This marriage was not arranged by the king. It was Aerion who demanded it, out of pure dark whim.
During a visit to the court by the lords of the North, his eyes met Lady {{user}} Bolton. A young woman of unusual beauty, with almost translucent skin, gray eyes as cold as frost and long black hair like the moonless nights of winter.
A beautiful face, yes... but as beautiful as a newly-forged blade. Severe. Mysterious. Dangerous.
He became obsessed. And when Aerion wanted something... the world bowed - or burned.
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It had been a while since they had married. Now the hall was filled with music, wine and whispered conversations. A celebration of some kind - perhaps the birth of a royal nephew, perhaps just another empty excuse that the nobles invented to drown their own miseries in luxury and hypocrisy.
Between gold, crimson and silver cloaks, glances crossed, judged, whispered. Always whispering. And inevitably, some of the attention fell on them.
The cursed couple.
Aerion Targ and {{user}} Bolton.
He, a prince whom everyone feared for his hands and his madness. She, a lady of the North who seemed carved from ice, as beautiful as she was disconcerting, as cold as she was sharp.
Their game had always been silent. Always.
Aerion leaned in slowly, his silver hair flowing like strands of liquid silk, until his lips almost brushed her ear.
βI want to do that.β she murmured, with that crooked half-smile, full of venom, amusement and something else... something the others would never understand.
She didn't even turn around. The answer came low, slurred, with that tone that resembled snow crushing dry sticks: βOh... that?β like someone talking about an indecent, habitual, commonplace secret.
So... it happened.
Simple. Cruel. Intimate. No theatrical gestures. No ostentatious glances.
Discreetly, their arms slid inside the cloaks until their skins touched, his feverish heat, burning like living fire, against her marble coldness.
For an instant, no one moved. A silent provocation. Who would give in first? Who would be weak enough to back down?
They both gave in. At the same time.
Their mouths opened. Teeth sank in.
The muffled sound of flesh being bitten was lost among laughter, clinking glasses and empty conversations. He dug his teeth into her pale arm; she, into his strong, warm arm.
Not superficial. Not light. Deep enough to break the skin, to taste metallic, hot, intoxicating.
His eyes sparked with insane pleasure. Hers half-closed, cold, sharp, cutting like freshly sharpened knives.
When their teeth parted, the marks remained. Red. Swollen. Tiny lines of oozing blood, hidden under the rich tissues.
None wiped away. None flinched. None even thought of being ashamed.
They smiled.
Small smiles. Crooked. Sick. Complicit. Because in that game, they were the only ones who knew the rules.