Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip below the jagged peaks of the Dornish Marches, casting long, bruised shadows of violet and burnt orange across the pale stone floor of the bedchamber.
Clarice sat before her polished bronze vanity, the heavy, suffocating events of the morning —the shock of the war room, the tears, the absolute, catastrophic upheaval of her sanctuary— had been momentarily cast aside, locked away behind the sturdy, impregnable walls of her Arryn steel. Right now, in this specific, fleeting sliver of time, there was only the smooth slide of silk and the familiar, soothing rhythm of the silver brush running through her hair. Down from the ends, up the middle, then the roots, like her mother had taught her. She found comfort in the meticulous structure of her evening routine.
She slipped into a gown of deep, rich plum silk. The fabric clung softly to her curves, pooling elegantly around her feet in a dark, shimmering puddle. She had dismissed Ellyn and the other maids early, craving the absolute, unbroken silence of the empty room. She needed to hear the buzz of her own thoughts for a while.
She left her face entirely bare, scrubbed clean of the usual rose powders and lip paints; her golden-brown hair was left completely natural, falling in a soft, lazy curtain over her bare shoulders. She looked at her reflection in the bronze mirror, breathing in the scent of lavender soap. She looked quiet. She looked natural. She looked exactly like the untroubled woman who had spent the last year and a half living in stolen, domestic peace. Maybe, if she kept looking long enough, that woman would appear once again.
The heavy oak door connecting the bedchamber to the private bathing room didn't just open; it swung inward with a smooth, silent grace.
Clarice let out a sharp, involuntary gasp; as the silver hairbrush clattered loudly against the stone floor, the sound echoing like thunder in the quiet room. Her hand flew to her chest, her heart executing a frantic, terrified leap against her ribs.
Aerion stood under the threshold, framed perfectly by the drifting, fragrant steam of the bathing room.
He was entirely bare save for a pair of dark, low-slung leather breeches. The hot water had flushed the pale skin of his broad chest and the sculpted, severe lines of his abdomen. His silver hair, still kept fashionably short, was completely damp, a few rogue droplets of water tracking down the sharp slope of his jawline and pooling in the hollow of his collarbone.
He looked like a divine creature forged in a hearth of fire and metal —breathtakingly, terrifyingly beautiful.
Aerion leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. A slow, wicked, infinitely arrogant smirk spread across his lips as he watched her chest heave with fright.
"Nervous, sweet wife?" Aerion drawled, his voice a low, vibrating purr that seemed to drop the temperature of the room. "You look as though you expected an assassin. Tell me, Clarice, have you done something worthy of one waiting at your door?"
Clarice forced her hands to drop, her fingernails biting into her palms as she tried to reign in her galloping pulse. She lifted her chin in a defiant gesture, "I regret to inform you I haven’t, dearest husband; I simply forgot I was sharing my quarters with a man who possesses the manners of a stray dog. You could knock."
"Knock? On a door that leads to my own wife's bedchamber?” Aerion scoffed at the notion. "Though I must confess, I am a bit disappointed, darling, the Lady of the Eyrie I left behind would not have startled so easily, like a frightened scullery maid caught stealing sweets from the kitchens."
Clarice swallowed hard, as she turned back to the mirror, picking up the silver brush with hands she absolutely refused to let tremble.
"I have spent the last year and a half in peace,” Clarice retorted smoothly, meeting his violet gaze in the mirror's reflection. “I am simply out of practice with devils lurking in the shadows of my bedchamber."
Aerion let out a low, rich chuckle, the sound entirely devoid of its usual cruel edge, ringing instead with a dark, twisted, affectionate warmth. He pushed off the doorframe, his bare feet completely silent on the rugs as he crossed the room with the lethal grace of a stalking shadowcat.
He stopped directly behind her, his hands hovering over her.
Clarice didn't turn around. Instead, she lifted the heavy weight of her golden-brown hair off the nape of her neck, presenting the unlaced back of the plum silk to him. "Since you are looming there like a gargoyle, husband, you might as well make yourself useful. Tie my dress."
Aerion let out a soft, amused huff. "I am a prince, Clarice, not your chambermaid."
But he stepped closer nonetheless. His large, damp fingers caught the delicate silk laces of the gown. He began to weave them through the eyelets with a surprising, deft precision, but as he pulled the fabric taut, it caught, resisting against the fullness of her bust.
Aerion gave the laces a sharp, unyielding tug that forced a quiet gasp from her lips. "It seems the silk has shrunk in my absence," he mocked, his tone dripping with arrogant amusement. "Or perhaps you are simply still fat from the child."
"I birthed a heavy, healthy, perfect, child, Aerion, not a field mouse," Clarice shot back smoothly, completely unbothered by the jab as she held her hair up. "My body did exactly what it was meant to do. Though I suppose a man who spent the last year lounging on velvet pillows, drinking sweet wine, and complaining about the Lyseni heat knows all about growing thick and utterly useless."
Aerion laughed, a rich, dark sound that vibrated directly against the bare skin of her back. "Vicious," he murmured fondly. Despite his sneering, his hands adjusted the tension, loosening the silk just enough to allow her to breathe comfortably before tying a perfect, secure knot at the base of her spine.
His task complete, he didn't pull away.
"You are losing your edge, Clarice," Aerion murmured. He reached down, his large, damp hands resting heavily on her bare shoulders. He leaned closer, his eyes scanning her reflection. "I remember that my sweet, vicious Lady of the Eyrie used to wear steel to bed. Where is the little fruit knife you used to keep hidden within your sleeve, Clarice? Have you found that in my absence you have no use for it entirely?"
Clarice swallowed hard, the memory of their wedding night flashing vividly in her mind. "I am holding a child half the day now, Aerion. I stopped carrying blades in my gowns so I wouldn't accidentally sever his fingers."
"A tragic loss," Aerion mused. His hand slid slowly up her ribcage, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. "I liked the knife. It made you interesting."
"If you find me boring, you are welcome to return to the painted dolls in Lys," she challenged, her voice remarkably steady despite the sudden, treacherous fluttering in her stomach.
Aerion laughed again, a genuine sound of pure delight. His thumbs began to press into the tense muscles of her neck, a massage that hovered dangerously between exquisite pleasure and a veiled threat of his immense physical power.
"Gods, I missed that vicious little mouth," he whispered affectionately, leaning down until his damp cheek brushed against hers, his nose pressing into the fragrant waves of her hair. "The women in Lys... they do not speak. They simply simper, and bow, and agree. It is like conversing with velvet pillows. They have absolutely no fight in them."
"How tragic for you," Clarice noted dryly. "To be surrounded by beautiful, compliant women."
"Compliance is a bore," Aerion breathed, his hands sliding down from her shoulders to trace the deep, plunging neckline of the plum silk. "You know me, sweet wife. I much prefer the threat of a hidden blade."
He didn't wait for permission. He grabbed her waist, turning her with a swift, decisive motion that forced her to face him, and leaned down, capturing her mouth in a searing, demanding kiss.
The moment his lips crashed against hers, a dark, twisted, traitorous part of her, roared to life. He tasted of mint, hot water, and a ravenous, starving hunger that hadn't been fed in over a year.
Despite herself, despite the profound, gentle love she harbored for Daeron, Clarice opened to him. She eagerly reciprocated, her hands flying up to grip the hard, damp muscles of his biceps. A soft, involuntary moan slipped from her throat as Aerion’s tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her with the absolute, unyielding authority of a man taking back what was by all the laws of men and Gods, his.
"Aerion," Clarice gasped, her head falling back, her fingers tangling in his wet silver hair. "We are expected at the table..."
"Let them wait," he muttered against her collarbone, his hands pushing the fabric of her dress off her shoulders. "I have waited a year and a half. An hour won't kill them."
His hands were frantic, moving all over her body. He was retracting the silk around her thighs with a practiced, desperate efficiency, pulling the fabric up her hips, intending to take her right there on the vanity stool. Clarice was entirely swept up in the violent tide of it, her body arching into the familiar, crushing heat of his bare chest.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sharp, heavy rapping on the chamber door pierced the heavy, lust-fogged air like a blade. Immediately following the knock, the sudden, high-pitched, fussy cry of a toddler echoed from the corridor.
Clarice gasped, her hands frantically pulling the plum silk back up over her bare, highly flushed shoulders. Her breath was coming in ragged, shallow gasps, her lips swollen and red.
Aerion let out a ragged, frustrated groan, his chest heaving, his violet eyes burning with the lethal, interrupted rage of a dragon pulled from a feast. He turned his head toward the heavy oak door, his jaw clenching.
“WHAT?” He barked.
"M-my lady?" Ellyn’s voice, muffled and trembling slightly with fear, drifted through the wood. "Forgive the intrusion. The young prince is dressed and ready. Prince Maekar expects you all in the dining hall."
Clarice swallowed hard, her fingers flying over her skirts, desperately trying to steady her breathing. Her cheeks were uncharacteristically blazing red, flushed with a deep, humiliating heat of undeniable arousal.
"We-we should go, Aerion," Clarice stammered, her voice breathy and entirely stripped of its usual cool composure. She stood up, brushing past him. "I... I must go pick up Maxen. Get dressed. We shouldn’t keep your father waiting."
Aerion leaned back against the vanity, crossing his arms over his bare chest. He took in her thoroughly kissed lips, her disheveled hair, and the heavy, aroused rise and fall of her chest. He thoroughly enjoyed the rare, intoxicating sight of his wife completely undone by his touch. A highly amused, teasing laugh rumbled in his throat.
"Very well," Aerion purred, pushing off the vanity and turning on his heel toward the wardrobe to retrieve a tunic. He threw a wicked, teasing glance over his shoulder. "Go fetch the boy, wife. But do try to calm your racing heart before you see my father. You look thoroughly ravished."
Clarice didn't wait to hear the rest. She practically fled the room, throwing the door open and rushing into the corridor, her heart hammering a frantic, guilty rhythm against her ribs as she went to collect her son, her body still vibrating from the kiss of the husband she had sworn she despised.
Daeron Targaryen sat perfectly still in his heavy wooden chair, staring at the polished silver tines of his fork.
He felt as though he were entirely submerged underwater, watching the world move in slow, agonizing, distorted motion around him. The private dining solar of Summerhall, usually a place of quiet, intellectual debate and warm, domestic teasing, had been completely transformed.
Prince Maekar sat at the head of the heavy oak table, clearly still simmering with a profound, unresolved anger toward his exiled son, his jaw set in a rigid line, cutting his roasted fowl with aggressive precision. Princess Daella sat beside her father, shrinking into her chair. She had spent the last year idolizing Clarice and finding genuine fondness for Daeron; she did not adore Aerion in the slightest, and her wide violet eyes darted nervously toward her older brother as if expecting him to suddenly flip the table.
Daeron sat directly across from Clarice and Aerion.
He was trying, with every ounce of his formidable, fractured willpower, to project an air of bored, nonchalant indifference. He slouched slightly. He kept his face blank, occasionally taking a slow sip of watered wine. But beneath the table, his free hand was clenched into a fist so tight his fingernails were drawing tiny half-moons of blood from his own palm.
He looked at Clarice.
She was stunning in the plum silk, but there was a high, unnatural flush high on her cheekbones, and her lips looked slightly bruised, slightly swollen. Daeron’s stomach violently churned. He knew what that flush meant. He knew exactly how she looked when she had just been thoroughly, breathlessly kissed.
Clarice, however, was avoiding his gaze entirely. She was pouring every ounce of her focus into ignoring the unbearable awkwardness of the table, turning all her attention to the high chair situated between her and Aerion.
Maxen, his little boy, was happily oblivious to the suffocating tension. The toddler was currently engaged in a messy, enthusiastic battle with a bowl of mashed peas. Clarice kept her eyes fixed on the baby, constantly wiping his face, adjusting the cloth around his neck, and offering him soft, encouraging murmurs. She was using the child as a shield. Daeron felt like scowling.
Aerion, predictably, remained entirely oblivious to the strained silence of his family. He was holding court, occupying all the oxygen in the room, dominating the meal with his own voice. Daeron found it entirely remarkable Aerion had never found himself sick of it.
He was leaned back in his chair, swirling a goblet of heavy Arbor red, dramatizing his year and a half of luxurious exile as if he had been surviving a harrowing, heroic siege in the frozen wastes.
"...and the Magister had the absolute audacity to offer me a fleet of merchant cogs as a tribute," Aerion was saying, gesturing broadly with his wine cup. "Cogs. To a prince of the blood. I told him I would rather burn the ships in the harbor than insult my house by accepting such a pathetic offering. The man nearly wept."
Maekar chewed his mutton slowly, not bothering to look up. "The Lyseni trade routes have been disrupted by the pirate kings in the Stepstones. Their merchant fleets are their lifeblood. It was a substantial offer, Aerion. You are a fool for refusing it."
Aerion's smile tightened, a brief flash of genuine irritation crossing his features before he masked it with a haughty scoff. "I am a dragon, Father. I do not deal in spices and textiles. Let the mongrels haggle over coin. I prefer to deal in respect."
"Respect is earned, not demanded," Maekar rumbled, his voice low and dangerous.
Aerion scoffed, a dismissive wave of his hand. "They are merchants playing at being kings, Father. They lack any true calling for respect. They will squabble until the end of time, unless a true dragon crosses the sea to bring them to heel."
As Aerion spoke of burning fleets and conquering merchants, his violet eyes would, almost reluctantly, occasionally drift away from Maekar and land on Clarice; like a dragon making sure his treasure is not being ogled.
Daeron watched, holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable sneer. He waited for Aerion to critique her dress, to insult her silence, or to turn his cruel, mocking gaze toward the messy, babbling infant beside her.
But the sneer never came.
Instead, as Aerion looked at Clarice carefully wiping pea puree from Maxen's chin, the hard, arrogant lines of his face softened. A look of genuine, unadulterated fondness crept into his violet eyes. He watched the way Clarice smiled at the boy, the way she patiently coaxed him to eat, and Aerion looked... content. Proud, even.
Daeron’s heart seized in his chest. It was a terrifying, entirely disorienting sight. He had spent his entire life watching Aerion break things, mock things, and destroy whatever he touched. To see him look at a woman and a child with actual warmth was fundamentally wrong.
"You spoil him, Clarice," Aerion murmured suddenly, his voice dropping its boastful volume, taking on a warm, almost teasing tone.
Clarice paused, the silver spoon hovering halfway to Maxen's mouth. She didn't look at Aerion, keeping her eyes firmly on the baby. "He is an infant, Aerion. He is meant to be spoiled."
"He is a Targaryen prince," Aerion corrected gently, reaching over to lightly tap the top of Maxen's head with a long finger. Maxen blinked, offering his father a slightly wary, toothy grin. "And he commands entirely too much of your attention. I have returned from conquering the boredom of the Narrow Sea, and you have scarcely looked at me since the soup was served. You are entirely focused on mashed vegetables."
Daeron stiffened instantly. His lilac eyes darted to Aerion’s hands, waiting for the temper to snap. He knew how Aerion reacted to being ignored. He knew the violence that usually followed a bruised ego.
Clarice, however, did not cower. She didn't offer a frantic apology or immediately turn to fawn over him.
Without so much as looking in Aerion’s direction, Clarice smoothly turned her wrist. Instead of placing the spoon full of mashed peas into Maxen's open, waiting mouth, she moved it directly to her right, aggressively shoving the entire spoonful of green mush straight into Aerion's mouth as he spoke.
The entire dining room froze.
Daella gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth in absolute horror. Maekar paused mid-chew, his thick brows shooting up toward his hairline, though an amused smirk threatened to tug at his lips.
Daeron stopped breathing entirely. The blood turned to ice in his veins. He prepared for the explosion. He waited for Aerion to roar, to backhand her, to flip the heavy oak table and demand blood for the sheer, unmitigated disrespect of being force-fed baby food like a dog.
Aerion blinked, his mouth full of peas, his violet eyes wide with profound shock.
For three agonizing, suspended seconds, no one moved.
And then, Aerion swallowed.
He didn't roar. He let out a loud, rich, booming chuckle that echoed off the stone walls of the solar. He reached up, wiping a stray spot of green mush from the corner of his lip with his thumb, shaking his head in pure, delighted amusement.
Clarice finally turned her head to look at him. She offered a soft, wry smile, her stormy eyes dancing with a teasing, affectionate mockery that made Daeron almost chuckle with unnerving amusement. Had the Gods ever seen a more outrageous woman?
"If you are going to act like a petulant child fighting an infant for attention, husband," Clarice noted smoothly, leaning her elbow on the arm of her chair, "then I suppose I must feed you like one. Shall I fetch you a bib as well?"
Aerion laughed again, reaching beneath the table. Clarice's breath hitched slightly, but she didn't pull away as Aerion's hand found her knee, squeezing it fondly.
"You are a wicked, unbearable creature," Aerion murmured, his voice thick with that dark, twisted affection. "And I should have you entirely flogged, were I a wiser man. But I suppose I prefer you to the compliant dolls of Lys."
Clarice rolled her eyes, turning back to feed a now-impatient Maxen, but the soft smile remained on her lips.
Daeron stared at them across the table. He looked at Aerion, laughing genuinely at an insult that would have gotten any other man in the Seven Kingdoms maimed. He looked at Clarice, relaxed and teasing, matching her husband's dark energy with an effortless, confident grace. He looked at Maxen, babbling happily between them.
Daeron realized, with a sickening, hollow drop in his stomach, that Aerion was not a beast around Clarice. Not always, at least. He could be cruel, yes, but Clarice possessed the exact, specific brand of lunacy required to temper his madness.
He looked at them, sitting shoulder to shoulder, and he didn't see a captive woman and her monster.
He saw a family.
He was the interloper here, not Aerion.
Sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, Daella cautiously lowered her hands. Seeing her terrifying older brother laughing and relaxed, the young princess gathered her courage.
"Did you... did you truly see real elephants in Volantis, Aerion?" Daella asked hesitantly, her voice barely a squeak.
Aerion turned to his little sister, the remnants of his smile still lingering. He didn't snap at her for interrupting.
"Dozens of them, Daella," Aerion answered simply, his tone surprisingly normal. "Massive, grey beasts with tusks as long as a man. The Magisters paint them in gold and ride them through the streets. They smell atrocious, but they are a sight to behold."
Daella visibly relaxed, her shoulders dropping as she asked another question about the Free Cities. Aerion answered her smoothly, engaging in a light, surprisingly civil conversation with his sister.
Daeron remembered the old rule of their childhood. When Aerion was happy, they were all happy. The entire castle’s atmosphere was dictated entirely by the whim of his brother’s moods. They were currently basking in the sunlight of his satisfaction.
But Daeron sat in the shadows, his knuckles white around his empty goblet, knowing the terrible, inevitable truth. He watched Clarice smile at her husband. He watched Aerion stroke his son's golden hair.
The peace was an illusion. They were all just sitting at the table, smiling, laughing, holding their breath, waiting for the moment the temper would finally, inevitably snap. The madman always breaks free. That is the oldest rule of them all.
Hours later, the heavy darkness of the night had fully settled over Summerhall.
Clarice lay in the center of the massive, canopy bed in her chambers. The plum silk dress had been discarded, replaced by a long-sleeved nightgown of soft, white lace.
Aerion was propped up on his elbow, entirely stripped of his silks and velvets. He wore only a pair of loose sleeping trousers, his silver hair a messy crown. The manic energy of the dining hall had settled into a restless, quiet focus.
Between them, resting on the vast expanse of down pillows, was Maxen.
The boy was exhausted from the long day, his heavy eyelids drooping every few seconds, but the presence of the strange, silver-haired man in his mother’s bed had kept him from falling into a deep sleep. Maxen lay on his back, his small hand gripping a fistful of Clarice's nightgown.
Aerion, attempting a newfound display of paternal bonding, reached out with a long, calloused finger. He gently bopped Maxen on the tip of his nose. The gesture was awkward, foreign in its tenderness.
Maxen blinked, letting out a soft, confused huff, and turned his head away, burying his face against Clarice’s arm.
Aerion’s brow furrowed. He shifted his weight, moving his hand down to lightly tickle the boy's stomach through his small linen shirt. Maxen didn't giggle. He didn't shriek with the delighted laughter that usually accompanied Daeron's attacks. Instead, the boy let out a sharp, distressed whimper. He scrambled backward, his little face scrunching up in fear, and pressed his back firmly against Clarice's thigh, seeking the safety of his mother.
Aerion sighed, a harsh, frustrated sound, and withdrew his hand. “He looks at me like I am a stranger," Aerion stated, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a wounded, dangerous frustration. "I am his father, and he shrinks from me like I am a beggar in the street."
Clarice’s hand moved continuously, gently stroking Maxen’s back in a soothing rhythm. She tried to comfort her husband, desperately needing to keep the fragile, peaceful mood of the evening intact. She didn’t want Maxi to meet the cruel terror that sometimes wore his father’s face.
"He is an infant, Aerion," Clarice said softly, turning her head to look at his sharp profile. "You are a stranger to him. He does not remember you from the cradle. He only knows the faces he has seen every day. It is only natural that he is cautious. It is a matter of time only until he grows accustomed to you. You must be patient."
Aerion scoffed, looking away, his chest heaving with a frustrated breath. "He acts like a frightened rabbit. I will not have a coward for a son."
"He is not a coward," Clarice defended firmly, though she kept the sharp edge out of her voice. She took a deep breath, looking down at her son, who was fighting a losing battle against sleep. She needed to bridge this gap before Aerion’s frustration curdled into anger.
"He likes to listen to stories," Clarice offered quietly, a sudden, desperate olive branch. "When he is restless... he likes to fall asleep while listening to stories. The rhythm of a deep voice soothes him."
Aerion let out a dry, mocking laugh, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. "Stories? You wish me to play the role of a plump, useless septa and sing him to sleep with fables of Florian and Jonquil? Perhaps I should fetch a harp and play him a lullaby?"
"I wish you to be his father," Clarice countered smoothly, her voice a soft, unwavering challenge that she knew he couldn't resist. "Tell him whatever you like. Just speak to him. Let him hear the sound of your voice without it being raised in a shout."
Aerion fell silent. For a long minute, the only sound was the crackle of the dying fire and Maxen’s soft, sleepy breathing.
Then, slowly, Aerion shifted. He rolled back onto his side, bringing his face closer to the center of the bed. Maxen blinked, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn't cry.
Aerion stared at the boy, his expression intense and entirely unreadable.
"Very well," Aerion murmured, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic rumble that vibrated against the mattress. He reached out, gently settling his large hand on the boy's side to keep him still. "I will not tell you of Florian, little dragon. I will tell you a true story. A story of blood, and fire, and the sky."
Clarice sucked in a breath. But before she could choose to be a good mother over a loyal wife, she head Aerion’s voice.
"Long before the weak, fat kings sat upon the Iron Throne," Aerion began, his violet eyes locked onto Maxen's teal ones, "there was a beast named Balerion. The Black Dread."
Maxen’s eyes fluttered, the deep, resonant timbre of Aerion’s voice catching his complete attention.
"He was not a myth," Aerion whispered, a dark, passionate reverence bleeding into his tone. "He was the physical manifestation of a god on earth. His scales were black as a starless night, and so incredibly thick that no sword, no spear, no scorpion bolt could ever hope to pierce them. When he took to the sky, his wingspan was so massive that entire towns would be plunged into sudden, terrifying darkness as he passed over them."
Clarice watched him, genuinely stunned. There was no mockery in his voice now. The manic, arrogant cruelty that usually defined his daily interactions was entirely gone, replaced by a profound, obsessive devotion. In his deep, unyielding obsession with the beasts of his ancestors, Aerion had memorized every intricate detail, every historical facet of their existence. He spoke of the dragons not as historical footnotes or tools of war, but as lost, revered family members.
"And his fire," Aerion continued, his violet eyes reflecting the dying embers of the hearth, painting a vivid, terrifyingly beautiful picture in the quiet room. "It was not the weak, orange flame you see in that fireplace, Maxen, no. It was black. Black fire, shot through with swirls of violent, angry red. It was so hot it didn't just burn; it melted stone. It turned the greatest castle in the world into a weeping ruin of twisted rock."
Maxen let out a soft, sleepy coo. "Zal... zees," the boy babbled quietly, echoing the High Valyrian word Daeron had painstakingly taught him for dragon.
Aerion paused, his eyes widening slightly in genuine surprise. A true, uncharacteristically soft, toothy smile touched his lips, completely transforming his harsh features.
"Yes," Aerion murmured, reaching out. This time, Maxen didn't flinch away. Aerion’s long index finger gently stroked the soft, chubby curve of the boy's cheek. "Zaldrīzes. You know the word… good boy."
Aerion continued the story, his voice a soothing, rhythmic drone. He spoke of the heat of the scales, the sound of the roars that could shatter glass, the way the dragons communicated with their riders through an unbreakable bond of blood and fire.
Lulled by the deep vibration of Aerion's voice and the gentle, continuous stroking of his mother's hand, Maxen’s eyes finally slid shut. His breathing deepened, leveling out into the slow, steady rhythm of absolute sleep.
Aerion’s voice slowly tapered off. He watched the boy sleep for a long moment, before gently withdrawing his hand.
Clarice didn't speak. She didn't want to break the spell. She slowly slid off the mattress and walked quietly to the heavy oak door. She cracked it open, whispering softly to the two maids waiting in the corridor.
Ellyn and a younger girl slipped into the room, their heads bowed respectfully.
As they approached the bed to take the child, Clarice felt a sudden, violent spike of panic. Her heart lurched, her breath catching in her throat. Her instincts, honed by a year and a half of desperate secrecy, screamed at her. There is a man in the bed. They will see him. We are undone.
She opened her mouth to order Daeron to hide, to dive beneath the heavy silks or slip through the servant's door.
But as her panicked eyes darted to the bed, the illusion shattered.
It wasn't Daeron. It was Aerion. It was her husband. It was the father of the child.
Clarice stood frozen, a wave of profound, disorienting whiplash washing over her. It was perfectly fine. It was expected. The maids did not gasp in horror; they simply curtsied deeply to the Prince, gently lifting the sleeping toddler from his side.
Aerion watched them take the boy, a flicker of reluctance crossing his face, but he didn't protest. He simply nodded, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving Clarice alone in the dim room with her husband.
She turned around.
Aerion was still lying in the bed, propped up against the mountain of pillows. His silver hair was tousled, his broad, scarred chest rising and falling slowly in the firelight. He wasn't sneering. He wasn't angry. He was looking at her with that same dark, heavy, starving gravity he had possessed in front of the mirror before supper.
Despite the immense guilt over her treason that bound her to his brother, and despite every logical, survival-driven instinct she possessed... Clarice felt a sudden, heavy heat of dark, undeniable lust pull tight in the deepest pit of her stomach.
She hated him for his cruelty. She feared his madness. But she found, to her absolute horror and intoxicating thrill, that she harbored a freakish, twisted darkness within herself that only Aerion could reach.
"Come back to bed, Clarice," Aerion murmured, his voice a command that offered absolutely no room for refusal.
Clarice swallowed hard. She slowly untied the ribbon of her dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor. She wore only the thin, white nightgown beneath it. She walked toward the bed, every step feeling heavier than the last.
She didn't crawl under the blankets. She climbed directly onto the mattress, moving over him until she was straddling his hips, her knees sinking into the soft down on either side of his waist.
Aerion looked up at her, his expression uncharacteristically soft, almost reverent. The arrogance that usually defined his every movement was momentarily suspended. He reached up, his large, warm hands gently cupping her face. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, his touch so achingly tender it felt like a betrayal of everything she thought she knew about him.
He pulled her down slowly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.
The profound, startling gentleness of it broke something inside Clarice. Before she could stop them, hot, thick tears spilled over her lashes, tracking silent paths down her cheeks to wet his fingers.
Aerion felt the moisture. He pulled back slightly, his violet eyes searching her face in the dim light. He saw the tears, the raw emotion shining in her blue eyes, and his own expression shifted into one of profound, arrogant satisfaction.
"Did you miss me that much, sweet wife?" Aerion murmured, a smug, deeply contented purr vibrating in his chest as his thumb caught a tear before it could reach her chin. "Are you weeping for the nights you spent alone while I was across the sea?"
Clarice let out a sharp, watery laugh. She dashed the remaining tears away with the back of her hand, leaning forward so her hair fell like a curtain around them.
"You wish I wept for you, Aerion," Clarice sneered, her voice dropping into a vicious, husky whisper. It was their foreplay. The cruelty, the sharp edges of their words; it was the flint striking the steel to start the fire. "I was weeping for my lost peace and quiet. Your ego takes up entirely too much room in this bed."
Aerion’s eyes darkened, the violet irises nearly swallowed by the dilated black pupils. The tenderness vanished, replaced by the thrilling, volatile danger she craved. His hands slid from her face down to her waist, his grip tightening.
"My ego is the only thing grand enough to match your vanity, Clarice," he retorted smoothly, his hips snapping up slightly, grinding the hard, heavy ridge of his arousal directly against the center of her heat through the linen.
Clarice gasped at the sudden friction, her own body betraying her with a rush of humiliating, desperate wetness.
"Tell me, sweet wife," Aerion murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "How did you fare without me for all those long, agonizing months? Did you lie awake in this massive bed and ache for a man's touch?" He bit lightly at her pulse point, feeling the frantic flutter beneath his teeth. "Did you have to pleasure yourself to find any relief?" His voice dropped, vibrating with a dark, territorial possessiveness. "You know how much I despise the thought of that."
Clarice gasped, her pride violently warring with the searing heat pooling in her stomach. "You are an absolute hypocrite, Aerion," she hissed, refusing to break eye contact, chasing the dangerous high of their twisted game. "You boasted of the Lyseni bed slaves at dinner. Tell me, sweet husband, how many whores did you sleep with while you abandoned me here?"
Aerion stared at her.
"Hundreds," he whispered simply, his voice dark and unapologetically cruel. "Though none of them compared.”
With a sudden, violent blur of motion, Aerion grabbed her by the hips and flipped them.
The world spun, and suddenly Clarice was pinned flat on her back against the mattress, the breath knocked out of her lungs. Aerion hovered over her, his massive frame caging her in entirely.
"I missed your fight," Aerion snarled down at her, his face inches from hers, his breath hot against her lips. He brought one large hand up, wrapping his long fingers firmly around her throat. He didn't squeeze hard enough to cut off her air, he never did; but the heavy, possessive pressure sent a massive, electrifying jolt straight to her core. "I missed your anger. I missed the way you look at me like you want to kill me."
Clarice’s chest heaved. The adrenaline and the sheer, blinding lust crashed together in a toxic, overwhelming wave. She needed this safe violence, she craved it.
"You needn’t miss it anymore, husband," Clarice taunted, her voice breathy and strained beneath his hand.
She wasn't helpless. She had never been helpless with him.
Without breaking his gaze, Clarice reached her right hand up, her fingers sliding swiftly and expertly into the narrow gap between the heavy wooden frame of the headboard and the mattress.
Her fingers brushed the cold, familiar steel.
She pulled the Valyrian steel dagger free.
In one fluid, breathless motion, she brought the blade up, pressing the flat, lethally sharp edge of the steel directly against the rapidly beating pulse point at Aerion's throat.
Aerion froze.
The air in the room completely evaporated. Clarice stared up at him, her blue eyes burning with a wild, feral defiance, the cold steel of the blade resting heavily against his skin. She wouldn't hurt him —they both knew as much— but the symbolic threat, the absolute, lethal dominance radiating from his wife, was the exact, twisted nectar he craved.
"Keep on taunting me, husband," Clarice whispered, her voice a deadly, husky threat, pressing the steel just hard enough to indent the skin without breaking it, "and I might just open your throat. Is this enough steel for you?"
For three agonizing seconds, Aerion just stared down at the blade against his neck, and then back up into her eyes.
And then, the monster broke.
Aerion let out a ragged, filthy moan. His eyes rolled back slightly, completely undone by the sheer, unadulterated danger of the act. It didn't anger him; it shattered the last of his control.
"Yes," Aerion breathed, his voice cracking entirely. He leaned his weight forward, pressing his throat harder against the flat of the blade, daring her, needing her. "Gods, yes. Do it."
He didn't wait for her to move the knife. Aerion slammed his mouth down onto hers, kissing her with a bruising, starving violence.
Clarice groaned into his mouth, the knife slipping slightly to rest flat against his collarbone, her other hand coming up to fist desperately in his silver hair. He tasted of wine and pure, feral desperation.
Aerion’s free hand was frantic, gripping the collar of her linen nightgown and yanking it downward, tearing the fragile fabric in his haste to get it off her. Clarice kicked the ruined garment away, her bare skin finally meeting the burning heat of his.
They were both too far gone, driven by a year and a half of built-up frustration, anger, and undeniable, toxic chemistry. Aerion reached down, shoving his breeches down his thighs with a rough curse.
He moved between her legs, parting her knees. Clarice whimpered, her nails digging into the muscles of his back, the dagger falling from her loose grip to clatter harmlessly onto the thick rugs below the bed.
Aerion grabbed her hips, his fingers bruising her pale skin, and with one long, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her.
"Clarice," Aerion groaned, his voice completely wrecked, his forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder as he filled her completely. "Gods... you are so tight."
He didn't give her time to adjust. Aerion began to move, pulling almost entirely out before slamming his hips forward again, driving himself deep inside her with a brutal, rhythmic force.
The sound of their bodies colliding echoed loudly in the quiet chamber; a wet, heavy slapping of meat against meat that fueled the filthy fire burning between them. Clarice’s head thrashed back against the pillows, her breath coming in ragged, high-pitched gasps.
Every thrust sent a shockwave of intense, almost painful pleasure radiating through her core. She couldn't think, the Arryn control was completely gone. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, locking him into her, taking everything he was giving and demanding more. It was passionate, and demanding, and terrifyingly affectionate.
"Tell me," Aerion growled, his breath hot and ragged against her ear as he increased his pace. He bit down hard on the sensitive skin of her neck, making her cry out again. "Tell me the whores in Lys had nothing on you."
"I hate you," Clarice sobbed, the words a messy, contradictory lie as she bucked her hips up to meet his thrusts. "Gods, I hate you so much."
"Liar," Aerion snarled triumphantly. His hand moved back to her throat, wrapping firmly around her windpipe, the heavy, threatening pressure sending a massive jolt of electricity straight down her spine.
Clarice whined, a pathetic, animal sound escaping her throat. Indeed she was. In this bed, in the dark, she loved the absolute, terrifying loss of control. She loved the freakish, twisted shadow he pulled out of her.
Aerion’s pace became frenzied, a rapid, punishing charge. The bed frame groaned under the violence of their movements. Sweat slicked their bodies, gluing them together in the heat of the Dornish night. Clarice’s fingernails left deep half-moons tracking down his broad back, marking him as hers just as surely as he was marking her.
Clarice screamed, a loud, ragged sound that tore through the chamber as her body convulsed; her muscles clamping down violently around his length in a series of agonizingly tight spasms.
Her climax pushed Aerion right over the edge. With a harsh, guttural roar that sounded truly like a dragon, he drove himself into her one final, desperate time. He emptied himself deep inside her, his entire body shuddering violently against her as he found his own release.
They collapsed together, a tangle of sweating, heaving limbs on the ruined sheets.
Aerion’s full weight crushed her into the mattress, but Clarice didn't push him away. She lay there, staring blindly at the dark velvet canopy above, her chest heaving, listening to the harsh, ragged sound of Aerion trying to catch his breath against her neck.
As the adrenaline slowly drained from her veins, a heavy, physical exhaustion settled into her bones. As her breathing leveled, her mind inevitably drifted across the sprawling stone of the castle. Daeron. They hadn't been alone, hadn't spoken a single private word since Aerion's sudden return. The suffocating tension at the dining table had been agonizing. She desperately needed to speak with him, to assure him of... something, to figure out how they were going to survive this new, claustrophobic reality.
She stared at the faint sliver of moonlight bleeding through the heavy velvet curtains, mentally calculating the risk. If I slip out now... if I go to the old weeping willow by the pond... would he be there? She knew Daeron wasn't sleeping. She knew he was likely pacing the grounds, bleeding out in silence. The urge to go to him pulled violently at her heart. She carefully shifted her weight, holding her breath, preparing to slide out from beneath Aerion's heavy arm once he —driven by sheer exhaustion— inevitably fell asleep.
Before she could move an inch, the arm around her waist flexed, tightening like a snare.
Aerion stirred, nuzzling his face deeper into the crook of her neck. He wasn't fully awake, suspended in that hazy, drowsy space where his usual manic paranoia was entirely muted by deep physical satisfaction. He felt impossibly soft like this, his guard completely dropped.
"Where are you going?" he murmured, his voice thick, heavy, and slurred with sleep.
Clarice froze, her muscles locking. "Nowhere," she whispered back, slowly relaxing her posture. "Just shifting."
A faint sound drifted through the heavy oak door then. It was distant, muffled by the thick stone walls of the castle, but unmistakable to a mother's ear. A soft, reedy whimper echoed from the nursery down the hall. Maxen.
Clarice tensed anew, her maternal instinct immediately warring with her paralyzing fear. She waited for Aerion to groan in annoyance, to curse the wet nurses for their incompetence or complain about the broken silence.
Instead, Aerion simply tilted his head against the pillows, listening to the faint, distant cry. He didn't sound angry; in the dim, quiet dark, he seemed to be deeply, genuinely contemplating the sound of his son.
Aerion let out a low, contented hum, pressing a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to her bare shoulder. His hand moved lazily over her stomach. "We should have another one," he suddenly mumbled into her skin.
Clarice's heart skipped a beat. "Another what?"
"A child," Aerion breathed, sounding almost boyish, completely devoid of his usual commanding arrogance. "A little prince. Or a princess. One with silver hair. And violet eyes." He chuckled softly, a warm, sleepy vibration against her collarbone. "In fact, sweet wife... we shouldn't stop until we get one who looks exactly like me. Given how stubborn those Tully genes of yours are, I believe it might take us a handful of attempts."
Clarice let out a soft, genuine chuckle, the sound vibrating against his chest.
"I spent nearly twenty hours in blinding agony to deliver the first one, Aerion," she retorted, a lazy, mocking lilt entering her voice that didn't disturb the peace between them. "You can keep your handful of tries to yourself for the time being. I am not quite ready to be split open again simply to satisfy your colossal vanity."
"You are made of mountain stone, my sweet," Aerion murmured, entirely unfazed, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of her bare hip. "A little blood and pain is the price of forging a true dragon. And besides," he added, a wicked, sleepy smile pressing into the crook of her neck, "considering how enthusiastically you just surrendered to me, I suspect I can make the grueling process of trying for another highly enjoyable for you."
"We shall see," she hummed, a low, contented sound.
A long, heavy silence stretched between them, the lingering adrenaline of their violent passion had faded entirely, leaving behind a rare, fragile pocket of vulnerability. She rested her hand flat against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. It felt strangely human for a man she so often considered a monster.
"Is it true?" she asked quietly then, her voice entirely stripped of its usual defensive armor. "What you said in the gardens today... did you really try to imagine what he looked like while you were in Lys?"
Aerion's hand stilled on her stomach. He was quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching in the dark room. "I did," he finally murmured, his voice a low, heavy rumble. "It was... maddening. I am accustomed to possessing exactly what is mine. Not knowing the face of my own son drove me to distraction on more than one occasion."
Clarice hesitated, her thumb tracing a small circle over his warm skin. Devastating guilt started burning down her stomach. "And... are you truly not disappointed? That he doesn't look like you?”
Aerion let out a soft, dismissive breath, his arm tightening around her, pulling her impossibly closer. "I am Aerion Targaryen," he stated, though the arrogance was remarkably subdued, tempered by sleep and physical satisfaction. "My legacy is not so fragile that it depends solely on hair color, Clarice. He is my blood. He has your stubbornness. He is perfect."
They lay in silence for a long moment, the quiet broken only by the steady rhythm of their breathing and the faint crackle of the dying hearth. The unexpected, tender humanity of his statement lingered heavily in the dark room.
"You were nice to Daella tonight," Clarice commented quietly, her voice a soft murmur against his chest. "At dinner."
Aerion let out a sleepy, dismissive scoff, his eyes already closed. "She asked a simple question about elephants. I gave her a simple answer. The girl is easily entertained. It takes very little to impress her, and that means she will never impress anyone."
"Still," Clarice murmured, her thumb resuming its slow, tracing circle on his skin. "It was kind. She is terrified of you, you know."
"As well she should be," he hummed, though there was no real malice in it, only the heavy, pulling weight of sleep.
Clarice rested her cheek against his warm skin, the confession slipping out before she could overthink the vulnerability of it. "I like it when you are kind to her," she whispered into the quiet room. She paused, her hand stilling on his chest as she felt his breathing shift slightly. "I like it when you are kind in general."
For a long moment, she thought he had finally succumbed to sleep. But then his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against his heat, and his chest rose in a deep, slow breath.
"Kindness is a tedious, boring virtue, sweet wife," Aerion murmured, his voice a thick, sleep-heavy rumble against her ear. "It makes men soft. It invites knives in the dark." His fingers slid lazily up her spine, tangling in the heavy waves of her hair. "But... if it pleases you so greatly, I suppose I can make the occasional, excruciating effort to be less of a terror. For you."
Clarice stared blankly at the velvet canopy above, the shadows shifting gently in the dying light of the hearth. Her mind drifted, untethered by the darkness and the profound, terrifying softness of the man holding her. She thought of his temper. She thought of the screaming servants in King's Landing, the shattered furniture, the casual, blinding cruelty he inflicted upon anyone who bruised his colossal ego.
He was peaceful now, sated and warm, but she knew the fire that lived just beneath his skin. She loved her son with a ferocity that frightened her, and the thought of that erratic, devastating fire ever turning its heat upon Maxen made her chest physically ache.
Lost entirely in her own dark, spiraling thoughts, she spoke the words into the quiet room, her voice a hollow, drifting murmur that sounded as though she were speaking to herself.
"Do you think you can promise never to hurt him?"
The arm around her waist went completely rigid.
The heavy, sleepy rhythm of Aerion's breathing stopped instantly. For a long, agonizing second, he didn't move. Then, he shifted, pushing himself up onto his elbow to look down at her in the dim light.
"What?" Aerion asked, his brow furrowing in genuine, absolute confusion. The question had completely blindsided him. "What are you talking about, Clarice?"
Clarice blinked, pulled from her trance by the sudden shift in his posture. She looked up at his shadowed face. "Your temper," she whispered, the vulnerability remaining, raw and bleeding in the open air. "It... it snaps, Aerion. Without warning. You break things. You break bones. I just... I need to know."
The confusion on Aerion's face rapidly warped into a sharp, insulted frustration. He looked at her as if she had just struck him across the face. In his own mind, his violence was always completely justified; a necessary discipline meted out to a flawed, insubordinate world. He genuinely forgot his own temper snaps.
"I break things that oppose me," Aerion snapped, his voice losing its sleepy warmth, replaced by a defensive, wounded pride. "I break fools and traitors. Why in the name of the Gods would I ever hurt my own flesh?"
He pulled his arm away from her entirely, sitting up slightly, his violet eyes flashing with indignant anger.
"Do you think me a savage?" Aerion demanded, his voice rising, the frustration bleeding into disbelief. "Do you think I am some wild, rabid beast that cannot distinguish his own hoard from his enemies? Is that what you think of me, Clarice? After I tell you he is perfect, you accuse me of wanting to harm an infant?"
Clarice’s throat tightened. She felt the sudden, terrifying distance between them, but she couldn't take the words back. The fear was too deeply ingrained.
"I don't think you want to," Clarice said, her voice shaking as hot, unwanted tears welled in her eyes, making his silver hair blur in her vision. "I think you are a dragon. And dragons burn everything around them when they are angry. They don't mean to, they just do. He is so small, Aerion. And you are... you are so much. Too much, occasionally."
Aerion stared down at her. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash a vicious, cutting retort to defend his bruised ego, to remind her of his absolute superiority.
But then he saw the tears.
He saw the genuine, unadulterated fear shining in her eyes, stripped of all her usual sharp banter and Arryn defiance. She wasn't challenging him; she was begging him.
The manic frustration slowly deflated, leaking out of him like air from a pierced lung. His jaw clenched, and he let out a long, incredibly tired sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his own chaotic existence. He dragged a hand through his hair, the anger giving way to a rare, uncomfortable introspection.
Slowly, reluctantly, he lay back down. He reached out, ignoring her slight flinch, and pulled her firmly back against his chest, tucking her head under his chin.
"I know I am... difficult," Aerion murmured into the dark. Clarice held back a snort. It was a massive, staggering understatement, but coming from him, it was a profound concession. "I know my fire runs hotter than the rest. I know the world looks at me and sees madness."
His large hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair in a remarkably gentle, soothing rhythm. The apology was reluctant, pulled from a place of deep, buried humanity he rarely visited, but it was real.
"But you are mine, Clarice," Aerion swore, his voice dropping to a fierce, solemn whisper that vibrated against her ear. "And he is mine. I will never lay a hand on him in anger. I do not burn what belongs to me."
The silence stretched out, heavy and absolute, broken only by the steady, powerful thud of his heart beneath her cheek.
Clarice let the weight of his promise settle into her bones. She knew it was a lie, for she had seen him break and stomp over some of his most valuable positions in lunatic fits of anger, but she couldn’t tell him that, nor did she wish to do so.
"I would kill you," Clarice whispered back into the dark. Her voice didn't tremble. It was a cold, flat statement of absolute fact, entirely stripped of their usual combative, affectionate banter. She lifted her head just enough to look into his violet eyes, her own icy blue gaze completely steady. "If you ever lost your temper and hurt him, Aerion... I would take my dagger, and I would slit your throat to the bone."
Aerion didn't flinch. He stared down at the terrifying sincerity radiating from his wife. He saw the lethal, unyielding promise in her eyes and recognized it immediately as the exact same brand of ruthless, possessive fire that burned within himself.
A slow, profoundly respectful smile touched his lips. He didn't mock the threat. He welcomed it.
"I know you would, sweet bird," Aerion murmured, his hand tightening around her waist, pulling her impossibly close. r"I wouldn't expect anything less. It is a good thing for a child to have a father and a mother who would gladly kill for him, don’t you agree?"
The morning light bleeding over the jagged spine of the Dornish Marches was a pale, anemic thing, much like himself, fighting a losing battle against the persistent grey fog that hung over Summerhall.
Daeron Targaryen stood in the middle of an empty corridor in the western wing, his body aching with a deep, bone-weary stiffness.
He had not slept. He had spent the entire night sitting on the damp, mossy ground beneath the weeping willow by the pond. He had leaned his head back against the rough bark of the trunk, shivering in the cool night air, not waiting with a desperate, pathetic hope that Clarice would somehow sneak out to him, but rather sitting a quiet, solitary vigil over a grave.
Daeron’s clothes were damp with morning dew, his silver-gold hair tangled and hanging limply around his hollowed face. The scent of the willow tree and the muddy banks of the pond clung to his tunic.
He began the long, quiet walk toward the nursery. It was early, the castle barely stirring, but Daeron needed to fetch him. He had to go to the library. He had to maintain the one thing that kept him sane, away from the bottles.
But to reach the nursery from the gardens, he had to walk down the broad corridor that housed the royal apartments. He had to walk past her door.
As Daeron approached the heavy oak doors of the hall, the brass handle of Clarice’s suite suddenly depressed with a sharp, echoing clack.
The heavy door swung open, and Clarice stepped out into the corridor.
Daeron felt a heavy, leaden weight drop directly into the pit of his stomach. He stopped walking, his boots planted firmly on the stone.
She stood in the doorway wearing nothing but a shift of incredibly fine, pale silk. It was thin enough to be nearly translucent in the morning light, outlining the soft, elegant curves of her body. Her golden-brown hair was a wild, glorious tangle that cascaded over her bare shoulders in messy waves. Her face was completely scrubbed bare of powders, but her cheeks and throat were flushed with a deep, natural, undeniable color. Her lips looked distinctly swollen.
She looked thoroughly, breathlessly loved. She looked completely claimed.
He wasn't heartbroken. Heartbreak implied a shattered illusion, a broken promise. Daeron was a pragmatist; he had always known this was borrowed time. She was Aerion’s wife. The dragon had simply returned to his hoard. What Daeron felt was a profound, suffocating defeat.
Clarice looked up, and she froze.
From thirty feet away, their eyes locked. The silence in the stone corridor was absolute, ringing with the deafening weight of everything unsaid.
Clarice immediately looked up and down the hall, checking the shadows to ensure no guards or servants were present to witness her state of undress. She took a tiny half-step out into the corridor, her hands coming up to nervously clutch the edges of the thin silk shift, pulling it tighter across her chest.
He saw a frantic, guilty panic swimming in her blue eyes. Daeron almost pitied her for it. There was no need for guilt.
"Daeron," Clarice started, her voice a rapid, stuttering whisper that barely carried across the stone. "Daeron, I... I didn't..."
But before she could finish the thought, a large shadow detached itself from the gloom of the bedchamber behind her.
Aerion appeared in the threshold.
He was bare-chested, wearing only his dark leather breeches. He didn't look like the manic, cruel prince of the dining hall. He looked relaxed. He looked like a man who was deeply, profoundly satisfied.
Without a word, Aerion stepped up right behind Clarice. He didn't grab her roughly. He reached out with an easy, terrifyingly casual intimacy, wrapping one massive, muscular arm securely around her waist. His large hand splayed wide over her stomach, pulling her back until her spine was flush against his bare chest.
Clarice gasped softly, her entire body going rigid against him, but she didn't pull away.
"Not yet, sweet bird," Aerion murmured, his deep, rumbling voice echoing down the hall. He lowered his head, pressing a lingering, possessive kiss to her temple, completely ignoring her sudden tension. "Come back to bed. I am entirely unfinished with you."
Aerion slowly lifted his gaze from his wife’s hair. He looked down the corridor, his violet eyes finding Daeron standing quietly in the shadows.
Aerion didn't sneer. He didn't look angry. Instead, a slow, incredibly wicked, triumphant smirk spread across his handsome face. He looked at his older brother with the condescending pity a king might afford a beggar.
"Ah, brother," Aerion called out smoothly, the dark velvet of his voice laced with mocking amusement. "Up early, I see. Be a good, dutiful uncle and fetch the boy from the wet nurses, will you? His mother is going to be... otherwise occupied this morning."
Daeron’s heart wasn't bleeding out anymore, he didn’t have that much blood. It was simply tired, resigning itself to the cold, hard logic of their survival. He leaned a shoulder against the stone wall, deploying the mask flawlessly, offering his brother a crooked, sleepy grin.
"I live only to serve, brother," Daeron drawled smoothly, offering a highly exaggerated, mocking bow. "I shall go wrestle the tiny tyrant from the wet nurses immediately. Do try to pace yourself in there; I hear the Lyseni air makes a man's constitution terribly fragile, and we wouldn't want you pulling a muscle before breaking your fast."
Aerion let out a short, dismissive scoff, entirely unbothered by the jab. He didn't wait for another response. He simply tightened his arm around Clarice’s waist and pulled her back into the bedchamber, shutting the heavy oak door with a definitive, echoing slam.
Daeron remained perfectly still in the empty corridor.
With a slow, mechanical movement, Daeron reached into the inner pocket of his dark tunic.
His fingers closed around the cold, curved silver of his flask. He pulled it out into the dim light. Its weight —heavy, testament of its fullness— was a comfort.
He unscrewed the silver cap. His hands did not tremble. There was no violent, sickening panic.
He brought the flask to his lips, threw his head back, and took a long, measured swallow of the strong Arbor gold. The liquid hit his stomach, a slow, spreading warmth. It wasn't to numb a jagged devastation, but to wash down the bitter taste of surrender, fuel for the long, exhausting performance he would now have to maintain for the rest of his life.
He slowly screwed the silver cap back on and slipped the flask back into his pocket, where it would dutifully remain untouched for the remainder of the day.