They say marriage is like a roller coaster.
Exhilarating at first, then you realize you're strapped to something that could kill you at any moment and there's no way off.
The thought drifted through his mind with all the bitter amusement of a man watching his own execution.
Which, considering the circumstances, wasn't far from the truth.
The Great Sept of Baelor rose around him in all its medieval pretentious glory. Seven-sided, seven-towered, dripping with crystals that reflected the light and threw it back in rainbow fragments across the assembled nobility of Westeros.
The High Septon stood before the altar in robes so encrusted with jewels that he wondered if the old man could even move without assistance, droning on in that particular nasal tone that all religious officials seemed to cultivate across every world, every life, every gods-damned reality.
Something about the Seven's blessing and the sanctity of marriage and duties both sacred and profane.
And he heard approximately none of it.
His golden eyes, a genetic aberration that had caused no small amount of consternation among the maesters when he'd been born, whispers of ancient Valyrian bloodlines and forgotten magics, were fixed on the far end of the sept.
If he had the poetic terms for such a scene, it would have been described like this: The massive doors stood open to admit his bride, and the sun streamed through them in gaps of honey-colored light that turned the dust into floating embers.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, in that corner that still remembered being someone else entirely, someone who'd lived in a world of smartphones and coffee shops and streaming services, he thought it looked like a scene from a movie.
I'm a 21st-century guy trapped in Westeros, he mused, not for the first time, about to marry the 'Queen in Chains' herself. The girl whose story I watched on TV while eating dinner on my couch. Whose story I witnessed through a screen.
If you ask him, she endured far worse than a gruesome death.
She lived on while witnessing the deaths of all her children and grandchildren indirectly because of her, and the men that sought to use her. Then she finally died of old age, haunted by bitter regrets.
And now I'm supposed to be her husband.
The thought arrived with the heavy force of a warhammer to the chest, and down through the pit of his stomach, same as it had every day for the past six months.
Six months since he'd gotten spectacularly, catastrophically drunk at his brother's wedding and opened his big fucking mouth.
Six moons since he'd talked himself into a marriage he'd never wanted with a girl whose fate he'd once watched unfold in high definition, complete with a haunting soundtrack and Emmy-worthy performances.
Finally, the doors opened wider, and there she was.
Alicent Hightower walked down the aisle with the kind of grace that came from a lifetime of training, every movement as carefully choreographed as a dancer's. Her gown was a masterwork of deep green silk and silver embroidery. Hightower colors, the tower standing proud on her breast, with each measured step and made her seem almost ethereal. Her auburn hair had been arranged in an elaborate style that probably had a name he would never learn, woven through with pearls and delicate silver wire that glinted like morning dew. A maiden's cloak draped her shoulders, the grey tower of her house stark against the green silk.
She was beautiful. Of course she was. He'd known that already, had seen her at court on the rare, painful occasions he'd been forced to attend. Pretty, poised, perfect—everything a noble lady of Westeros should be. The platonic ideal of womanhood according to Westerosi standards.
But as she drew closer, as the space between them narrowed with each careful step, his enhanced senses caught what no one else in this sept could perceive.
The tremor in her hands, barely visible but there, hidden in the folds of her skirts where silk bunched over her fingers. Probably to avoid nipping at them. The too-rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, just visible above the high collar of her gown; bird-quick, hummingbird-fast. The scent of fear, sharp and acrid and unmistakable, that rolled off her in waves beneath the expensive perfume of roses and something sweeter, something uniquely her that he couldn't quite name.
Orange blossoms, perhaps. Or jasmine. Some flower that didn't grow in the Crownlands.
And beneath it all, deeper and more primal than conscious thought, Draxtar stirred in his mind.
The dragon's presence lived in the back of his consciousness like a second heartbeat, a constant thrum of power and hunger and ancient, reptilian awareness that never fully slept.
Right now, that presence focused with predatory intensity on the girl walking toward them. Not with hunger, thank fuck, because that would have been a problem, but with curiosity. Assessment. The dragon equivalent of a cat examining something new in its territory.
Ours?
The thought wasn't in words, dragons didn't think in human language. Basic Valyrian? Aye. But more so in impressions, emotions, instincts older than language itself.
Hmm, he agreed naturally, which was about as close to conversation as he and Draxtar got. The bond didn't work like that. It was more… feeling. Knowing. Being.
The dragon rumbled satisfaction in his mind, a vibration he felt in his bones.
He dragged his attention back to Alicent, watching her progress down that endless aisle. She maintained perfect posture despite what his senses told him about her internal state; spine straight, chin level, each step precisely measured. Not a crack in the mask. Not a single hint of the terror he could smell on her, taste in the air between them.
Doubt she wants this any more than I do. Can't blame her. Judging by her eyes, she's already counted every way this could go wrong.
I could tell her a few more.
She's practically terrified. But look at her. You'd never know it. Not from her face. Not from how she carries herself.
So she has a spine after all. The realization brought with it a flicker of dark amusement. His entire situation was absurd enough to warrant it. Tragic comedy at its finest, or maybe comedic tragedy. He hadn't decided which.
22 years of this second life. 22 years since he'd been reborn as Baelon Targaryen's youngest son, opening his eyes to find himself in a cradle with a dragon egg beside him that was already cracking. 22 years of adapting, surviving, trying to make sense of being a 21st-century soul trapped in a medieval fantasy world he'd only seen on television.
22 years of being Aethor Targaryen.
He'd been freaked out that first year.
Fucking terrified, actually. Who would actually celebrate if they got dumped in a shitty world like this?
No internet connection, no proper plumbing, no hygiene, and people with no common sense who hated change.
Only the wretched stench of garbage, human waste, and murder on every side was left to enjoy.
He was just lucky enough to be born a Prince in a place where power, wealth, and status is everything.
Imagine being reborn as a smallfolk or a woman. Or better yet, a slave.
Stuck in an infant's body with an adult mind screaming questions he couldn't voice. It had taken time to accept that this was real, that there was no waking up from this particular dream.
And then he'd done what humans did best: he'd survived. Adapted. Rolled with the absolute insanity of his circumstances.
He'd decided early on not to join in on the political drama too much with the timeline he half-remembered. He'd only watched the two seasons of House of the Dragon before… whatever had happened, happened. His memories of the show were fragmentary at best; images, scenes, feelings, but not the full narrative. He remembered Alicent. Remembered Rhaenyra. Remembered dragons and fire and a civil war that tore the realm apart. Snippets of spoilers his friends used to tell from Game of Thrones.
But the details? Those were fuzzy. Fading. Getting fuzzier every year as his past-life memories grew distant, like trying to remember a dream upon waking.
So he'd stayed out of it. Spent his teenage years in Essos, letting Draxtar grow to his terrifying size without the chains the Dragonkeepers insisted on.
Fighting in the Disputed Lands because violence made sense in a way politics never would. Learning to live with the dragon bond that made him inhumanly stronger, faster, more aggressive than any normal man. Learning to control the unnatural rage that came with it, the destructive fury that his dragon blood amplified.
He'd come back to King's Landing only when absolutely necessary. For births. For deaths. For coronations. For the rare family events he couldn't avoid.
Like Viserys' wedding to Laena Velaryon.(Not the first but also probably not the last major event that wouldn't align with the original cannon.)
And fuck, that had been a mistake.
—*—
Six Months Earlier
The feast was in full swing by the time Aethor made his catastrophic error in judgment.
He could blame it on several things, in retrospect.
The Dornish red that flowed like a river, abundant and sweet and far too easy to drink. The fact that he'd tried to ignore the elephant in the room by pretending to be caught up in the energy of celebration despite his usual distaste for courtly functions. The sight of his brother Daemon's smirking face egging him on to "try the Arbor gold, it'll put hair on your balls."
Or maybe just the fact that he'd spent the last 15 years of this second life carefully avoiding exactly this kind of social situation, and his tolerance for both alcohol and social stupidity had atrophied accordingly.
Whatever the reason, and yes, he'd analyze it to death later, in the cold light of horrified sobriety - by the time Viserys stood to make his toast to his new bride, Aethor was well and truly drunk.
The hall had gone quiet for the king's speech. Hundreds of nobles, all the great houses of Westeros represented, falling silent to hear their monarch speak. Viserys stood at the center of the high table, cup raised, his face flushed with wine and what might have been triumph or might have been desperation.
"To my beautiful wife," Viserys declared, his own words slightly slurred at the edges. The king had clearly been matching his youngest brother drink for drink, which was never a good idea. Never had been, even back when they were sneaking wines as children.
"May our union bring strength to House Targaryen and prosperity to the realm!"
Beside him, little Laena Velaryon smiled politely.
She was 12 years old. 12. And recently flowered.
Gods have mercy because this was fucked up. How did this even happen?
A child in a woman's dress, draped in Targaryen colors that swallowed her small frame, trying desperately to look older, more mature, more ready for what was expected of her.
The hall erupted in cheers. Cups raised high, wine sloshing over rims like this was okay. That nothing was wrong in this arrangement.
And Aethor…Aethor who had spent his first life in the 21st century, who had seen the show, who knew what men like Viserys did to girls like Laena in the name of duty and dynasty and continuing the bloodline - like Aemma (who married him at 11) - felt something in his chest crack.
"She's a fucking child."
The words weren't loud. Weren't meant to carry beyond his own seat. But the Seven had a sense of humor, it seemed, or maybe just perfect timing. Because in that exact moment the music hit a lull. A pause between verses. A beat of silence.
His voice cut through it like a blade through silk.
Every head in the hall turned toward him. Hundreds of faces, noble and common alike, swiveling to stare at the youngest Targaryen prince. The one who rarely attended court. The exclusive one. The one with the abnormal golden eyes and the massive dragon and the reputation for rampage in the battlefield.
The silence was deafening.
"What did you say?" Viserys' voice had gone very quiet. Very flat. The kind of quiet that preceded royal displeasure, arrests, exiles.
Dangerous.
Aethor should have stopped. Should have laughed it off, made some joke about the wine, played the role of the eccentric younger brother who'd had too much to drink. Daemon was already tensing beside him, ready to intervene, to smooth things over between his brothers with his particular brand of charm and threat.
Instead, drunk-Aethor decided tonight was a great night to commit social suicide.
He set down his cup with exaggerated care and stood, the chair scraping loudly against stone in the silence. Every eye in the hall tracked the movement. Even the servants had frozen, platters held aloft, waiting.
"I said," he enunciated clearly, because apparently his filter had dissolved somewhere around the fourth cup of wine, "she's a child. You're what, 35?" He gestured broadly at Viserys, then at Laena, who looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. "And you're marrying a girl young enough to be your daughter. For duty, you say. For the realm."
He laughed, the sound bitter and harsh even to his own ears. "That's horseshit and we both know it."
Though he knew these people didn't care nor understand the morals of a modern man, it still bothered him to no end. And since his restraint has gone to the wind, no one was able to stop his mouth from spouting what exactly was on his mind.
The hall had gone dead silent now. The kind of silence that came before executions. Before wars. Corlys Velaryon's face had turned to stone, one hand white-knuckled on his cup. Princess Rhaenys looked like she might murder someone, probably Aethor himself. And Laena looked like she might cry, her young face crumpling before she caught herself and forced it back to neutrality.
And Viserys—
Viserys looked like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or call for the Kingsguard.
He stood, red faced, slamming his cup on the table with a bang.
"You dare," the king said slowly, each word dropping like a stone into still water, "lecture me on propriety? When I do this for duty, for the good of the realm? You, who've spent half your life running wild in Essos like some sellsword, who avoid court like it's diseased, who barely acknowledge your own family—"
"At least I don't fuck children in the name of duty," Aethor interrupted.
Was he a hypocrite? Mayhaps. He knew this was the way of this world, but that didn't mean he would accept it outright. Besides, he didn't want to hear Viserys' words, with their hurt and accusations, aimed at him. Aethor couldn't bear the guilt that returned so soon.
On the other hand, Daemon choked on his wine. Whether from shock or laughter or both, Aethor couldn't tell. His older brother was staring at him with an expression somewhere between horror and delighted admiration.
Viserys' face had gone purple. The hand holding his cup shook slightly, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. The vein in his temple, the one that always throbbed whenever Aethor and Daemon used to play with him during their swordsmanship training, stood out stark against his skin.
"Perhaps," he bit out, pointing his finger at Aethor, voice shaking with fury and humiliation and wine, "You need a wife to tame that insolence! To teach you some respect for tradition and duty and the way things are done! Since you clearly lack any understanding of either!"
Aethor froze at that.
He was fortunate that Queen Alysanne, King Jaehaerys, and his own father died before any marriage arrangements could be made for him, unlike his brothers. Yet surely, Viserys wouldn't dare, given Daemon's situation…
Regardless, the logical part of Aethor's brain, the part that wasn't drowning in Dornish red and righteous anger, knew this was a threat. Knew he should back down and apologize.
Instead, he laughed. His brain refused to function rationally.
"Hah!" The sound burst out of him before he could stop it. It was deep and rough with mockery.
"Did that work on Daemon?" Aethor opened his arms wide, like he was doing a performance. "Better me than you lot of scheming vultures! At least I'd let her grow up first!"
That was when Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, snake that he was, ambitious climber who'd been angling for power since before Aethor was born, leaned forward with that calculating expression Aethor had learned to distrust on sight.
The man was smiling. Actually smiling, like the Seven themselves had just delivered him a gift.
"Your Grace," Otto said smoothly, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the nearest tables, "if I may. My daughter Alicent is of age. Seventeen, well-educated, of impeccable breeding and virtue. Perhaps… an arrangement could be made? To satisfy your brother's apparent concerns about age while also seeing him properly settled?"
Aethor remembered staring at Otto like he'd grown a second head. Remembered the sinking realization cutting through the alcohol haze like ice water. Remembered the exact moment he understood that he'd been outmaneuvered by a man who'd been waiting for exactly this kind of opportunity.
Otto Hightower had just sold his daughter to neutralize a threat and secure an alliance in one move.
Viserys' expression shifted. The purple fury faded, replaced by something calculating. Something mean and utterly petty. His lips curved into a smile that had nothing warm in it.
"An excellent suggestion, Lord Hand. Yes." The king's eyes fixed on Aethor, hard as flint, sharp as dragon glass. "Yes, I think that would do nicely. Since my brother has such strong opinions about marriage and duty and proper behavior, let him experience it himself. To your daughter, Lord Otto. We'll announce the betrothal tonight."
"Your Grace is most generous," Otto murmured, and fuck if the man didn't look like a cat who'd caught a dragon. Smug. Satisfied.
Aethor had opened his mouth to object, to refuse, to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come.
In this brief moment of shock and speechlessness, many court nobles objected, saying this was not customary, that Otto shouldn't get ahead of himself. Some even joined in and they tried their luck by suggesting their own daughters, nieces, granddaughters, or other female relatives as a match for the third Prince of the realm.
But who was Otto Hightower?
A smooth talker who has a stick up his ass that would rather burn than lose a prince for the taking. And the King, who wished to punish his brother at once for his insult, dismissed everyone else to seal the deal while the entire hall was watching.
Daemon had that terrible grin on his face that meant he found this absolutely hilarious.
The only fortunate thing about this whole mess was the girl in question was not present to witness her father selling her off to the Golden Prince. And somewhere in the back of his wine-soaked brain, an old voice whispered:
You know what happens to her in the original timeline. You've seen it. Otto uses her. Viserys would have used her. This way… maybe this is better. Maybe you can change things. Maybe you can—
"Fine," he heard himself say. The word came out flat. Final. "Fine. Whatever. Better me than anyone else."
He gestured vaguely at Viserys, who looked ready to combust with vindictive satisfaction.
The hall erupted in murmurs. Voices spreading like wildfire through the tables. Otto was already bowing low, accepting on his daughter's behalf before anyone could reconsider.
And Aethor had reached for another cup of wine, because fuck it, he was already drowning, might as well sink all the way down.
He didn't remember much after that. Just fragments. Daemon's arm around his shoulders, his brother's voice in his ear: "Well done, baby brother. Truly spectacular self-destruction. You're getting a father-in-law in that cunt of a Hand." The sound of his own laughter, bitter and harsh. The spinning of the room as he drank more, trying to drown the realization of what he'd done.
He felt Draxtar's distant curiosity-confusion-amusement in the back of his mind. The dragon didn't understand human complications. Didn't care about marriage or politics or social suicide.
Dragons had it easy.
As far as the dragon was concerned, they'd acquired something new. Something to destroy, protect, or possess. The specifics didn't matter.
Aethor wished he could do the same instead of racking his brain on how to apologize to the Velaryrons. Especially Laena.
—*—
Now, six moons later, here they were.
Alicent reached the altar where Aethor stood, and up close the scent of fear was almost overwhelming, cutting through the roses and jasmine hitting his senses.
When he reached to remove her maiden's cloak, she bowed her head with appropriate grace, and Aethor watched Otto, his new father-in-law, gods help him, step forward to take the grey and green cloak fabric from his hands.
Their eyes met. Otto's expression was complex, layered, satisfaction that his daughter was marrying a prince, displeasure that said prince was the 'exclusive' one who avoided court, calculation about how to use this connection, and underneath it all a flicker of something that might have been genuine concern for his daughter.
Inwardly, Aethor scoffed.
The man was a terrible father on par with Viserys to Alicent's children. An ambitious, scheming snake who'd just successfully sold his daughter to secure his position and legacy.
But he was also a father who'd ensured his child married into the royal family rather than being married off to some lord in the Reach or the Vale. Who'd secured her the title of princess. Who'd made sure she was protected by marriage to a man who, for all his fearsome reputation, had no history of cruelty to women.
He's a bastard, but he's a smart bastard.
Not that it mattered. Alicent was his now, not Otto's political tool.
Aethor turned to the High Septon as the old man began arranging his own cloak; blood red with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned in black, to replace Alicent's maiden's cloak. The symbolism was heavy-handed. She was leaving her father's house to join her husband's. Leaving the tower to become a dragon.
But she never did. Not in the show nor books.
Alicent Hightower was through and through—a Hightower who detested Valyrian incestous traditions and their Gods.
But no one can deny that she birthed dragons. Four promising dragons who could've been great. Instead, each one was led astray and died pitiful deaths.
He swung his cloak over her shoulders and she almost disappeared beneath it. Tiny compared to his size. Then she straightens. Chin up. Eyes blazed like wildfire. She had more steel in her than half the knights here. Reminds him of someone who'd survive a massacre just to spite the world.
The High Septon raised that ridiculous crystal, light refracting through it in what was probably meant to be deeply symbolic. Something about the Seven's blessing, the light of the Father's justice and judgment, the Mother's mercy and protection, the Warrior's strength—
Aethor tuned it out and studied Alicent instead.
She stood exactly the proper distance away, hands clasped loosely in front of her now that they were free of the maiden's cloak. Her head was slightly bowed in an attitude of appropriate reverence, but not so low that it seemed subservient. The picture of maidenly virtue waiting to become a wife.
But this close, even without his enhanced senses, he could see the tension in her shoulders. The careful control of her breathing. The way her fingers tightened just slightly on each other before deliberately relaxing.
"Prince Aethor Targaryen," the High Septon intoned, pulling him back to the ceremony. The old man's voice carried through the sept with practiced authority. "Do you take this woman, Alicent of House Hightower, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to honor and protect, to cherish in sickness and in health, in the sight of gods and men, until death parts you?"
The words that would seal both their fates. The vow that couldn't be unmade, not without scandal and political catastrophe. This was it, last chance to object, to refuse, to burn it all down.
Aethor looked at Alicent—really looked at her.
Saw past the perfect presentation to the girl beneath. 18 years old. Who was terrified of him and his reputation. Terrified of what came next, of the wedding night, of being bound to a man she didn't know who was known throughout the realm as a bloodied warrior.
He recalled the show. Remembered what happened to her when she was used as a pawn. The bitter, broken woman she became. The mother who lost everything.
I won't be another man who ruins her.
Aethor cleared his throat.
"I do," he said clearly, his voice coming out rough. The harsh Valyrian accent that clung to his words even when speaking the Common Tongue, product of spending too much time in Essos, of learning High Valyrian before he'd fully mastered Westerosi Common, made the simple phrase sound almost threatening to those who didn't know better.
Daemon teases me, says I sound like I'm gargling gravel. My voice is deep and nothing like the smooth, cultured tones of my brothers. Then again, nothing about me is like my brothers. Suits me fine.
Though, it didn't matter when the words 'I do' are the two most dangerous words in any language.
Alicent's eyes flicked up to meet his for just a moment.
Golden eyes met brown, and something passed between them. Recognition perhaps. Or just shared resignation. Two people trapped in circumstances neither had chosen, about to be bound together by words and law and tradition.
Her eyes were pretty, he noticed with distant surprise. A warm brown with flecks of amber that reflected the light. Expressive eyes, though she kept them carefully neutral now.
"Lady Alicent," the High Septon continued, turning to her. "Do you take this man, Prince Aethor of House Targaryen, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to honor and obey, to cherish in sickness and in health, in the sight of gods and men, until death parts you?"
"I do."
Her voice was steady, clear, perfectly modulated, the product of years of training in elocution and courtly behavior. But he heard the slight tremor underneath, the barely-there waver that spoke of nerves controlled through sheer will.
And something in him…some instinct born of his dragon bond or his past-life memories or just basic human decency, wanted to tell her it would be okay. That he wouldn't hurt her. That she didn't need to be afraid.
But this wasn't the time or place for reassurances. They had an audience of hundreds, all watching to see how their mysterious prince and his bride would fare.
The High Septon beamed like he'd accomplished something meaningful instead of legally binding two near-strangers together for political purposes. "Then by the power vested in me by the Seven Who Are One, I declare you husband and wife in the eyes of gods and men. May the Father guide you with wisdom, the Mother protect you with love, the Warrior grant you strength in trials—"
More religious platitudes that Aethor had heard variations of at every wedding he'd been forced to attend. The old man could really go on when given the chance.
Fuckin' hell. Would he just finish off already?
"—and may the Seven bless this union with many children to continue the proud line of House Targaryen," the High Septon finished finally, probably aware that he was losing his audience. "You may kiss your bride, Prince Aethor."
Aethor stepped closer to Alicent. Saw her chin lift slightly, her spine straighten. Bracing herself, preparing for… what? A rough kiss? A possessive claiming in front of all these witnesses? Something brutal to establish dominance?
He raised his hands slowly, giving her time to see the movement, and cupped her face with a gentleness that made her eyes widen in visible surprise. His palms were rough, callused from sword work and dragon riding, but his touch was careful. Reverent, almost.
Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss was chaste by any standard. Brief. Appropriate for a wedding ceremony in front of half the realm and the High Septon himself. No tongue, no passion, just a soft press of lips that lasted maybe three seconds at most.
But in that moment of contact, in those handful of heartbeats, Aethor learned several things.
One: Alicent tasted sweet. Like honey and milk and something he couldn't name. Probably whatever they'd given her to calm her nerves before the ceremony; chamomile tea, mayhaps, or some other herbal preparation meant to settle anxiety.
Two: Her lips were soft. Impossibly soft, like silk against his own, and they trembled slightly despite her rigid control everywhere else. A tiny, vulnerable movement that she couldn't quite suppress.
Three: She smelled even better up close. The roses and jasmine, yes, but underneath it all something warm and alive and uniquely her.
Four: He had the absolutely inappropriate urge to lick away that tremor, to deepen the kiss, to taste her properly and see if she'd respond or freeze or—
He pulled back before he could do something stupid in front of the gods and everyone.
The sept erupted in applause. Cheers rang out from the assembled nobles, the sound echoing off the high ceilings and crystal-laden walls. Calls of congratulation mixed with the rustle of hundreds of people rising to their feet, silk and velvet and fine wool whispering as the nobility of Westeros stood to honor their union.
Alicent looked at him. Expecting something. Mayhaps a smile. Mayhaps fire. Or a monster.
Aethor grunts. "Could be worse."
She blinks. Not sure if he's japing.
Aethor glanced at the crowd, then back at her. "Could be better, too."
She shoots him a nervous, fake smile. "I suspect most root canals are shorter."
Aethor snorted. Points for wit. The tedious ceremony did steal 5 hours of their time already.
The High Septon was declaring something about the union being blessed by the Seven, about the strength of House Targaryen continuing through their line, but Aethor had stopped listening entirely.
Instead, he was cataloging reactions. Reading the room the way he'd learned to do in Essos, where missing a subtle shift in mood could mean the difference between walking away from a negotiation and being buried in an unmarked grave.
Viserys stood in the royal box to the right of the altar, elevated above the common nobility to emphasize his station. The king wore robes of black and red, the crown of the Conqueror heavy on his brow, and an expression that made Aethor's jaw clench involuntarily.
Regret. That's what he saw there. Deep, bitter regret mixed with possessiveness.
Viserys was looking at Alicent the way a man looked at a prize he'd lost. At a possession that had slipped through his fingers. His eyes tracked her movement, lingered on the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder, the elegant line of her profile.
And underneath the regret was hunger. Raw, undisguised want.
He desired her. He still does. Even now, even married to Laena, even watching his brother marry her, he wants her.
The dragon's rage bled into his own, amplifying it, turning irritation into something molten and violent. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles going white with the effort of controlling the urge to cross that distance and put his fist through his brother's face.
The internal vow came swift and certain, burning through him like dragon fire: She's mine now. My wife. My responsibility. And I sure as fuck won't let anyone else have her either. Not Otto. Not Viserys. Not anyone.
My problem to protect.
Rhaenyra stood beside her father, and her reaction couldn't have been more different. The princess looked genuinely happy. Her smile was wide and unguarded. She was leaning forward slightly, hands clasped together as if barely containing the urge to rush forward and embrace them both.
When she caught Aethor's eye, she beamed at him and gave an encouraging nod, like he'd done something wonderful. Like this marriage was a dream come true instead of a political arrangement born of drunken stupidity and Otto Hightower's opportunism.
Gods, she's naive. She had no idea of what could've been. Aethor thought with a mix of affection and exasperation.
It won't be for long. Rhaenyra was still young, only 15, still believed in the songs and stories, still thought the world worked the way the bards claimed it did since Alicent didn't 'betray' her in this life. She loved Alicent like a sister, had grown up with her in the Red Keep, and probably saw this as securing that bond permanently.
She'd learn eventually. They all did. The world had a way of beating idealism out of people.
Just look at him, he'd started this life thinking he could avoid it, stay out of the civil war, let events play out. And now here he was, married to one of the central figures of the coming disaster, unable to stay on the sidelines even if he wanted to.
Daemon stood slightly behind and to the left of Rhaenyra, and his expression was pure, undiluted entertainment. His older brother wore black and red leather, eschewing the formal court robes most others had donned, and his silver hair was pulled back in the Valyrian style. Dark Sister hung at his hip—because of course Daemon would wear a sword to a wedding, even if unapproved.
When their eyes met, Daemon raised an imaginary cup in a mocking salute, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. He was clearly having the time of his life watching his baby brother get ceremonially shackled.
Asshole.
No matter, he would soon be at war in the stepstones with Corlys.
The Velaryons occupied another place of honor near the royal box. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, watched with the careful neutrality of a man noting political shifts for future reference. His expression gave away nothing.
Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Should Have Been, sat beside her husband with regal bearing. Her expression was harder to read, but there might have been sympathy there.
The assembled lords and ladies of the realm spread out through the sept in their finery; house colors on display, jewelry glittering, faces showing various degrees of interest, boredom, calculation, and speculation.
And underneath the polite applause, Aethor's enhanced hearing caught the whispers. The murmurs that weren't meant to carry but did anyway, at least to his ears enhanced by dragon.
"—did you see his eyes? They say they glow in the dark—"
"—ten battles in Essos, I heard. Maybe more—"
"—that dragon of his, huge as Vermithor, vicious as—"
"—more beast than man, they say—"
"—inhuman strength, the blood of dragon runs strong on him—"
"—The Wrathfiend and its rider, both monsters—"
They feared him. They always had, ever since he was old enough to understand what the stares meant, what the whispers implied. It was the dragon bond, he knew. The connection to Draxtar that did… things. Changed him. Made him other in ways that unsettled people on an instinctive level.
The enhanced senses that let him smell fear, arousal, and lies. The increased strength that made him stronger than men twice his size. The speed and reflexes that came from sharing space in his own head with a predator. The aggression, the rage that simmered just under his skin, the fight-or-flight response permanently stuck on "fight."
He looked the part too. Six feet two inches of muscle mass and sharp angles, built like a weapon and moving like one. Pale skin so translucent that blue and red veins showed through like cracks in marble—a Targaryen feature, but more pronounced in him than his brothers. The scar across his nose from a lucky sword strike by a Tyroshi sellsword, a thin white line that somehow made him look more dangerous rather than less. White hair that curled and knotted despite his best efforts, currently pulled back in a half-loose tied bun that was already coming undone.
And the eyes. The golden eyes that marked him as different from birth, that caught light and threw it back in ways that made people uncomfortable, that did seem to glow in darkness when the dragon-sight kicked in.
He was gruff where Daemon was charming. Blunt where Viserys was political. Handsome in a harsh, unforgiving way that spoke of violence rather than poetry.
And then there was Draxtar.
The Wrathfiend. Named for one of the fourteen flames of Old Valyria. The god of life and creation and nature, ruler of the celestial lands, brother-husband to Onixia in the old myths. A dragon of dark emerald scales that shifted bronze-brown where light hit the ridges and edges, each scale like a knife blade. Crowned with jagged horns that gave him a demonic appearance. Eyes that burned gold-green with ancient, predatory intelligence.
Large as Vermithor, vicious as Caraxes, and accommodating only to Aethor.
Together, they were the subject of stories told to frighten children and warn enemies. The rampaging prince and his demon dragon. More monsters than men, more weapons than beings.
Let them think that, Aethor decided, not for the first time. Better they fear me than try to use me. Better they keep their distance than get close enough to hurt those I protect.
And now "those I protect" included the girl standing beside him, wearing his cloak and his name.
They stand there. Awkward. Stiff. Staring. The court's watching, waiting for something to go wrong.
Aethor takes her hand, leading her from the altar. "Let's get this over with."
She keeps pace, steps careful, measured. A dutiful, obedient wife any man would want.
They make it to the doors. He risked a glance at her. Auburn hair, skin like porcelain, eyes sharp and tired. Easy on the eyes.
Aethor frowned and huffed, wondering why he was reincarnated into Westeros for nth time.
"How the fuck did I get here?" He grumbles crudely. Not really expecting an answer.
She hears him anyway. Says, quiet and soft, "I've wondered the same, husband."
Hmm. Husband. Now that's something I don't hear everyday.
In another life, I'd have run. In this one, I stand. Because that's what you do when you're out of options.
The doors closed behind them.
One disaster at a time, he reminded himself.
Just survive tonight. Deal with tomorrow when it comes.
And try not to fuck it up too badly.