Chapter One
The dream was always the same: a blur of silver-gold hair and the scent of strong, spiced wine.
In the darkness of the nightmare, Aerion's face was a masterpiece of Valyrian cruelty. He was eerily handsome, his violet eyes glowing like embers in a dying fire. You felt the suffocating weight of him, and then the sharp throb of pain that made the world tilt. Your lungs seized; you began to hyperventilate, the air in the room turning to ash.
You saw the flicker of genuine irritation cross his beautiful features. It was the look of a man interrupted during a holy ritual.
"Cease that noise," he hissed, his voice a jagged blade against your ear. "It is a singular honor to be touched by the Brightflame. You sound as if you are being put to the rack."
"Forgive me, my Prince," you gasped, your fingers clawing at the expensive silk around you. "I will... I will be silent..."
The pain flared again, and as your breath hitched into a broken sob, his lips curled in unease. He pulled away, the sudden absence of his heat feeling like a slap.
"I have no desire to continue if you are going to make that noise," he grumbled, throwing his head back and cursing under the Seven. "You are... tedious."
The words began to distort, deepening into a low, rumbling roar that sounded like the ground cracking open—
You woke with a violent jolt, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The morning light was a brutal intrusion, cutting across the massive Targaryen bed. For a moment, you couldn't breathe, but it wasn't the nightmare. It was the air. The chamber was sweltering. It was a thick, stagnant heat that made the fine silk sheets cling to your damp skin.
You shifted, and the movement sent a sharp reminder of the night before through your hips. Turning your head, you saw it: the rusty bloom of blood on the white Myrish lace. The proof of his entry, yet the evidence of a conquest he hadn't bothered to finish.
The last thing you remembered was the cold. After he had climbed out of the bed, cursing your name and your feeble spirit, you had lain there shivering in the darkness, watching the silhouette of him at the sideboard. He had stood there for almost an hour, naked and unashamed, pouring cup after cup of Arbor gold, as if he was alone in the world.
You didn't remember falling asleep. But as you looked toward the hearth, you saw the remains of a fire that must have been a pyre. The iron grate was warped from the intensity of the heat he had stoked before leaving.
He had let you cry. He had called you tedious. He had walked out on your union. But at some point in the dead of night, he had looked at your shivering form and decided that if he wouldn't hold you, the fire would.
A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the heavy oak doors shattered your thoughts. You tried to bolt upright, but a white-hot flash of pain flared in your loins, forcing a gasp from your throat as you sank back into the sweat-soaked pillows.
Before you could call out, a flutter of handmaidens rushed in. Their faces were masks of practiced neutrality, though the heat of the room made them squint. As two servants moved to hoist you up, their hands cool against your feverish skin, you saw a third woman, the eldest, begin to strip the bed efficiently.
"Wait," you rasped, your voice dry from the stifling air. "Why are you taking those?"
The servant didn't look up as she bundled the white Myrish lace, the copper-scented stain of the marriage blood folded into the center. "The Prince's lord father and the court require the proof, Your Highness. The bedding must be witnessed to confirm the union is consummate."
You watched in numb disbelief as the woman walked away with the evidence of a lie. The servants lowered you into a steaming tub, the water scented with crushed mint and oils meant to soothe the bridal ache. As the heat of the water met the soreness of your body, your mind spiraled.
Could last night truly be called a union?
The memory was a jagged shard: Aerion's weight, the sudden, intrusive thrust, and then his immediate withdrawal. He hadn't finished. He hadn't found pleasure. He had simply looked at you as if you were a goblet of soured wine and poured himself out of the bed.
You gripped the edge of the porcelain tub until your knuckles turned white. The rumors of the Brightflame had painted him as a monster. A man who delighted in the suffering of others. You had expected a beast who would feed on your pain, a man who would find your agony an aphrodisiac and force himself until his lust was spent.
But Aerion was a different kind of cruel. He was vain.
His rejection stung worse than his entry. He didn't want a victim, but a mirror that reflected his own perceived divinity. By crying, you hadn't just felt pain; you had insulted his ego.
A cold dread settled in your gut. In the House of the Dragon, to be boring was to be disposable. If Aerion grew bored of you, you weren't just a failed wife; you were a political liability. And Aerion was a volatile man. He could discard you, replace you, or kill you, and the world would simply call it the whim of a dragon.
