Chapter Text
The heat in the Reach wasn’t anything like the heat of King’s Landing. In the capital, the summer air smelled of shit and old fish; it was a dry, baking oven that trapped the city against the Blackwater. Here at Ashford, the heat was contrastingly green. It rose from the meadow damp and heavy —distinctively too heavy— smelling of crushed grass, horse sweat, and the river. It clung to the skin like a second layer of silk, inescapable and suffocating.
Clarice Arryn sat on the edge of the camp bed, her blonde hair crimping at the ends, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach. The child was kicking again; a frantic, rhythmic drumming against her ribs that felt less like a baby and more like a trapped bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage in an idle attempt to escape.
A dragon, she thought, the notion tired and familiar.
She was six months pregnant, heavy enough that her balance had shifted, and that daily activities had become nothing short of grueling exercise. She stared defeated at the leather straps lying limp on the rug, then at her swollen ankles. The once simple act of fastening her sandals felt impossible now.
The tent flap swept open.
It didn’t flutter; it was shoved aside with the sharp snap of brute force. Aerion entered. He brought the day’s violence in with him; the metallic tang of fresh oil on armor, the smell of a cheap wine and ale, and that peculiar, electric tension that seemed to crackle around him whenever he was bored.
And Aerion Targaryen was currently very, very bored.
He stopped in the center of the pavilion. He was wearing a doublet of red velvet that looked far too heavy for such suffocating weather, slashed with black satin, the three-headed dragon embroidered in golden thread upon his chest. His silver hair sat short, glaringly too short, over his skull, and his violet eyes were bright, restless, and cruel. He was undeniably magnificent to look upon, in the way wildfire or a venomous viper are magnificent.
He looked at her. He didn’t smile. He never smiled when he looked at her; he merely assessed, his gaze traveling from her face to the mound of her belly, then back up to her eyes. He curled his nose.
“You look ghastly,” he said. His voice was melodic and clear, cultured in a way that made every sentence sound like it was carved in judgment.
“And you, husband,” Clarice replied, her voice dry and cool, “look like a summer mummer who has raided a brothel’s wardrobe. Did you steal from a street juggler?”
Aerion’s lips quirked into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a smile that usually promised violence to everyone else, but for her, it was simply the opening move in their daily game. He crossed the room, stripping off his riding gloves in a gesture of uncalled exasperation. “The humidity is a plague. I should have the river dammed. Or boiled.”
“I’m sure the river is trembling at the threat, dearest.”
“It should.” He tossed the gloves onto a table cluttered with wine cups and maps. He began to pace, a prowling back and forth that made the large tent feel impossibly smaller. “The commons are already swarming. Hedge knights. Squalid little men riding dying horses, thinking they can joust against princes. It smells of unwashed bodies and desperation out there.”
“You invited yourself to their tourney, Aerion,” Clarice reminded him. “If you dislike the smell of hedge knights, you could have stayed in Summerhall.”
“And miss the chance to remind them what a true knight looks like?” He stopped in front of her, his shadow falling over her lap. He tilted his head. “Why are you half dressed? Baelor, may he choke on his own name, expects us at the evening meal. If you are late, he will look at me with that disappointed heavy lidded stare, and I shall be forced to set the table on fire.”
Clarice cleared her throat. “I can’t reach my feet,” she said simply.
Aerion stared at her. He looked at her feet, then at her face. His expression flickered between irritation, disgust, and then something else. Something swift and sharp and much too vulnerable that he buried before it could settle into his features.
Aerion let out a short, humorless breath. “Pathetic,”
He dropped to one knee.
Clarice didn’t move. She didn’t flinch, and she certainly didn’t thank him. She watched the top of his head as he took her left foot with his hand. His fingers were long and pale, yet surprisingly strong. He didn’t do it gently, Aerion didn’t do gently. He jerked the strap tight, winding the leather around her ankle with a precision that bordered on aggressive.
“You are an Arryn,” he said to her foot, his voice dropping to a scornful murmur. “Mountain stock. Supposed to be hardy. And yet, one half-formed dragon whelp and you are rendered invalid.”
“The dragon takes up a lot of room,” Clarice said, watching his hands. “It has your ego.”
Aerion pulled the knot tight —too tight, just for a second, a spiteful and vicious pinch of warning— before loosening it to a perfect fit. He switched to the other foot.
“Does it hurt?” he asked. He didn’t look up.
“The strap?”
“The child.”
Clarice thought about it. “Yes.”
He paused, his thumb tracing the bone of her ankle. It was a touch that lasted a fraction of a second too long to be accidental, but he withdrew his hand instantly, as if the contact burned him. “Good. Pain clarifies the mind. You’ve been too quiet lately.”
“I am conserving my energy. One of us has to have the temperament of an adult.”
He finished the second sandal and stood up in a single, fluid motion, towering over her again. He dusted his knees, though the rug was clean. “Get up. Wear the blue silk. The dark one that matches your eyes. I won’t have you looking pale and sickly next to Valarr’s wife. Kiera always looks like she’s just eaten a basket of plums.”
Clarice reached out a hand.
It was a test, it was always a test with them. They were common currency in their marriage.
Aerion looked at her hand. He sneered, a bitter curling of the lip that showed his teeth. “Can you do nothing yourself, you feckless woman?”
But he took her hand. His grip was hard, pulling her up with a force that was almost rough, but the moment she was on her feet and slightly swayed, his other hand snapped out, seizing her waist to steady her.
He held her there for a heartbeat. His palm was hot against her side, burning through the thin linen of her shift. He was close enough that she could smell the cloves he had chewed on to sweeten his breath, and the faint, blazing scent of his skin.
He looked into her eyes, searching for fear. He always searched for fear.
Clarice gave him none. She looked back, her dark blue eyes, the colour of the moonlit sea, calm and unblinking.
He released her abruptly and turned away, pouring himself a cup of wine. “My father is in a foul mood,” Aerion muttered. “Daeron has lost Aegon. The drunkard can’t even keep track of a child.”
Clarice remained quiet, placing her hands over her stomach. “Aegon is resourceful,” She then said, after taking a long breath. “He probably went to find a cooler place to sleep. Or to look at the knights.”
Aerion brought the cup towards his lips, not taking a sip, as if weighing her words. He then walked to the entrance of the tent. “Dress yourself. And hide the blade you like to hide in your sleeve. This is a tourney, not a back alley brawl.”
“It’s a small knife, Aerion. For fruit.”
“It’s an Essosi stiletto, Clarice. And you use it to clean your nails when you think I’m not looking.” He took a long drink, and dropped the goblet into the rug. “Hurry up.”
He vanished into the heat.
Clarice was left alone in the tent, but the air still felt charged with his presence. It was exhausting, being Aerion Targaryen’s wife. It was a constant dance on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he would push her or pull her back.
The pavilion of House Targaryen was a sprawling construct of black and red fabric, a temporary palace erected on the trampled, suffering grass of the meadow.
Dinner was an exercise in theatre.
Prince Baelor Breakspear sat at the head of the table, dark haired and broken nosed, looking most handsome in a simple, black doublet; radiating the kind of effortless authority that made Aerion grind his teeth. Next to him sat his son, Valarr, small and slim and brown haired, lacking the Targaryen look but possessing a quiet decency that Clarice had always found soothing.
Aerion hated them both. He hated them for their dark hair, and for the way the realm looked at them with hope, while they looked at him with wary, panicked caution.
Clarice sat at Aerion’s right hand. She wore the blue silk, as he had commanded. She usually wouldn’t do as such, as she enjoyed the confrontation, but today she chose caution.
Aerion was restless. She knew the signs well enough. He was yearning for conflict, for a reason to unleash the fire that so viciously burned under his skin. He felt slighted by his father, annoyed by his brothers, and bored by the peace.
Clarice ate small bites of roasted duck, acutely aware of Aerion’s leg pressing against hers under the table.
“The lists are in acceptable condition,” Baelor was saying, his voice a low, steady rumble. “Though the ground is soft near the river end. I’ve warned the master of games to lay down more straw.”
“Straw,” Aerion scoffed, stabbing a fig with his knife. “We are putting knights on horses, Uncle, not bedding down pigs. If a man cannot ride through a bit of mud, he has no business holding a lance.”
“A horse slipping can break a man’s neck, cousin,” Valarr said sharply. “Even a good rider.”
“Then the horse was weak, or the man was clumsy,” Aerion retorted. He sliced the fig in half, its purple flesh tearing open. “Natural selection. We coddle them too much. This is meant to be combat, not a dance.”
“It is a celebration,” Baelor said, his eyes now resting heavily on his nephew. “Not a war.”
“Is there a difference?” Aerion asked, smiling that bright, terrible smile.
Clarice felt the tension spike in the air, sharp as a needle. She reached for her goblet, her movement slow and deliberate.
“The difference,” Clarice interjected, her voice cutting through the silence, “is that in a war, the enemy is trying to kill you. In a tourney, they are only trying to knock you down. It bruises the pride more than the body. Perhaps that is what worries you so terribly, husband?”
The table went still. Valarr looked down at his plate, hiding a grin. Baelor watched them, his expression unreadable.
Aerion turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes were wide, violet irises that seemed too large swimming in white.
“My pride,” he said softly, “is not so easily bruised as a peach, sweet wife.”
“No,” she agreed, meeting his gaze over the rim of her cup. “It is more like glass. Hard, sharp, and spectacular when it shatters.”
Aerion stared at her. For a second, she saw the violence rise in him, a dark tide behind his eyes. He wanted to strike her. She knew it, and he knew she knew it. The air between them buzzed with the electric desire for conflict.
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Eat your duck, Clarice,” he said, his attention back to his plate. “Before you faint, and I have to drag you out by your hair.”
Baelor cleared his throat, unimpressed by his nephew’s threats. “Clarice, how is the heat treating you? You look flushed.”
Clarice smiled. “I am well, Your Grace,” she lied politely. “Aerion ensures I am... comfortable.”
“I ensure she is kept in the shade,” Aerion corrected, his hand dropping under the table to grip her knee. His fingers dug in, marking her skin. “Like a mushroom.”
The meal continued, a strained affair of pleasantries stretched thin over the rocky road that was Aerion’s temperament. Clarice played her part: the dutiful wife, the Arryn beauty. She smiled at Valarr’s jokes and nodded at Baelor’s wisdom.
But she was tethered to the storm beside her. Every time she laughed at something Valarr said, Aerion’s grip on her knee tightened. Every time she looked away, he shifted so his shoulder bumped hers. He was constantly checking, constantly verifying that she was there, that she was his, that she was paying attention to him and him alone.
When the meal ended, Aerion stood abruptly.
“Come,” he said to Clarice. “The air in here is stale. I want to walk the grounds.”
“Aerion,” Baelor warned, his eyes serious. “Do not antagonize the people tonight.”
“I only wish to see the stars, Uncle,” Aerion said, his voice dripping with false innocence. “Clarice is fond of astronomy. Aren’t you, my love?”
Clarice pursed her lips. “Immensely,” she said dryly.
Outside, the night had brought little relief from the heat. The air was thick with the smoke of a thousand campfires, the smell of roasting meat, and the raucous laughter of people.
Aerion walked with a swagger, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his eyes scanning the crowd with open, flaring contempt. He was looking for a fight, she knew. He always was.
He walked fast, his stride eating up the ground, forcing Clarice to keep pace. He didn’t offer her his arm. He walked slightly ahead of her, cutting a path through the crowds, expecting them to part for him. And they did. The sight of the silver-gold hair and the arrogant set of his shoulders was enough to make the smallfolk scramble into the mud.
“Look at them,” he sneered, gesturing vaguely at a group of squires gambling with dice near a crinkling fire. “Insects. They breed and they die and they leave nothing behind but dirt.”
“They grow the food you eat,” Clarice argued, keeping her hand on her stomach to dampen the jostling of her stride. “And they sew the velvet you wear.”
“And worms aerate the soil” he scoffed, “I don’t invite them to dinner.”
He stopped suddenly near the edge of the merchant’s row. A troupe of puppeteers were painting a wooden booth. There were bright dragons painted on the side, in an attempt to be crude and comical.
Aerion stared at the booth. His body went rigid.
“Mockery,” he whispered.
Clarice stepped up beside him. “It’s a puppet show, Aerion. It’s for children.”
“It’s a caricature,” he hissed, in a viperous gesture. “Look at the dragon. It looks like a lizard with the pox. Is that how they see us? Is that what they think we are?”
“They think you are powerful,” Clarice said, her voice firm. She stepped closer, invading his personal space, forcing him to look at her instead of the painted wood. “They fear you. And because they fear you, they make small jokes to make the fear manageable. If you burn down their booth, you only prove that you are exactly the monster they tell stories about.”
Aerion looked down at her. His face was pale in the torchlight, his eyes gleaminng. “I am the monster, Clarice. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“You are a prince who is currently throwing a tantrum over some plywood,” she argued. “It is beneath you.”
He stared at her, his chest heaving slightly. The violence was right there, bubbling under the skin, searching for a release. He wanted to hurt something.
“You have a sharp tongue,” he murmured, stepping in close. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. His fingers were cold now. “One day I will have to cut it out.”
“Then who would tell you when you’re being an idiot?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. For a long, terrifying moment, he didn’t move. She glared at him, her hand instinctively drifting to the small, concealed pocket in the folds of her sleeve where her dagger rested.
Aerion saw the movement. His eyes flashed with delight, with almost manic amusement. “Go on,” he whispered. “Draw it. Let the commons see the Lady of the Vale try to gut the blood of the dragon.”
“I don’t need a blade to gut you, Aerion,” she said softly. “I need only wait for your ego to swell large enough to burst your skull.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other amidst the dust and the noise of the camp. To an outsider, the tension between them might have looked like hatred ; like pure, unadulterated loathing. And it was, in a way. But it was also the only language they knew. It was the intimacy of knives, sharpening each other.
Then, he let out a short, barking laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound, but it broke the spell. “I should have had you poisoned at our wedding feast. It would have saved me a great deal of headache.”
“I recall you tried,” Clarice countered, forcing her tone light, conversational. “Or was that just the Arbor Gold? It tasted vile enough to be hemlock.”
“Next time I shall use the Strangler,” Aerion promised, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “I’ll watch the light go out of those big, judgment filled, delectable eyes.”
“Do try not to botch it,” she said. “Incompetence is so unbecoming in a prince.”
His thumb brushed over her skin, surprisingly gentle. It was this exact dichotomy that maddened her. He could flay a man’s skin off with a smile, but with her, his touch was often reverent, as if he were handling a rare, dangerous artifact that he didn’t want to break.
Suddenly, the baby kicked. Aerion’s hand flinched on her chin, his eyes darting to her stomach. He hesitated, then reached down, placing his palm flat against the curve of her belly.
The child moved under his hand, a rolling wave of pressure. Aerion’s brow furrowed, in a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face, as if he couldn’t quite reconcile the biology with the concept.
“He is restless,” Aerion murmured, his voice losing its edge for a fraction of a second. “He senses the tourney. He smells the blood in the air.”
“She,” Clarice was quick to correct him, “and she smells the roast pork from the kitchens, nothing more.”
Aerion’s hand stiffened over her belly. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “A son. It must be a son. A dragon, Clarice.”
“It will be a girl,” she said, offering him a sweet, venomous smile. “Just to spite you. She will have my nose and she will hate velvet.”
“Do not jest about legacy,” he hissed, though he didn’t remove his hand. He pressed slightly harder, as if he could command her womb to obey him through sheer force of will. “If it is indeed a girl, we will simply have to try again immediately. Until you get it right.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her she was a disappointment before she’s even born,” Clarice said dryly. “It will save you the trouble later.”
He withdrew his hand as if stung, standing up in a single, fluid motion. “Come,” he said, stepping away. “I saw a Dornish merchant selling Myrish lenses earlier. I want to see if they are flawed.”
Aerion turned and walked away.
CLarice lay in bed, clad in a loose shift of ivory cotton. She was reading a tome she had brought from the Eyrie, a history of the Andals, by the light of a single oil lamp.
The tent flap opened, and Aerion entered.
He brought the smell of the night with him, smoke, roasted meat, and wine. He had been drinking, she could tell, but he wasn’t drunk. Aerion didn’t get drunk like Daeron did; the wine only sharpened his edges, making him more vivid.
Aerion stripped off his doublet and threw it onto the floor. He paced the length of the rug, shirtless, his skin pale and smooth; his back all lean muscle moving like water over bone. He was beautiful, in that marble, statue way that Targaryens often were.
Clarice didn’t look up from her book, though she tracked his movements by sound. The rustle of fabric. The thud of boots. The splash of water as he washed his face in the basin.
The mattress dipped as he climbed into the bed beside her.
Clarice started counting the seconds before her peace were broken.
“Still awake,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She hadn't made it to ten.
“The noise,” she replied absentmindendly, turning a page. “It’s quite loud tonight.”
“They celebrate their own filth,” Aerion said, lying back against the pillows, placing his hands behind his head. He stared up at the red silk ceiling. “I saw a giant today, Clarice. A hedge knight. Huge brute. Thick as a castle wall.”
“Truly?” Clarice asked, feigning disinterest. “Did you insult him?"
“Not yet,” Aerion grinned at the ceiling, in a boyish manner. “But I will. He offended me.”
“How? By existing?”
“Precisely. He looked... presumpuous.” Aerion turned his head on the pillow to look at her. The lamplight cast deep shadows across his face, making his eyes look black, dangerous. He frowned. “Put the book away.”
“I’m reading.”
“You’re ignoring me.”
“I can do both.”
Aerion reached out and snatched the book from her hands. Clarice didn’t fight him; she just sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. He tossed the heavy volume onto the floor with a loud thump.
“Talk to me,” he commanded.
“About what? Your imaginary grievances? The color of your doublet for tomorrow?”
“About us.”
Clarice laughed; it was a short, dry sound. “There is no ‘us’, Aerion. There is you, and there is the person you are currently tormenting.”
He moved fast, shifting so he was hovering over her, bracing his weight on his elbows, careful not to crush her. His head fell forward, breath tickling her face. He smelled of wine and cloves.
“You challenged me tonight,” Aerion said, lowering his face until their noses almost touched. “In front of Baelor.”
“I spoke but the truth.”
“You undermined me.” He countered, “you made me look... managed.”
“You need managing, Aerion. You were ready to draw steel on a puppeteer.”
“He insulted the blood of the dragon!”
“He painted a lizard!” Clarice snapped, her own temper finally giving in. “Not everything is about you. Not every shadow is an assassin, and not every laugh is mockery.”
Aerion suddenly seized her arms over her head, slamming her hands against the mattress; small wrists caught in between his burning fingers.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered, his face inches from hers. His voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by strange, almost feverish wonder. “To hear the buzzing. To feel the heat under your skin. I am a dragon in human skin, Clarice. I am not like them. And I am not like you.”
“No,” she said, holding his gaze, refusing to lean back. “You are worse. You are a child who thinks the world owes him its obedience.”
His face twisted. “I could kill you,” he breathed. “Right now. I could crush your throat. No one would stop me. I am a Prince of the Blood.”
“Do it, then,” she challenged him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady. “Stop talking about it and do it. Make yourself a widower.”
“You push too far,” he whispered. His eyes were wide, dilated, dancing with that familiar, manic heat. “You forget what I am.”
“I never forget,” Clarice said, holding his gaze, refusing to lean back. “You take great pains to remind me every hour.”
His face twisted into a sneer, a beautiful, cruel expression that he wore like armor. He lowered his head until his lips were brushing her ear.
“I should have had you killed months ago, woman,” he murmured, the threat dripping with dark, twisted affection. “Smothered in your sleep. Or pushed down a very long flight of stairs.”
“And yet, here I am,” Clarice replied, turning her head in the slightest so she could look him in the eye. She didn’t flinch; she offered him a small, challenging smile. “Why is that, do you think? Were you too busy staring into your own reflection?”
Aerion stared at her. He made a sound in his throat that was half growl, half laugh. “Because you are entertaining. And because watching you try to waddle in those sandals is the only amusement I have in this miserable bog.”
“Liar,” she whispered. Clarice knew him. He viewed her as a prize, a piece of himself that he allowed no one else to touch, but in the quiet, dark hours of the night, she knew it was more than that. He was a man who saw enemies in every shadow, yet he slept with his back to her, certain she would never strike while he was vulnerable.
Clarice stared into his eyes. They were burning with a twist of emotions he would not dare name. She kissed him then. It was hard, demanding, a collision of teeth and lips. He kissed her back like he wanted to consume her breath, to own the air in her lungs.
Aerion licked his lips, tongue whirling around in an all too majestic reptilian gesture, his breathing ragged and hot. “Perhaps.”
The cruelty drained out of his face, replaced by a sudden, stark vulnerability that was painful to witness. He looked young, and he looked lost.
He didn’t hit her, he never hit her. He simply lost the strength to hold himself up. He slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His weight pressed her back against the pillows.
Clarice didn’t push him away, she never pushed him away.
She lay there, staring up at the silk roof of the tent. She could feel his breathing against her collarbone, ragged and fast, slowly, but surely, evening out. His hand reached up to rest on her stomach, fingers splayed wide over their unborn child. Their unborn, whelp of a dragon.
“You are unbearable,” he mumbled into her skin.
“I know,” she whispered.
She reached up, her hand hovering for a moment before settling on the back of his head. She ran her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. It was the way one calmed a nervous dog, she had learnt.
He sighed, a long, tension, releasing sound, and pressed closer to her.
“You had a knife in your sleeve tonight,” he recalled, his voice muffled by her skin.
“Yes.”
“Were you planning to use it on me?”
Clarice paused. “No.”
He shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His eyes were heavy now, the madness condensing into a dull simmer. A strange, twisted amusement curled his lips.
“I liked you better on our wedding night,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the curve of her belly. “When you were plotting to kill me.”
Clarice let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I wasn’t plotting, Aerion. I was deciding.”
“And?”
“And I decided that you were too loud to kill quietly.”
He smirked. It was a real smile, fleeting and uneven. “You’re a wicked creature.”
He laid his head back down on her shoulder. The fight had gone out of him, leaving only the exhaustion.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered. It was so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. It wasn’t a command. It was a plea, wrung out of him against his will.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Clarice reassured him, her hand still in his hair. “I can’t reach my sandals, remember?”
Aerion let out a soft huff. Within moments, his breathing deepened. He fell asleep like that, draped over her like a shield, or a shackle.
Clarice lay awake in the green scented darkness. She felt the weight of the dragon prince on her chest and the kick of the dragon child in her womb. She reached toward the bedside table, her fingers brushing the cold hilt of the fruit knife. She didn’t pick it up. She just touched it, confirming it was there.
Then she moved her hand back to her husband’s hair, and held him while he slept.