach his mismatched eyes, which remained dark and distant. “I know.”
Your prince had always been gentle. He had never let anger rule over him, but sometimes you just wished he would. You looked at him sadly as his dashing blue and brown eyes focused solely on you, thinking of everything he had achieved until now.
The realm might think that the heir of Dragonstone had everything handed to him in silver platter, but they had never seen all the effort he put to remain worthy of it. He was the perfect prince to everyone, yet behind closed doors, only you saw the exhaustion he tried to hide, the endless trainings he would endure, the weight of expectations that followed him like a shadow.
And that only made the guilt inside you feel worse, because he had done everything right, except for one flaw. You.
His wife who had not even managed to give him an heir. Worse still, now these boundless whispers of your supposed infidelity threatened to besmirch his name.
You opened your mouth again, still trying to explain, but Valarr didn’t let you.
He captured your lips once again.
This time there was no restraint at all. His hands slid to your waist, fingers squeezing your flesh as he pulled you firmly against him, the kiss deepening with a fervor that stole the breath from your lungs. There was urgency in the way he held you now—something restless beneath the calm he had worn only moments ago surfacing unbidden.
“H-husband—”
“Quiet,” he commanded, lust taking over him, “—ah, my princess...”
Before you quite realized what he intended, he guided you backwards... and the edge of his desk pressed suddenly against the backs of your thighs.
With a swift motion he lifted you and bent you forward over its polished surface, the scrolls scattering beneath you. Valarr stepped between your knees, devouring your lips with renewed intensity and forced his tongue inside, even rougher this time.
Where he was usually careful and soft, his hands now held you with a more possessive grip. When he pulled you closer, the tug was harsher. When his lips wandered across your skin, the kisses he left behind were hotter and harder.
He was the only Targaryen prince who knew your body best. He knew where to touch, where to caress, where to lick and suck—
And what to do to get you nicely warm and ready for him.
“Look at me— will you?”
He tipped your chin towards him before he entered you in one swift go. The sudden stretch tore a broken cry from your lips as you threw your head back, moaning his name in broken syllables as tears fell from your lashes.
And before long, the chamber fell quiet save for the sounds of your mingled breaths and flesh tangled together, the lamplight flickering softly against the walls as the night became a blur around you.
There would be a grand celebration for King Daeron’s nameday in King’s Landing.
The festivities were to last ten days and nights to remind the realm of the strength and prosperity of House Targaryen. Lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms had already begun to arrive, and there would be feasts and a grand tourney held in the king’s honor.
The first day, however, was reserved for the feast.
The great hall blazed with candlelight, the long tables heavy with roasted meats, fruits, and sweet wines. Music drifted through the hall as servants moved tirelessly between the guests. You sat quietly in your seat, hands folded neatly in your lap as you forced yourself to maintain the composure expected of a princess.
“Greetings to you, my princess...”
And it was impossible not to feel the stares.
Whispers had already traveled faster than ravens through the court, and though everyone only spoke to you in pleasantries and riddles, you could feel the weight of their judgment.
“Pay them no mind.”
You looked up when Prince Baelor spoke gently beside you. Your father-in-law regarded you with a kindness—with those very same mismatched gaze your husband had—that made your throat tighten.
“The court feeds on foolish gossip,” he continued. “It will pass soon enough.”
You managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
His reassurance was sincere, and you knew he meant it kindly, but it did little to quiet the shame that lingered in your chest.
As the evening wore on, the musicians eventually struck up a livelier tune. The feast slowly shifted into dancing, couples rising from their seats as the center of the hall cleared.
You watched absently as the first pairs took the floor... but then your breath caught.
Valarr had stepped down from his seat and extended his hand—not to you. Kiera of Tyrosh accepted it with a bright smile.
Your fingers curled in your lap as you watched them join the dancers.
Kiera moved gracefully beside him, her gown sweeping across the floor as they turned together. They made a handsome pair—your composed prince and the elegant daughter of a powerful lord. The lords and ladies in the hall had noticed as well.
“She suits him…”
“A fitting match…”
Each word sank into your chest like a needle and the longer you sit here, the more you couldn’t bear to watch the dance floor any longer.
Rising quietly from your seat, you began to make your way toward the edge of the hall, hoping to slip away before the sting in your eyes betrayed you, however...
“My princess.”
You froze. Prince Aerion suddenly appeared before you, his silver hair gleaming beneath the candlelight. He bowed slightly and offered his hand, though the smile that followed was anything but respectful.
“Would you grant me this dance?”
Your first instinct was to refuse, but then you realized too many eyes were already on you. Refusing him openly would only feed the whispers further. Biting back your anger, reluctantly, you placed your hand in his.
Aerion led you to the dance floor, and he drew you into the proper steps with unsettling ease.
“You look miserable tonight,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
“I am merely tired, my prince,” you replied stiffly and Aerion chuckled, almost tauntingly.
“Such loyalty to a man who leaves you sitting alone while he dances with another.”
“Prince Valarr is my husband,” you hissed.
“Yes,” Aerion’s violet eyes lit with a manic glint, “and yet I cannot help but think you would fare far better with me instead.”
“Do me a favor and cease this nonsense.”
“But it is true.” His grip tightening slightly at your waist as the dance carried you through another turn. “I would never leave you sitting alone while the court talks about you.”
You said nothing. You simply endured the remainder of the dance in tense silence.
The moment the music ended, you pulled away hurriedly. Without waiting for his reply, you turned and left the hall.
The air in the corridors felt cooler, quieter. You exhaled slowly, hoping the distance from the feast would steady your thoughts. Footsteps sounded behind you to disrupt your newfound peace, however.
“Running away so quickly?”
You sighed. “Aerion, please—”
He followed you down the corridor regardless, his long strides quickly closing the distance. Before you could move again, he stepped in front of you, blocking your path in the empty hall.
“You avoid me as though I were a monster,” he said with a faint laugh.
“Because you behave like one,” you snapped.
His smile sharpened. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrists. “Aerion— let go!”
But he did not move. Instead, he pushed you back a step until your shoulders brushed the cold stone wall behind you.
“You deserve better than that dull, careful cousin of mine.” Aerion leaned closer, his face only a mere inch from yours. “A princess should not waste herself on a dragon who barely burns.”
“I will hear no more of this—!”
For a moment, his grip tightened hard enough to bruise, his gaze dark, and the deserted hall suddenly felt far too small.
His hand slid from your wrist to your arm, pressing you firmly against the wall. He leaned down, attempting to seize your lips in a rough kiss—
You turned your head sharply, the contact landing against your neck instead. Panic surged through you as you shoved against his chest.
“Aerion, stop!”
Your voice broke into something close to a shriek as you struggled against him. His hold only tightened as he tried again, heedless of your resistance.
. . .
The banquet hall had become suffocating for Valarr too.
While he had asked Kiera of Tyrosh for his first dance, it was out of courtesy since he had been talking to her. What he had not expected was to see you take the floor with Aerion out of all people.
It made him restless, because even though everything was false, the fact that it had become such a rumor in the first place meant he wasn’t able to protect you. And lately there had been a strained distance between you he had been meaning to mend too.
His gaze moved across the tables, searching instinctively for you. He was thinking maybe he could excuse both himself and you from the feast and retire to your chambers. When he didn’t find you, he stepped out to the corridors.
And that was when he heard it. A muffled cry.
Valarr turned the corner— and the sight that greeted him was one he would never have imagined could happen even in his nightmares.
You pinned against the wall, your dress disheveled, tears in your eyes as you struggled against the man holding you in a very compromising position.
Aerion.
For a heartbeat Valarr did not think. Could not think. That was also when the world seemed to narrow into something blindingly red—
He lunged. His hand seized the back of Aerion’s collar and tore him away from you with brutal force. The sudden motion sent his wretched cousin stumbling back a step before his fist followed like a punishment.
Bam!
The punch landed squarely on his jaw and the Bright Prince staggered under the blow. Valarr’s chest heaved, every muscle in his body coiled tight with rage. For a moment it took everything he had not to strike again.
“Valarr!” you gasped, immediately pulling him back. He turned to you only to find your shaking hands and tear-streaked face— and the sight made his heart lurch in his chest.
Your husband forced himself to step back towards you as he glared at his kin. His voice, when it came, was tight with restrained fury.
“I will regain my honor tomorrow. At the joust.”
Valarr did not wait for Aerion to answer as he took your hand firmly, and pulled you away from the corridor, leading you back towards your marital chambers.
Behind you, Aerion remained where he stood. His cheek throbbed where the punch had landed, but he barely felt it as much as the sting that burned incessantly in his chest.
Because in his own twisted way—
Aerion had already given his heart to you too.
The door to your marital chambers barely closed when Valarr turned to face you and placed both hands on your shoulders, checking you over.
“Did he—” His voice faltered slightly before he forced the words out. “Did Aerion do anything to you?”
You shook your head like a limp puppet, still trying to process what had just happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened only slightly, but it was still there, still burning.
“You cannot challenge him tomorrow.” You started trembling, realizing the gravity of what he said earlier. “Valarr… please...”
He clenched his jaw. “He will answer for what he did.”
“You cannot do this over me!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “The entire court will be watching. If something goes wrong—”
“Something has already gone wrong,” Valarr cut in sharply. “Aerion has insulted me. He laid his hands on you— and you expect me to simply stand by and do nothing?”
“But you will be in danger—”
“I will be fine.”
“You will not!”
Your words echoed in the chamber, and for the first time, you saw how composure slipped from the Young Prince’s face.
“Is your faith in me truly so little?” he questioned, hurt. “Do you truly believe I cannot defeat him in a fair duel?”
“That’s not what I mean— he is a monster!” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in distress. The memory of Aerion’s grip on your arm flashed through your mind, followed immediately by the terrible image of Valarr lying bloodied in the arena. Your stomach twisted.
“You’ve seen how he fights. He has never cared for honor in a tourney. He plays foul whenever it suits him. I don’t want anything to happen to you—”
“But I would do anything for you!”
The words burst from him so suddenly, louder than you had ever him yell before, and you fell silent, wide-eyed.
“I cannot stand idly when my cousin dishonors the woman I love and pretend it means nothing!” Valarr continued, his voice sharp. “I cannot watch you be treated like that and remain silent!”
His knuckles curled into tight fists at his sides, the restraint he had always carried now visibly fraying.
“You think I care about the court’s whispers?” he went on, quieter now, his gaze on you almost painful. “No. Let them whisper.”
You shook your head weakly, tears falling. “Valarr…”
“I hate how they questioned your honor because of what we have been through, but even that is still better than seeing you in childbed again.”
Valarr looked away briefly, as though gathering the strength to continue. His eyes then returned to yours, heavy with something you had rarely seen from him—raw grief, as he shook his head.
“I will not put you through that again if I could help it. I cannot subject you to that ordeal again. Even if we are to remain childless— then so be it.”
His words struck you deep.
“I cannot watch you mourn our lost children again and again.” His blue and brown eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “The pain you feel… I feel it as well. And for all I know, it may be because of me.”
Your heart clenched painfully. This was not what you wanted to hear, and the sight of your composed husband broke down in tears was not something you wanted to see.
“I’m sorry I cannot give you healthy children,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry for taking away the joy that should have been yours. I’m so, so sorry that our marriage has brought you more grief than happiness. I’m sorry...”
So this was why he always apologized to you. You couldn’t bear it any longer.
Before he could say another word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around him.
“Don’t say that...” you managed amidst your own tears. “I’m the happiest with you. I could only endure all this with you by my side...”
His arms slowly came around you in return, holding you just as tightly—as though the two of you were the only things keeping the other from falling apart.
Because after all, before the throne, before the realm and its endless expectations— you and Valarr had always been, first and foremost, just two people who loved each other.
“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all the combatants!”
The tourney started at the crack of dawn. Knights in gilded armor lined the field while the stands overflowed with nobles and commonfolk alike, all eager to witness the spectacle.
You sat stiffly in the royal box beside Prince Baelor. Jousts had never excited you, the thunder of hooves and splintering wood only made your heart pound with dread rather than thrill.
The first round belonged to the lords of the realm. Knights from every corner of Westeros rode proudly into the lists as they tilted against one another. The crowd cheered loudly each time a lance shattered or a poor soul was thrown from his saddle.
Yet you barely watched— until a roar suddenly erupted from the crowd.
You looked up just in time to see Aerion lowering his lance after his last winning tilt. Across the field, Ser Leo Tyrell lay sprawled and bloodied in the dust beside his fallen horse.
The crowd cheered wildly as he removed his skull-like helm. Even from afar you could see the cruel curve of his smile. Not long after, he rode toward the royal box, stopping below the platform and looked up at you, making your insides churn uneasily.
“My princess,” he called smoothly, his eyes catching the morning sun. “Please grant me your favor.”
You truly hesitated, because you had wished to grant yours for your husband in the first place. But at Baelor’s urging and the knowledge that the house of the dragon must be seen united in front of these people, you relented.
You silently dropped the wreath to his lance, and he grinned in response.
“I shall wear it proudly,” he told you with a smirk.
You forced yourself not to respond. He rode away soon after, leaving murmurs of the audience who wondered why the prince royal was asking the favor of the princess consort of his own cousin in his wake.
The second round of the joust began not long after.
Many combatants gathered at the center of the field, their armor gleaming beneath the growing sunlight, and the herald raised his staff, announcing:
“Prince Valarr of House Targaryen, Heir of Dragonstone, will choose his opponent of the day!”
Valarr came riding into the arena atop his black destrier, his armor dark and polished like obsidian. He looked calm—almost impossibly so—as he surveyed the line of waiting knights.
Your heart pounded painfully in your chest as you watched your husband rode slowly past the gathered challengers. Then, almost immediately, he lowered his lance and pointed it directly at—
“Prince Valarr chooses Prince Aerion Brightflame, second son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall!”
Gasps rippled through the stands before they broke into cheers. Prince Baelor beside you exhaled slowly, and you clutched your heart.
Your felt sick to your stomach. He really made good on his promise to Aerion. “No...” your voice came out in a croak.
Noticing your distress for a while now, Prince Baelor reached over and gently took your hand.
“He will be fine,” he assured you as you squeezed his palm. You looked at him helplessly, tears already shining in your eyes.
Baelor watched his son ride into position with a thoughtful expression. “My late wife used to worry like you whenever Valarr entered the lists too,” he said then, a nostalgic smile on his face. “She would clutch my arm just as tightly.”
His gaze softened when your first tear fell and you hurried to wipe it. As a father, he was glad that his precious son had you to worry about him. He is in good hands, he thought.
Baelor too had taken measures to keep Valarr safe all this time, but he also knew that for better or worse, his son had inherited certain stubbornness from him, especially when he was after something he wanted.
The two royal princes of House Targaryen lowered their visors... and the first tilt began.
Your heart was in your throat as you knew the truth others didn’t. Valarr was not the most naturally gifted fighter. While Aerion thrived in the field as though born for it, Valarr had to earn his skills through relentless training and work harder than most to simply match what Aerion could.
And it showed. Each pass forced him to fight to remain upright in his saddle.
For the first three tilts, Valarr and Aerion broke their lances evenly. It was during the fourth tilt that disaster began.
Aerion angled his lance downward toward Valarr’s horse and the impact sent the animal crashing sideways. Your husband fell hard into the dust.
A cry escaped your lips, but before you could even breathe, he was already rising, demanding his right for contest of arms.
The clash of their blades echoed across the arena as they struck again and again. The fight was fierce, relentless, the princes accumulating wounds from each other.
Then Valarr knocked the morningstar from Aerion’s grip— the crowd roared as the two abandoned their weapons entirely—
And they fought with their bare hands.
. . .
Valarr’s head was still ringing from the earlier fall. The world swayed with each breath and he could taste his own blood, but he forced himself to remain standing as he lunged at his vile cousin.
Each time he remembered how he had forced himself on you the night before, his blood boiled, and it was what fueled him upright. However, Aerion was always the better fighter— his blows came hard and fast, and Valarr had to take several strikes to the face.
They were clearly wearing each other out. Every strike grew heavier, every breath harsher as the fight dragged on beneath the blazing sun.
Then suddenly—whether by chance or by the Seven’s judgment—Aerion stumbled.
And Valarr seized the moment. He surged forward and struck him again and again, every punch driven by the fury he had kept buried from the night before.
Aerion lost his footing and fell into the dirt. Valarr staggered forward, chest heaving, driving his boot sharply into his cousin’s chest.
“Yield,” he demanded through ragged breaths. “Yield, cousin!”
Aerion glared up at him, his silver hair matted with dust and his own blood, his face badly bruised. For a long moment it seemed he might refuse out of sheer spite as he spat on his boots.
“I yield.”
Done. It is done.
“Prince Valarr is victorious!”
The crowd thundered in cheers, but he barely heard it. His gaze lifted instead towards the royal box.
Towards you, who looked breathtakingly beautiful in the colors of Targaryen crimson and black. Even from the arena floor, he could see the track of tears on your cheeks. His heart warmed so much at the sight of you.
And seeing that, he vowed he would crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty by the time this tourney ended.
“I told you… I bloody told you!”
Your voice rang through the chamber as you hovered anxiously beside him.
Valarr sat at the edge of the bed after a maester finished binding another bruise along his ribs and left. Dark blotches were already blooming across his arms and shoulders, and a shallow cut near his mouth had been carefully stitched. Yet he boyishly grinned at your irked face.
“I only wished to win the victor’s laurel,” he said almost innocently, though the faint wince he tried to hide betrayed how sore he truly was.
“For what?” you demanded, looking pale after enduring days of anxiety that it made your gut not sit well with you, arms crossing over your chest. “So you could come back marred with bruises from head to toe?”
Valarr merely smiled. Because despite the aches in every limb, the memory of this morning still lingered warmly in his mind.
“I name you, my beloved princess... the Queen of Love and Beauty.”
The gasp had swept through the stands and everyone was stunned in silence before the cheers and well wishes roared the moment he dipped his lance towards you.
He had fought for eight days just for that, pushing his aching body to the edge so the realm could see exactly what he wanted them to see. A prince utterly devoted to his wife.
To Valarr, that alone had been worth every bruise.
But you were still glaring at him.
“And what if something worse had happened?” you continued, clearly not ready to forgive him so easily, a hand above your heart. “What if—”
But your words faltered as a sudden wave of nausea rose in your throat, the color draining from your face as your stomach lurched unpleasantly. You placed a hand over your mouth.
“What is it?” he started, concern sharpening his voice.
However, you were unable to answer him as the urge to throw up overwhelmed your senses. You turned abruptly, and hurried towards the chamber pot.
Valarr was on his feet instantly despite the protests of his battered body. “My love—”
He reached you just as you finished retching, both arms coming to steady you. “Are you unwell?” he asked, alarmed. “How long have you been feeling ill?”
You wiped your mouth with a trembling hand. The room seemed to sway slightly as you leaned against his bare chest for support. For a moment neither of you spoke as you evened your breath.
It was then that realization dawned on the two of you.
A thought—one both of you had not dared to voice—hung heavily in the air. You remembered that night on his desk, and you almost let out a gasp.
You had gone through this before, and Valarr felt the same fragile spark of hope stir in his chest, but he forced himself to calm down.
Your eyes slowly lifted to meet his, your hands shook slightly as Valarr took them in his own. He held you carefully, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles in quiet reassurance. His mismatched eyes held yours steadily.
“No matter what happens this time,” he declared, “I would stay beside you. I would take good care of you.”
You had heard his vows before—spoken before the gods, before the High Septon, before the realm itself. And never once had Valarr failed to keep his word.
If the Seven chose to bless you this time, then you would welcome the miracle with hope.
And if they did not… You would still have him. And he would still have you.
When he pressed a tender kiss to the side of your head, you knew that much was certain.
summary: prince valarr knows his duty as baelor’s heir is to secure the targaryen line and its claim to the iron throne for generations to come. a pretty wife like you has only made the responsibility easier to bear.
valarr targaryen x reader
warnings: smut, quickie, fingering, p in v, mating press, creampie, slight breeding kink.
masterlist
you’d always known your husband to be a dutiful prince, even before you wed; still, valarr’s devotion to siring an heir takes you by surprise. for the second time since morning, he’s sought to have you, seeking you out between his other less…titillating commitments.
he’d given you time enough only to disrobe before he laid you on your marital bed, his lips pressed against yours in a hungry kiss. his palms roam your skin freely, tracing a path down your body to where you truly need him.
“but, my prince, the small council meeting—” you’re silenced by your own gasp as his hand slips between your legs, circling your most sensitive spot. you feel the length of his hard cock pressed against your thigh; his urgency clear.
“they’ll wait,” he mumbles, trailing his lips down your neck.
his finger slides into you with ease, and he works you open gently, until a second digit is met with no resistance. you moan quietly, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling lightly at his silver streak. the prince smiles against your skin, grazing your throat with his teeth as he braces himself on either side of your body with his strong arms.
he aligns himself at your entrance and sinks into you in one graceful motion, his muscles rippling with strain. almost instantly, his head drops into your shoulder, his eyes screwing shut as your warmth envelops him.
“gods, you feel good,” he groans, rocking his hips steadily. your breathing is shallow, hampered by the fullness inside you. the prince quickens his pace as your walls relax around him, biting back another moan when he sees you reach between your bodies to touch yourself.
“i’ve been told it can…help the pregnancy take,” you tell him cautiously, your cheeks hot.
valarr’s mismatched eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watches your self-pleasure. fuck. careful to stay sheathed inside you, he hooks his hands under your thighs and pushes your legs back until you’re completely exposed to him. you whine at the newfound depth, feeling your cunt pulse around him rhythmically.
the new position sets fire coursing through the prince, whose thrusts become harder, unrestrained. your fingers move faster and your soft whines of his name melt into pleas as your belly tightens, your release building dangerously fast. valarr can’t help the smugness that tugs at him at the sight of you trembling at your own touch, so visibly overwhelmed by the size of him and his strong hands holding your legs open.
“wait—valarr, i’m—”
you cry out abruptly, unable to finish your thought as an orgasm tears through you fast and hot, burning you up from within. your cunt squeezes around him with abandon, the haste of the moment only adding to your arousal.
“fuck,” he rasps, his voice raw and his skin sheened with sweat. he’s fighting his own climax, but the feeling of your walls clamping around him, milking him, is almost too much to bear. yet, you give him no respite; you have a duty to him, after all.
you lock your ankles around his waist and pull him closer to you by the nape of his neck, your fingers coiling through his soft hair. “please,” you breathe, “come inside me, my prince. make me yours.”
those words are all it takes; with a deep groan, valarr throws his head back, spilling his seed into you in hot, thick spurts. you feel him twitch inside you as his sensitivity mounts, and when his hips finally stagger to a halt, his body drops onto yours.
his limbs feel molten and his heart rattles in his chest; the temptation to stay like this—buried inside you, with his face tucked into the crook of your neck and your hands running through his hair—is almost too strong to deny. still, a foggy memory of the small council meeting, to which he was now inexcusably late, drags him out of his bliss.
he sighs heavily and presses a loving kiss to your neck, lifting himself off you with care. you whimper when he slides out of you, the sudden emptiness unfamiliar. tucking your knees to your chest to keep his release inside you, you follow valarr with your eyes as he dresses himself with haste.
“do you think it worked?” you ask after a moment.
“time will tell,” he says, fastening his belt. he conceals it, but a smirk pulls at his lips.
the prince makes his way to you again, peering at your exposed cunt and the small droplet of his seed that seeps out of you. there’s a hint of pride on his face—something he oft tries to suppress, though you know it simmers just beneath the surface.
“until then, we will try again. and again. and again. as many times as it takes.” his voice is gentle, but you see fire behind his eyes.
“you’ll carry the blood of the dragon soon enough.”
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three moons, valarr had told himself. three moons of propriety, and the marriage will be consummated. he truly believed he could endure, even though you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
it takes his restraint—and yours—a mere three weeks to falter.
under the cover of midnight, his strong hands roam your body, clad only in your airy nightdress; his back is pressed to the heavy oak door of your bedchamber, your spine flush against his taut abdomen as he peppers wet kisses along the slope of your neck.
still in his black and crimson garbs, he’d spent all day warring with his conscience. he had hoped the dying of the day would steady him; perhaps his desire would subside in the stillness of the evening.
it did not.
his fingers hook around the delicate straps of your nightdress, and you shiver as the fabric pools at your feet; valarr’s clothes feel rough against your skin, but his hands are warm, and you cannot hold back a soft whine of his name. this is not dishonour, he reasons unconvincingly, feeling your nipples pebble beneath his touch. not yet.
“please, my prince,” you beg, arching against him.
his hardened length nudges your lower back, and heat pools in your womb, seeping between your legs, demanding relief. you are certain you’ve taken leave of your senses—to be caught like this would be to disgrace your family name—but the embers of lust burn too hot for you to care.
valarr’s hand dips between your legs to trace your silken slit, and your wetness sheens his fingers instantly. seven above. he wants nothing more than to fill you any way he can, to stretch you and make you his, but he cannot allow himself to sully you out of wedlock. you are too precious—to the seven kingdoms, to him.
and yet, he can feel his tip leaking through the confines of his breeches. fuck, can he truly deny you? you are to be his wife, joined for all your lives before the old gods and the new; does that not absolve this…this small indulgence?
“valarr,” you huff, bucking your hips against him. “please.”
“shhh. alright, darling,” he concedes finally, pressing his lips to your temple in a soothing kiss. “i have an idea.”
his free hand loosens the ties of his trousers, and his cock springs out, the tip flushed and sticky with his arousal as he slides between your thighs. your breath hitches; he’s thick and hot and velvet-smooth against your skin. his rosy head prods your entrance, and you instinctively grind down with a whimper, but your betrothed tuts in your ear.
“not yet, sweet girl,” he says, his voice laboured at the contact. he cups your mound, rings glinting in faint candlelight, and presses his fingers to his base to trap himself flat against your slit. he rocks his hips so that you glide over him from root to tip, and the sound you emit is divine.
“on our wedding night, hm?” he murmurs into your hair, feeling your fluids coat him. “i’ll fill you then, my bride, as many times as you please, alright? i swear it.” by the seven, he means it.
you nod weakly, hardly able to think with his manhood slotted between your legs. your moans grow louder each time the ridge of his head bumps your aching pearl, tightening the hot coil deep in your belly. your hand finds the nape of his neck, and your fingers weave themselves into his cropped hair, pulling softly. you whisper his name, and it sounds like music on your lips.
“you’ll be mine soon, darling,” he says, his voice ragged, “in truth and in name.” a dragon’s bride, guarded like gold. his cock is sensitive against you, and he feels you begin to tremble in his grasp; his arm wraps around your waist to keep you steady, his hips working tirelessly to coax out your release.
“that’s it,” he manages, his own peak drawing close as your throbbing cunt thrums against him. “let me hear you, my dove.”
with a sob, the coil in your belly snaps, and your climax seeps out of you, coating his cock like warm honey. you slump against valarr, his arm around you the only thing keeping your body upright. heat blankets your cheeks, your head spinning at the vibration of his moans against your back.
his release follows yours almost immediately. with a strained utterance of your name, valarr’s seed paints the inside of your thighs white in sticky, hot ropes, and he sorely wishes he’d spilled inside you instead. the prince’s forehead drops into the crook of your neck, and you feel his breath fanning out on your skin.
he stays sheathed between your thighs, his cock twitching, pressing kisses to your shoulder until your body softens in his hold. he knows what has transpired teeters dangerously on the edge of transgression, yet guilt evades him as your remnants trickle down his shaft.
he picks his head up, his two-toned eyes glancing out at the round moon glowing through the window, and a smile ghosts over his pink lips.
twenty long years ll i am his and he is mine (the wedding)
tags: friends to lovers; love confessions; repressed feelings; requited unrequited love; established friendship;
[[[Valarr and you are childhood friends. Only friends, you thought for such a long time that it became part of your narrative. Oh, you know him so well because you’re his friend. He looks at you from across the crowded ballroom because you are his oldest friend. There could never be anything else… could it?]]]
The wedding bells have not stopped ringing since dawn.
Not that it has affected your peace of mind in any great capacity. The last blissful sleep you had was a month ago, and no amount of silence or quiet could improve your mind since then. That restless, hawk-like screech of your head at daytime, that tiresome lead-like stillness at night. There hasn’t been any real calm since you stood before the good king Daeron with Valarr by your side, your hand clasped with his, proclaiming your love for his approval. You still remember the silence of his chambers. The tremor in your own voice. It felt like being cut open on a stone table and then being pulled apart by a pair of cold, careful hands.
You and Valarr were tasked with describing the indescribable, naming the nameless. You had spent the last thirteen years of your life cautiously denying the full force of what you felt for each other only to be dragged to the king’s private chambers, being forced to make a display of your affection, your unreasonable desires, your heart to the most powerful men in the kingdom as he sat on his chair gauzing you like some insect.
Prince Baelor had sat by his father’s side, his eyes—like Valarr’s—were cool, appraising. He had said nothing—for the whole of the inquiry—to you. He stared in that collected, indefinably interested way a maester might look at an odd creature. With equal amounts of fascination and understanding. At last, after both you and Valarr had said your childish pieces—Since we were children, it grew up with us, and now we do not recognise ourselves without it.
“I love her,” Valarr had said as an end-bargain.
King Daeron scoffed. “Love is inconsequential to people like us.”
“I need her,” he repeated, his voice cracked and grainy, “I need her to feel like myself, like someone I could admire.”
“You are not a child, Valarr,” his grandsire replied. “It is not only your life that we are concerned with. What is a king without restraint?”
“What is a king without a soul?” he said in return.
A pause. Something had struck inside the king, you could see the lines on his face deepen as his eyes flick to you. “That is what she is to you?”
“Yes, grandsire.” His hand had started to sweat, but your grip never loosened.
The king looked at you, then, and asked, “And what could you offer the realm?”
“My best,” you said. “My very best.”
There had been the faintest sliver of a smile on the old king’s lips. So faint, and so implausible, that you would have missed it if you had blinked. But you hadn’t dared to blink, or breathe, or even will your heart to beat steadily. You remembered how Valarr had always been in awe of his grandsire, how careful he was around the old king. He had always been afraid of saying the wrong thing, being the wrong person in front of him. Afraid of sounding like a child when he was nothing but. And now, he stands, your hand clasped in his, head held high and sure. Doing the most ridiculous and bravest thing you could imagine. Betting on happiness, a mercurial heaven in the brief, ephemeral life.
The decision came to you in the evening. King Daeron had accepted your betrothal to Valarr. The wedding was to be set in four moons from then.
_______
You turn in your bed, staring at the clearing sky with more nausea than you’d care to admit. It’s lilac, right now, with the rising sun out of your sight spreading its light all over the city. You know it is hovering at the horizon, somewhere along the tall, picturesque buildings. Absentmindedly, you touch the locket in your chest. A single, unbroken string of valyrian steel twisted in the shape of a wreath. The centre of it is encrusted with blood-red rubies and dark onyx. It makes the shadow of a spider and it is beautiful. You have never had something so precious before. It feels heavy, heavier than it did when Valarr first clasped it on your neck. He’d pulled you away from his mother’s lessons to a conspicuous corner of the garden. You had hushed at him when you first saw it.
“Only befitting a princess,” he said, a smile pulling at his lips. “My princess.”
His princess.
His.
The idea of belonging to him sent a spark of shiver down your spine. The gemstones sparkled in the sunlight. He took the necklace from your hand and steadied your back against his body. Unbeknownst to your turmoil, he pushed away your hair to the side. As the necklace touched your bare skin, the coolness of the valyrian steel against the warmth of early morning made you dizzy. You took a sharp intake of breath, surprised when he kissed you on the neck, the spot where your shoulders meet your throat.
“This mole here,” he whispered heavily, “makes me delirious.” The breathy whisper of his words caused gooseflesh to rise in your neck. “I have lost sleep over it.” Another kiss. “Dreamed about touching it.” Another, slightly higher, his tongue slipping out the barest bit to lick the mark you’d never given second thought to. “Mine, now.”
Your heart picked up its feeble pace. “Yours?”
“Certainly. As I am yours.”
You tilted your head to look at your prince. The ethereal, asymmetrical beauty of his face. The split of silver in his dark hair shone in the sunlight, his lighter eye so blue you had to make up another name for it. The uneven stubble, those dents on his face. The freckles and the smile lines. His lips were plush as he leaned down to press an almost chaste kiss on your mouth.
Yours, now.
—-----
You stare at the tiara in front of you with increasing desperation. It is undeniably beautiful. It’s made of silver, it seems, in the shape of dragon’s wings. There are miniscule, almost imperceptible diamonds and rubies all over the wings, making the tiara dazzle every time a ray of sunlight falls on it from some angle. It matches the colour of your wedding gown, the billowing silver skirt and the pale blue bodice shaped like feathers. The crown, as exuberant as it looks, is surprisingly light, feels like air in your hands as you take it from Matarys. He smiles at you, unaware, like his brother, about the turmoil in your heart.
“Mother says you are to wear it to the wedding,” he says. He looks a splitting image of his brother when he smiles expectantly. So much that you can almost hear him call you Princess. “It’s the same one she wore on her wedding day.”
“That’s so kind,” you say, your voice chafed and scared.
Matarys tilts his head, narrowing his eyes in the way children do when they see a problem they don’t know if they should indulge in. You try to smile, try to look reassuring and not the splattered, wound-up puppet you keep feeling inside. You have never had something so extravagant given to you before. You are afraid that you won’t know how to wear it, afraid that it would fall from your head when you enter the sept.
Matarys calls out your name and breaks you out of your dizzy, poisonous daydream. He is ready for the wedding, wearing the Targaryen black and red, his always unruly hair brushed to the side for once. Your hand reaches out to tousle it, like one long and dragging habit, and the smile on his face widens.
“You look beautiful, you know,” he says.
You purse your lips. The ladies have been at it since the first light broke above the tallest building. For almost five whole hours, the six ladies assigned to you by the princess Jena have been scrubbing, trimming, and polishing you with all their might. Their final produce is a sight to behold, you know. Your hair is done up, with intricate ribbons and braids made to look like wings. Between the ringlets of your strands, jewels of dazzling colours are studded with great precision. They catch the light in strange, unearthly grace every time you move. Your dress, the dress, is magnificent with its bellowing skirt, an intricacy of myrish laces and pleated pearls. Your face, too, is more lush, after all their efforts. More womanly, you feel. Less like yourself. You feel less like yourself, but a doll, a scared, precious doll.
“I’d hope so,” you say, smiling timidly, “since they are expecting me at the sept in less than an hour.”
“He’ll be there,” Matarys says reassuringly. “He hasn’t slept a blink last night. Egg and I wanted to put milk of poppy in his food to sedate him, but mother stopped us.”
“Is he scared, too?”
“No one’s scared.” Matarys takes a step and puts his arm around you to pull you into a warm embrace. “I have wanted to call you my sister for a long time. He is waiting for you. We have all been waiting for you.”
—----
The sept is sky high and terrifyingly beautiful.
You look at it with wide eyes from the slit of your carriage. You clasp your hands on your lap as you wait for the carriage to reach the Sept of Baelor. In front of you, your mother and father are looking just as nervous as you.
You feel for your parents. Though they have not been particularly careless about their future, they have been cautious. Your mother has thus yet lived in the lines of propriety, always hoping for just what was appropriate. All her life you knew your mother wanted you to marry well, live in comfort, find love in the dependency of your lord husband. And now, suddenly, you have catapulted them into the royal family, being important enough to stop conversations in rooms they walked in. Being the centerfold of the ever-unfolding gossip of court.
“From the moment you say your vows,” your mother starts just as you reach the sept, “you will be a princess.”
“I’ll still be me, I hope.”
She goes on as if she hasn’t heard you. “I pray for your success.”
You purse your lips, feeling the rouge there bleed a little inside your mouth. A princess, Valarr’s mother had said—in one of the many lessons she insisted on giving you to prepare you for the life ahead—belongs to the realm. A princess has a duty to the people to be a paragon of virtue, a noble voice in times of turmoil, a wife to a great king and a mother to formidable princes. A princess must be more than a person, she said. Amidst the litany of lessons, you felt your soul chafe a little.
Those are heavy words, heavy vows. You still think you are a girl who fell in love with a boy. And only starting to commit to the choice of keeping that love and everything that comes with it. Valarr was right. All you ever wanted was him. Only the truest and the most delectable parts of him. You never before had considered the actuality of having a prince of the realm. The thing that he feared. It was now your duty to safeguard the thing, too.
Inside the sept there are a hundred blooming roses. They are a multitude of colours ranging all the moods of a summer sky. The blue roses are plenty, and lovely. An avalanche of candles are blinking at you, brightening the already sunlit room. There are people from all the great houses on both sides of the room. As the door slides open, they stare at you and your father at the entrance. Your mother has already taken her place among the mass, leaving your father to walk you down the aisle.
Sensing your shallow breaths, your father takes your hand and squeezes it. At the end of the path, there stands Valarr, awaiting your arrival.
“You are lovely, and you are my daughter,” your father says softly. “Never forget that.”
You take a short, careful breath. “I won’t.”
“These are the times that will try your soul. Everyone shall want different parts of you. So you will keep close to your heart the truest bit of yourself, remember the littlest things about yourself. You may become a princess today, but to me you are my daughter who likes canaries and roses and shaved ice.”
The ache in your chest stirs at your father’s words. A sensible man, your father, always contrite in his words. There is something different in his voice, like the taste of salt in the back of your throat. You nod, careful to blink away the moisture pulling at your eyes.
The High Septon raises his hand and you start walking. Your father holds your arm, secured, guarded. Your head is heavy, memories of the long-lost, transparent childhood of yours knock at your head. Memories of running in the garden, hiding in the library, of lying awake in your bed—dreaming of this day exactly. The smell of incense has thickened the air. By the corner of your eyes, you see your mother standing close to Prince Baelor and Princess Jena. The King is nodding at you. The kids are all here, with faces as bright as the sun. You lean onto your father with all your might as you walk towards the rest of your life.
As you reach the end of the podium, the sunrays spilling through the skylight blinds you a little. You blink, repeatedly, a little desperately, to make the sight before you clear. You see the shadow of him, the blood-red cloak that he puts over your shoulder. You identify the familiar rings in his fingers as he takes your hands into his own trembling ones. You look up, and there he is.
Your boy. Your prince.
“Gods,” Matarys whispers. “He is crying.”
And so he is. You stare up at the boy you love, the one who has kissed you senseless more times than you can count in the last four months, who has an affinity with creatures that lack voices, who likes wine—but never drinks alone, who like the barely-there mole in the juncture of your neck, who has promised to love you passionately for all eternity. You see him, the tears shining in his beautiful eyes, and you feel the tears sliding down your face as well.
No one’s scared.
You have been waiting for him all your life, too.
The High Septon commences the ceremony. In a daze of the purest bliss, you utter the words together. Your words fuse together so seamlessly, you cannot discern your voice from his, your promise from his, your love from his.
“I am his, and he is mine.”
From this day, until the end of my days.
—---
You don’t get to talk after the wedding.
Because suddenly there is a whirlwind of people around you, looping you from all sides. They shout your names, a prayer for your long life, hearty children, an eternity of bliss—goodwills besiege you from all around and you feel breathless, helpless, terrified by your own happiness and how painfully aware your heart is beating against your ribcage. You feel your corset tighten, the shadow of Valarr’s kiss a burn against your lips, the air is thick and lusious—too much, too much.
Amidst the incoming of the faceless masses, your grip on Valarr’s hand as the only thing that isn’t moving. It is steadfast, flush, and secure. You both are whirled to greet all the noble guests present at the sept, exchanging smiles and greetings. You are separated for a tiresome period to embrace the closer relatives, before being put back together like pieces of the sample riddle.
“Don’t be nervous,” he whispers, leaning to your ear. “I have you.”
“I have you back,” you reply, feeling the truth of it in your heart.
—---
Prince Baelor offers you his hand at the feast.
In the middle of the great hall, you have been dancing with Egg, his eyes dazzling with pride, as he laughs and twirls you around. You skirt fans out, covering your body in an impromptu halo. You chuckle, breathless, helpless, senselessly happy as you tousle his hair with pure adoration. It takes you a moment to realise that Prince Baelor has reached you, holding out his hand to you with undeterred assurance. The tip of his crooked nose is pointed at you, his mismatched eyes, only a shade darker than Valarr’s, is regarding you with his full attention.
Your breath hitches a little. He is the epitome of grace, polished and sparked. There is a sense of gravitas in him, he pulls everyone else in wherever he walks. You feel the eyes of the whole room on you.
He holds your waist, you position yourself to his left. “Nervous?”
“Terrified.”
You dance. He is effortlessly adept, smoothing your trembling steps as if he isn’t even noticing you fumble with nervous feet. “You should be.”
You start to answer, but he twirls you with ease. As your hands meet again, he says, “It was a brave thing you both did. And I don’t think we should know the full force of it until a few more years. The smallfolk are deviously mercurial. Terribly cruel to those they deem unfit. I myself have been called unseemly things only because they thought I was less Valyrian-looking than my predecessors.” He tilts his head to catch your eyes. “But I suppose I should not count myself ostracised. I have never been an outsider.”
“No, you haven’t been, your grace.”
“It’ll take time.”
You only nod. The golden room around you spins to the rhythm of your steps.
“I have always liked you. And I knew you held a special place in Valarr’s life. I just had never imagined that it would… lead to this.
“Now I see that I should have. I had been training my son to be a perfect prince, the one who knew all the laws by heart, who could trace the map of Westeros by memory, know all the allegiances that marked through this realm like veins, a prince that can lead an army and never be questioned. It has been a daunting task, an impersonal task, at times. And now I see that while I attained a near-close perfect prince, I neglected my son in the meantime. All that time he came late to a council meeting, when he’d be knocked over in the training yard because he was occupied looking sideways for someone else. How he was never particularly interested in the scores of maids who wanted his attention. I knew he favoured you to some degree, but I see that I have neglected to see inside his heart and gauze just how much.”
“How much?” you ask, feeling a little lightheaded. Though his voice is kind, you cannot ascertain whether he is accusing you. He’s never spoken so much to you before. “What do you think, now?”
“Enough to risk his destiny.” He tilts his head, his eyes catching yours. “He told me it was you or nothing.”
You purse your lips. It terrifies you. It electrifies you.
“Are you angry at us?”
“How could I be? You, my darling, have made us see just how human we are. I had gotten quite used to being the heir, and I was raising a son who would one day fill my place. I was raising a spoke on a wheel constantly turning around. And now I find that I have a son with a beating heart. It is an extraordinary thing to realise that you have raised a person who could love the way he did when he kissed your foot in front of the entire city. And better yet, that he could be loved back with the same force. You showed me a future king that can kneel. Am I angry with you?”
Prince Baelor motions his head to the side, and you follow his eyes to find Valarr, your husband, staring at the two of you. He has a goblet in his hand, and is leaning to his mother with a smile on his face, but his attention is unmistakably on you..
“Look at him,” his father says. “I have never seen him like this. So full of life, like it all weighs nothing. As a father, I am overjoyed that you married him. As the heir… I am hopeful. You promised your very best. I hope you make good on that promise.”
“I shall.”
“Thank you.” He kisses the side of your head with unexpected warmth. “Welcome to our family, daughter.”
I hope you missed these two yearners :) I'm planning the wedding night next :) if i can make it.,,
