They pitied you.

You saw it in the way court ladies lowered their voices when you passed, in the sideways glances heavy with false sympathy. Such a sweet girl, they whispered behind jewelled fans. Too gentle for him. As if the gods themselves had been cruel, binding you to a man the realm knew only as fury given flesh.

Aerion Targaryen was legendary for his fiery temper and violent nature—a feral dragon with no leash, some called him. 

And to know you—the darling of the realm, the only daughter of Baelor Targaryen—was to mourn what they believed your fate to be. Married to your brute of a cousin, shackled to a monster. They spoke of you in hushed tones, wondering how long it would take before his temper turned fully upon you.

What they did not realize—what no one seemed to remember—was that you had grown up with him.

You knew Aerion’s temper better than most, if not everyone. You had seen it spark in boyhood, had learned the difference between fury born of pride and fury born of pain. You knew how to soothe him, yes—but more importantly, you knew why he burned.

And what they always forgot, in their eagerness to cast you as the lamb, was that you were a Targaryen as well.

Not a meek Tyrell rose to be crushed beneath dragonfire—but blood of the dragon, raised in its heat, fully capable of wielding it yourself.

Yet you played the part of a delicate flower exceedingly well.

Pious. Gentle. The very image of a proper lady. You chose needlework over steel, afternoons in the gardens over the clangour of the training yard with the giggling ladies who chose to admire the men with their bloodied knuckles and sharpened blades. You were content—so it seemed—to sit beneath the sun with pastries and warm tea, fingers weaving flower crowns as birdsong drifted through the air.

After his training, Aerion would often find you beneath the old Weirwood tree, as you rested against its pale bark carved in the grass, flowers gathered in your lap. Armour discarded, skin still warm with exertion, he would wander over and without prompting, he would lower himself beside you before laying his head against your thighs as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your fingers never faltered.

You would place the finished crown upon his silver head, blossoms resting against pale hair, before threading your hand through the short strands at his nape. The fury that followed him everywhere else eased beneath your touch. His breathing slowed. His temper, soothed into something quiet and dangerous only in potential.

“One day,” you murmured softly, voice meant for him alone, “you will wear the conqueror’s crown.”

His eyes lazily opened to meet yours, before softening. Calloused fingers reached up, gentler than any would have believed possible, brushing your cheek as though committing the feel of you to memory.

“One day,” he said vowed, “you will be my queen.”

It was in moments such as these—when no eyes were there to watch—that Aerion allowed his guard to fall. All dragons required their treasure and you were his.

There would never be another worthy of you.

Any lord who expressed their desire to marry you were dealt with swiftly and brutally, often leaving a bloodied mess. 

All the while you said nothing and offered no protest content to let them believe you were fragile as spun glass. A lamb wed, with no choice, to a beast.

At feasts, you were most often seen seated quietly at his side. You listened more than you spoke, offering soft smiles, polite courtesies, and gentle bows of your head when addressed. Your voice was rarely raised above a murmur.

When you and Aerion spoke, it was in low, private tones, words breathed into one another’s ears. Many mistook it for control—for a husband keeping his timid wife close and carefully managed.

They never saw your fingers intertwined beneath the table.

They never noticed the slow stroke of his thumb against your skin, nor the way he leaned ever so slightly toward you, gazing at his most precious treasure with a look few would have believed him capable of—a look of love.

Aerion Targaryen loved you.

For all his many faults, it was the one truth you would never deny. Those who doubted it simply had never seen what happened behind the doors of your chambers.

Tonight, for instance.

Aerion stormed in long after the sun had sunk beneath the horizon. His temper was apparent even in his silence, you could see it through his body with how tight his jaw was clenched and how tense his shoulders were. 

Through the mirror, you watched him.

Your fingers were steady as you removed the last of your jewelry, placing each piece carefully upon the vanity. Behind you, Aerion said nothing at first. He only tore the gloves from his hands and flung them aside with a force that echoed softly against the chamber walls.

You didn’t even flinch and instead calmly rose from your seat, making your way over to him.

“My love,” you said gently. 

His jaw was clenched so tightly you feared his teeth might crack.

“Another lord with too much wine and too little sense,” he snarled at last, the words scraped raw from his throat. “They dance on the line of treason and call it wit.”

His pacing was restless, a predator caged in silk. One hand dragged through his pale hair, fingers flexing as though already imagining a throat beneath them. The firelight caught along his profile, sharpening him into something dangerous and divine all at once.

“They forget themselves,” he continued, voice low and coiled. “They forget who I am.”

You reached him before the fire, your hands warm as they slid over his shoulders. “You needn’t concern yourself with them,” you murmured, thumbs pressing slow circles into the knotted muscle there. “Not when you are blood of the dragon. Leave the sheep to their bleating.”

His breath left him in a slow, heated exhale, tension shifting beneath your touch but not yet gone. “They grow bold,” he muttered. “Too bold. A few cups of wine and they think themselves clever enough to test me.”

Aerion’s hands came to rest at your waist. “Lord Wylde thinks my place is behind my brother,” he said, voice rough with restrained fury. “Spoke of rightful lines and order… as though I am meant to bow my head and be grateful for scraps.”

Your fingers moved from his shoulders to his neck, slow and steady, feeling the frantic pulse beneath warm skin.

“And what did you do?” you asked gently.

A humourless smile touched his mouth. “Nothing… yet.”

He would not—not while his father still watched from the high seat, weighing sons and measuring heirs. Aerion knew the value of restraint in public. A prince must wear composure like armour.

But he never forgot a slight.

“Good,” you whispered, brushing your thumb along his jaw until his gaze lowered fully to you. “Let him think the matter rests. Let him believe he is safe… for now.”

Aerion studied you for a long moment, something dark and knowing passing through his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly.

You nodded once. “Tomorrow,” you agreed. “He will be on his knees, repenting for his words.”

And tomorrow, someone would learn what it meant to mistake a dragon’s patience for mercy.

His breath shuddered, just once. No one ever noticed how quickly his anger softened for you—how your voice, your touch, could pull him back from the edge where others only ever saw him burn.

You guided him to sit and slipped his cloak from his shoulders, the heavy fabric pooling soundlessly at his feet. Your fingers moved through his pale hair with quiet reverence, as if he were something precious rather than feared.

“They provoke you because they envy you,” you whispered. “Because they know you are stronger.”

His shoulders finally eased beneath your hands. His eyes closed, dark lashes stark against pale skin.

“You always know what to say,” he muttered.

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “That is what wives are for.”

Your fingers traced gently down his neck, soothing the last of the tension from him. “Come,” you murmured, voice warm and low. “Let the water wash the day from you. You’ve carried enough of their filth already.”

You called for the servants and had the bath drawn, ensuring the water was hot enough that any ordinary person would have recoiled from it—but for the two of you, it was just right.

Steam curled thick in the air, scented with oils and crushed herbs steeping in the water. Firelight shimmered across the surface, golden ripples dancing against stone as waves of heat rolled outward.

You dipped your fingers in to test it, nodding faintly in approval.

“Leave us,” you said when one of the servants reached for a cloth to begin tending to him. Your tone was gentle, but firm. You would care for your husband yourself tonight.

They bowed at once and withdrew, the heavy door closing with a muted thud that left only the crackle of the hearth and the soft lap of water against the bath’s edge.

A small smile curved Aerion’s mouth as he watched you through hooded lids. It was always a rare indulgence when you chose to tend to him yourself.

You stepped back to him, fingers moving to the clasps of his tunic. He did not speak, but his eyes never left your face, the earlier storm in them now banked to embers.

“Sit,” you murmured.

He obeyed without hesitation, lowering himself to the edge of the bath as you knelt before him, hands steady as you helped him out of the last of his clothing. There was no shame between you two— only familiarity and trust.

When at last you guided him into the water, he exhaled deeply, tension easing from him in a way no words ever could. The heat embraced him, steam curling around his shoulders as the day’s strain began to melt from his frame.

You slipped out of your nightdress, letting the fabric fall in a soft whisper to the ground, and stepped into the bath under his quiet, appreciative gaze. The water embraced you at once as you moved behind him, settling so his back rested against you.

Your hands moved to his shoulders, dipping a cloth into the water before drawing it slowly over his skin. 

Aerion’s head tipped back slightly, eyes closing as your fingers worked along the tight lines of muscle at his neck. Your lips brushed a feather-light kiss against damp skin, and he hummed low in his throat.

“Careful, wife,” he murmured, voice roughened by heat and the slow unwinding of tension. “You’re making it difficult to remember why I was angry.”

Your smile ghosted against his skin, unseen but felt. “Then let it be forgotten,” you replied softly.

Your hands continued their unhurried path, tending to him with quiet devotion, washing away the day’s dust and the weight of swallowed fury. Aerion’s hand found your thigh beneath the water, his thumb tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin as he relaxed further into your touch.

For a while, there was only the sound of water shifting gently around you and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Then his grip tightened.

In one smooth movement, he turned, drawing you with him, guiding you onto his lap. The water stirred, heat rippling between you as his arms came around your waist.

“My sweet wife,” he murmured, voice low and warm, the earlier storm now long faded. “How gently you care for me.”

You leaned down, your lips finding his.

Where your touch had been gentle, his answer was not. The kiss deepened, hungry and demanding and you only submitted to his need. His hands tightened at your hips as he pressed you down against his length. 

Your mouth dropped open as a shuddering breath escaped your lips while he slowly filled you. Hs lips left yours, trailing warmth along your jaw and down the curve of your neck before finding your nipple. His hot mouth closed around the nub, gently suckling, and you let out a whine as your hips shifted, chasing the pleasure that was offered but not yet enough.

Your body jerked as he bit down gently before soothing the sting with his tongue. “Patience, my heart.”

With his grip preventing your hips from moving, you had no choice but to accept what he gave you. Your core clenched down around his cock, fluttering in need of more friction, but he refused, taking his time, alternating between your breasts as he lavished them with attention.

“Please, Aerion,” you pleaded.

He smirked, one hand moving from your hip and trailing closer to your core, the slow tease earning another desperate whine from you. His fingers finally found your clit, and your lashes fluttered as he began drawing slow circles.

“Is this what you needed, my love?” he murmured, voice low and warm against your skin.

You nodded, breath unsteady, fingers tightening, nails digging into his shoulder and leaving bright red lines against his pale skin. “More… please.”

You leaned forward, lips meeting his, your teeth sinking into his bottom lip and earning a sharp hiss from him. You smirked as you felt his grip tighten, his restraint fraying. You clenched down on him again, and he snapped—grabbing you and hauling you off his lap, turning you and before you could react to the sudden emptiness. He pushed your upper body against the lip of the tub before driving into you roughly.

One hand gathered your hair into his fist, sharply pulling your head back and forcing your spine to arch as he continued his relentless pace.

“Is this what you needed?” he crooned. “To be treated as if you were my whore?” he grunted, hips snapping sharply with each word.

You could only whine, mouth open as your fingers braced tightly against the bath’s edge. The cooling water sloshed over the sides, spilling onto the floor in wide puddles, but neither of you paid it any mind.

Pleasure and pain were offered to you in equal measure, a heady combination that left your mind foggy and focused only on your husband.

His fingers strummed against your clit faster, and you felt yourself tighten against him. He groaned, his thrusts growing sloppier as his control slipped away. His fingers pinched down, and you finally unraveled with a scream, your body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

Aerion followed moments later, a breathless grunt falling from his lips as he spent himself deep inside you. He gave a few more thrusts, prolonging the sensation, before finally stilling, his forehead dropping briefly against your back as the last of his strength gave way to the aftermath.

For a long moment, neither of you moved—only the sound of shared breathing and the soft crackle of the fire filled the chamber.

“One of these days,” he murmured hoarsely, still catching his breath “your belly will swell with my child.”

You answered with nothing more than a quiet, breathless hum, too content to form words.

After a few lingering moments, Aerion shifted, withdrawing carefully. A small whimper slipped from your lips at the sudden emptiness. He rose from the bath first, then slipped his arms around you, lifting you with effortless strength from the now-cooled water.

Cradled against his chest, you let your head rest against his shoulder as he carried you across the chamber. Water droplets clung faintly to your skin as he laid you gently upon the bed, the furs soft beneath you. He joined you moments later, pulling you close as the firelight flickered over tangled sheets and tired limbs.

You stayed with him until the fire burned low and his breathing evened, his head resting against your shoulder like a great, slumbering beast temporarily tamed. When you were certain sleep had claimed him, you eased yourself free with careful patience, pulling the furs up around his broad frame.

Then you rose, calmly slipping on a robe to cover yourself. The sweetness drained from your expression as swiftly as a candle snuffed between fingers.

Moving soundlessly, you crossed to the door and slipped into the corridor beyond, where a guard in your service stood watch. He straightened at once and dipping his head.

“Princess.”

“Find Lord Wylde,” you said quietly. “The one who insulted my husband tonight. And send word to our friends in the city,” you continued. “I want to know who he owes money to, who his heir beds in secret, and which of his bannermen grumble behind his back. Anything and everything about his dirty little secrets.”

The guard bowed his head again. “At once, Princess.”

With that, you slipped back into your chambers and moved to your desk. Sitting down, you unfolded a fresh piece of parchment. Your hand was steady as you wrote. Unlike your husband, you were not one to raise your voice or rage.

Your ruthlessness did not require noise.

By morning, Lord Wylde would be given a choice: comply quietly, publicly repent his insults, or watch his name unravel piece by piece until nothing remained but ashes and shame.

You glanced back toward the bed, where Aerion slept peacefully, untroubled.

They believed you endured his temper.

The truth was far more dangerous.

Aerion burned the world when provoked—

but you were the one who decided who would be reduced to ash.