Months of writer's block and then this all came pouring out of me last night. Unless I explicitly say so, this story is never dead during times of inactivity, just on a very long hiatus. I write this stuff for fun. Hopefully with this one out of the way the newer chapters will come to me sooner.

I will also state flat out I don't write porn. Most smut bores me and adds nothing to the plot. If this story ever gets upped to an M, it would be for graphic depictions of violence and other such disturbing content. Readers wanting to get their rocks off will just have to use their imaginations :p

"A whore?" Harry echoed in disbelief. "You mean to get me a whore?"

In the privacy of his quarters Aegon didn't flinch. "Only an unforgettable night with a woman of experience. It's your business if you continue seeing her after. I only meant to ask your preference in girls. Your bride is beautiful, but you'll be sharing her bed for a lifetime."

Westeros was a world where girls were married at their first flowering and their husbands proudly boasted of their extramarital conquests. There were even whispers of Rhaegar's own mistresses, for it was an open secret he'd not shared a bed with Lyanna in years. For the most part Harry could only grit his teeth and ignore it.

Aegon's offer, however, was another matter.

Harry bit back on his first impulsive response to tell Aegon exactly where he could shove his whore. He could not remember the last time his brother had willingly sought him out, much less to ask him his opinion on something. Aegon was also prideful and prone to taking things the wrong way.

"Why are you asking me this?" Harry said at last.

Aegon flushed but did not avert his gaze. "Before my own wedding night Ser Lyn and Ser Arys brought me to the finest brothel in King's Landing for a whore of my choosing. Rhaenys was so beautiful, like a woman grown. I... couldn't go to her bed a boy. She deserved better. Instead I gave her a night we'll never forget."

For a moment his eyes clouded over, lost in a memory but a few weeks old. He did not notice Harry fighting to conceal a disgusted wince. However, Aegon's gaze sharpened, and he continued on.

"Irenna Laskaris is not only a woman grown, Jaehaerys, but she is Tyroshi. I have heard much of Essosi women's sexual appetites. I can't let you go to her bed when she'd eat you alive."

"I'm not a virgin, Aegon." Granted, Ginny had been a literal lifetime ago, but Harry had scarcely turned fourteen a second time. "I know what happens on the wedding night."

Aegon wilted in relief. "Oh, thank the gods. Forgive me for slighting your manhood, Jaehaerys. I have never been the best brother to you."

Too many years in this life had warped Harry's moral compass. Part of him was touched at Aegon's attempt at trying to act the elder brother. It was the first time he remembered Aegon doing so.

"I never asked you to be." Harry had long since reconciled with the reality he and his twin would never be close. Aegon was a bit a brat, but mentally sound, and had never threatened his life or place in the family. Considering how some of their ancestors had treated their brothers, mutual civility was far better than heated rivalry.

"And that's the point! Even as a boy you were always so reserved, so distant, like you were above the rest of us. I can't really remember a time we were ever close."

Harry remembered. Jaehaerys' memories clearly recalled a time when he and Aegon had been inseparable. They had torn the nursery apart pretending to be dragons. Their nursemaids had chased them across Dragonstone.

Then Harry had awakened. Jaehaerys hadn't died in the fall, but his memories had been subsumed by an older consciousness. Having Dudley Dursley for a cousin hadn't helped Harry Potter make friends on the playground and those days were long past. Rhaenys and Aegon had noticed how awkward he'd become around them. Jon and Dany had been too young to care.

"Though you're a stranger to me," Aegon continued, "you know me as well as I know Rhaenys. I told no one how I envied Father receiving Darkfyre, and you order the closest alternative for a Valyrian blade crafted for me. Deathbrand is such a fine sword I shall pass it down to my own son once he becomes Prince of Dragonstone." He laughed hollowly. "And I gave you shit in return."

"It doesn't-"

"It matters!" his brother snapped. "I can barely hold my tongue during court. When I dare speak up, Father scolds me for my rash judgements or my temper. You listen to everyone, no matter how foul or insipid they sound. Father never scolds your answers. It matters that I'm the heir and that you'll be my vassal soon. If the Prince of Dragonstone cannot understand the twin he shared a womb with, how can he rule every other lord that answers to him?"

Harry waited for the fire in his brother's eyes to recede. He took several steps forward to narrow the gap between them.

"I don't want a Qohorik sword or the perfect wedding gift, Aegon. What matters is that you're trying to find out what's important to me. Listen to me, like you should listen to all who'll answer to you. Keep our needs in mind as you try to be true to yourself and the kingdom's laws.

Aegon stopped scowling. Hope and skepticism warred on his vulnerable face. "It can't be that simple."

"No," Harry admitted, "but it's a start."

"Then what do you need for your wedding, if not a sword or whore?"

"Truly nothing. I'm a prince about to showered in another mountain of gifts." A small smile quirked at his lips. "However, I would like our relationship to extend beyond lord and vassal. Can you consider this a fresh start to our brotherhood?"

Aegon tentatively returned it. "I could, Jaehaerys."

"Harry."

It was a start.

"Good evening, Harry." Saraide smiled. "Your mind is unusually at peace."

Harry hesitated. Saraide assured him she had little insight into things deeper than his strong surface emotions, but it still unnerved him to have a foreign presence even tangentially connected to his mind. Lord Voldemort's ghost did not die easily.

"I am on stronger terms with my brother. Is that a problem?"

"On the contrary, it is a boon. The calmer your mind is the longer we can extend the connection." Her smile widened. "Of course, your improved endurance certainly helps."

Harry took his now customary spot beside Saraide. It was easiest for them to remain in one memory rather than flitting through multiple locations. Saraide was fond of her pomegranate tree. Its shade kept them cool. Its heady fragrance masked the brimstone in the air and the stink of a city that wafted from beyond the garden's black walls.

After his first attempt at lighting the glass candle Harry had waited a week before trying again. His shared dream with Saraide had lasted mere minutes before she had chased him from her garden. He had needed to build up his stamina to sustain the glass candle's power.

Saraide insisted he was not yet strong enough for anything beyond maintaining the connection. She used their dreams to tell him of her gods. To understand Valyria's gods was to understand the forces that had crafted. Now he sought her lessons every night.

He groaned as she passed a familiar shape into his hands. "Another review?"

"How can you weave the world to your whims if you do not understand its threads?" Saraide countered. "Remember the words of your house. Valyrian magic is not merciful to those who wield it in ignorance."

Physically traveling between memories, as they had once traveled to Dragonstone and King's Landing, was taxing, but recalling smaller objects was less so. Rather than taking Harry to Valyria's grand temples Saraide settled for the small idols crafted for shrines in the home.

"Shrykos, Lady of Life," he recited dutifully. His fingers cupped the figure's swollen belly. "Symbolically pregnant with all the latent generations yet to come into the world. Or else with Morghul for in all life lurks death. To call upon either is to risk death's glance upon you."

Valyria's fourteen gods were all paired with their complementary counterparts. The lord of wealth opposed the lady of war, the fire god the water goddess, and so forth. As Saraide passed idols into his hands he named them; Vermithor, Vhagar, Caraxes, Tessarion, Aegion, Thalatte, Syrax, Skadzios. Some were easier to remember than others, for old Targaryen dragons had shared their names.

Harry didn't flinch when a statue of Valyria's two highest gods fucking each other was next handed to him. When a dyad was invoked together they were depicted in either in frenzied copulation or violence. There were stranger cultural quirks in this world.

"Meraxes, Queen of Heaven, whose rains soothe her husband's wrath. And Balerion, the God Most High, whose roar is the thunder and wings the buffeting storm winds."

Meraxes was always depicted as a beautiful maiden with hair white and ethereal as the clouds. Balerion, even when shaped like a man, had unmistakable molten eyes and an obsidian hide. This idol happened to depict him as a dragon.

Saraide nodded approvingly as her mismatched eyes flitted to his scar. "Balerion is not only lord of storms, but destruction, for he tears down all in his path. Rarely should even you call upon such power, for it will devastate all in its wake. Balerion's magic is a god's power that will strike as it wills."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Then how do I control it?"

"You do not. You will call upon Balerion's favor even more rarely than I do Shrykos'. Twelve are the gods you know. Now you must learn of the final pair."

The idol in his hands disintegrated into wisps of smoke. Saraide carefully delivered another icon into his hands. Revolted, Harry almost dropped it.

Frenzied violence and frenzied fucking between divinities were things Harry now expected of how Valyrians viewed their gods. This one could not decide which it was.

It took some squinting to determine the sexes of the pair. One figure was androgynously beautiful, youthfully slim and flat-chested. Only the small cock between its legs revealed his gender. Even flat on his back the boy's eyes were wide and guileless.

The figure atop of him was androgynous, her young body haggard and marred with greyscale and a thousand other plagues. Face twisted in hatred, she reached down to strangle the same boy that sought to lovingly embrace her.

"Meleys and Mithrias," Saraide intoned reverently. "Ill-willed Meleys aims to strike down all that is good in the earth. She is every plague and pestilence in the heart of man. Merciful Mithrias will never resist. Only his healing power spares his life."

All other gods are who they are, and act as they will act, to the benefit or detriment of mankind. Meleys and Mithrias, however, are governed by intent. A sorcerer who wishes ill upon another invites Meleys into their heart, and she will goad even the greatest gods into mischief. Likewise, Mithrias smiles down upon those who mean for their magic to help. Where he has not the power himself, he will entreat greater gods to act on a mortal's behalf."

Harry snorted down at the hideous figure. "She doesn't seem all that tempting."

"Sickness is rarely so straightforward," Saraide cautioned. "She senses the smallest weakness, your slightest grudge against another, and picks at your resolve until it crumbles. If you resist, she grows all the more spiteful, and eats away at those around you instead to take the revenge she cannot."

Her fingers reached toward his lightning bolt scar. His look stopped her, as it did every night. "Balerion has marked you as his own, Harry Targaryen. Meleys is too covetous to turn aside her gaze so easily."

Saraide's wildfire green eye remained fixated upon him. Her red eye, the color of weirwood sap, flitted in the direction of the garden wall.

"You will be married soon, will you not? Rest well, Harry, and seek me after. I would hate to distract from the bride upon your wedding night."

His vision flickered like a candle about to burn out. In a moment he'd be awakening to his own chambers.

A thought came to Harry. He reached out to grab the pomegranate tree. The bark felt nearly real, a solid weight to anchor himself to.

The shadow of the pomegranate tree stretched far and dark, its cloying sweetness pungent against the stink of brimstone. For a moment the dream guttered black and red. Then his vision snapped back to the garden. Saraide returned his stare, stoic as her statues.

"Aegon and Rhaenys' wedding night," Harry said firmly. "At first I thought the dream only from a bad bottle of wine, but then that dream led me to you. If Balerion marked me all those years, why did the gods find me again so much later?"

Saraide's eyes bore into his for an eternity. "Can you recall this 'bad bottle?'"

Harry would never forget that terrible, salty taste. He willed the black bottle with the crude two-headed dragon into existence just as Saraide had called upon her idols and passed it into her hands.

Her lip curved upward. "This is sacramental wine, unfit for human consumption. It is intended only for libations poured before the altars of the gods. Mantarys is among the few cities that will consecrate it. Usually this wine makes it no further west than Volantis. No other Free City keeps to the old rites. Whoever served it to had no idea it was intended only for gods, and yet again opened you to their power."

Then Valyrian gods lacked mortal palettes. "What makes such wine holy?"

"Rituals observed by the priestly class. They are beyond my purview."

Harry nodded. From her tone he would learn more tonight. "Thank you, Saraide."

"You are most welcome, Harry, as you always are. Now rest and recover your strength, so your lessons can soon begin in earnest."

Harry let go of the pomegranate tree and surrendered to the force that returned him to his own chambers. He collapsed into bed only after hiding the glass candle. He did not wake until the servants roused him the morning after.

For Tyroshis, even those who did not worship Trios, the most auspicious omens were said to come in threes.

Irenna's childhood betrothed, a Myrish cousin, had been discovered dead in bed alongside a male Lyseni prostitute. By the time the Westerosi envoy had reached Tyrosh she had again been promised to a Pentoshi magister twice her age. When King Rhaegar had favored Irenna over her sisters, the same Pentoshi magister happily settled for a marriage to her youngest sister, and Irenna became promised to a prince.

Such auspiciousness should have extended to her wedding day, rings blessed and exchanged three times, three sips from the common cup, three sacred hymns to consecrate their union. They should have worn their golden crowns, exchanged three times between their heads, and symbolically tied by their wedding's officiator. For as long as husband and bride both lived, their crowns would be safely stowed away together. Only when one of them died would the ribbon be cut, so they might be buried with their crown and the union ended.

But King's Landing was not Tyrosh or any other Free City that smiled down such rituals of three. Aside from the wolf queen and Prince Jon, the royal family kept to the Faith, and the new gods were jealous gods.

Arsenio had insisted on the three engagement rings as solid proof of the betrothal contract. Today they would become one. It was the only part of a Tyroshi ceremony the High Septon would allow in his halls, because the King had ordered it of him.

Tyroshi brides wore loose, draping robes in the richest materials their families could afford. It was both a display of wealth and a reminder the bride was off the marriage market, her body her husband's right alone. The elaborate head-dresses signified much the same, a family's wealth and a wife no longer allowed a maiden's unbound hair.

Irenna instead wore a Westerosi gown that clung to her waist line's every curve. Queen Rhaella's influence had thankfully made conservative necklines fashionable, but the tight corset still allowed a man to imagine what was not his to touch. Arsenio had desired her gown in cloth-of-gold. Upon learning Westerosi wedding gowns were typically white, he had instead ordered one of silver and ivory samite. Her hair was restrained in elaborate braids, but still exposed to every eye.

Her father, resplendent in gold robes and his proud purple beard newly dyed, smiled in satisfaction. "You look every inch a queen."

Her mother's gaze was far more critical. "With how that gown is cut everyone in this barbaric backwater can imagine every inch of her."

Arsenio waved a dismissive hand. "Our daughter looks radiant, Athenais. Let the barbarians see what their prince has paid for."

"What we have paid for," Athenais corrected sharply. "This family's wealth has been given away in gifts, and we still have two daughters to wed."

Irenna hid her wince. She had done some rough calculations of what the match had cost, but her father had jealously hidden many of the costs from the family. She had merely suspected their coffers badly depleted, not exhausted completely.

"Bah! Already the magisters are clamoring to pay us for their hands. Who doesn't want to be tied to those wed to the world's last dragonlords?"

The most lasting of alliances required their marriage contracts to bear fruit. Athenais had given Arsenio nine children, seven of which still lived. Since Irenna's betrothal two other of daughters had married and bore their first children. Now Irenna was expected to do the same.

Arsenio lovingly draped the maiden's cloak around her shoulders. The cloth was colored deep Tyroshi purple, a dye worth its weight in silver. Stitched in golden thread was the spiny shell of the same sea snail that yielded the dye, her family's greatest source of wealth.

Tyroshi families did not typically keep crests as the Westerosi houses did, but Arsenio had eagerly commissioned one to drape around his daughter's shoulders. Furthermore, he had already drafted designs with a golden dragon coiled around the shell, for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren that would be dragonlords in their own right.

To secure her family's future, Irenna needed but two children. A daughter would bring dragon blood and dragon eggs directly into the Laskaris family. A son would ensure her husband's inheritance. Jaehaerys was second-in-line to the throne after all. Should Aegon bear no surviving male issue, the crown would fall upon his brother's.

Her family's fate fastened around her shoulders, Irenna inhaled deeply, and left her chambers behind to face her future.

Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys' wedding had been agonizingly slow, drawn out by arduous displays of power and prestige. Irenna did not face the same difficulties. Her audience for the feast afterward, as it honored both the newlyweds and the new year.

A crowd gathered in the streets to cheer and gawk. Irenna's wheelhouse was preceded by her family's eunuchs, who sung hymns in High Valyrian to honor bride and bridegroom. Coins and trinkets were thrown to the smallfolk as symbols of their new princess' good will. There were no further performers this time. Her arrival in King's Landing had been spectacle enough.

After the grandeur of the last wedding, Irenna was at ease with her own ceremony. The Great Sept was not so intimidating when her audience was considerably smaller, though impressive all the same. Her father escorted up the aisle. She felt the eyes of those in the pew upon her, but she did not tear her gaze from those standing before the High Septon.

Not even five-and-thirty, the Dragon King cut a tall and magnificent figure. Silver-gold hair and violet eyes emphasized a handsome face that could have belonged to a dragonlord of the Freehold's golden age. Any other king would have draped himself in jewels. Rhaegar's regalia extended no further than a modest gold crown and the Valyrian steel blade buckled to his red silk belt.

Beside such a legendary man his son might have seemed an inferior shadow, but Jaehaerys stood with a gravity of his own. He was still growing himself, after all, but still he stood like a man comfortable in his own skin. Valyrian violet was a striking color, but never before had Irenna seen eyes like her prince's. His black hair and silver circlet could not conceal the scar upon his forehead curiously shaped like a lightning bolt. It did not mar his features, but made him look slightly roguish. If King Rhaegar looked the part of a Valyrian dragonlord, then Jaehaerys was how she envisioned the Freehold's mysterious sorcerers.

The High Septon spun some pretty yarn of brotherhood and how love traversed all boundaries. Irenna scarcely heard him. In a Tyroshi ceremony all three rings would have exchanged between bride, groom, and contract holder three times to honor their lifelong connection. But this was not Tyrosh, and Trios was not among the seven gods honored by the Faith.

She and Arsenio turned to each other. He gently removed the red dragon ring from her finger.

"I, Arsenio Laskaris, grant this ring so that my daughter Irenna might pass out of my household and into a greater union."

Her father returned the ring to its resting place. The symbol of her betrothal had become the first acknowledgement of her wedding.

Jaehaerys took her hands in his. His palm was only slightly sweaty.

"I, Jaehaerys Targaryen, grant this ring to seek a greater union and welcome your daughter into my heart."

His hand did not shake when he slid his own ring upon her finger. The white dragon joined the red.

The High Septon obligingly stepped aside so that the King might take his place before them. "I, Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, grant this ring as contract holder, to welcome Irenna Laskaris into my house and acknowledge a greater union."

Briefly the King seperated her hand from the prince's. His hands were surprisingly soft for a man his age. The black dragon head slid down atop the red and white. Only then did he retreat back to his son's side to again face Arsenio.

Jaehaerys removed the maiden's cloak. He unfastened his own cloak from his shoulders and draped it around hers. Prince Aegon had presented Princess Rhaenys a cloak bearing his own personal coat of arms. Arsenio and Irenna had both demanded her wedding cloak be the traditional Targaryen black and red. She was not marrying into some mere cadet branch like Prince Viserys', but to a direct heir of the throne.

Irenna returned his gaze evenly. She was pleased to note their eyelines met now. When she had first arrived in King's Landing she had looked down upon him.

"With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss I pledge my love and take you my lady and wife."

The High Septon declared them one. Irenna's lips met her husband's first time. It was short and chaste. Some practice kisses with Thenio and her eunuchs had been riskier.

Jaehaerys was pleasant enough through the feast. He never strayed far from her side and his eyes never wandered. He graciously accepted gifts and well-wishers. They discussed safe topics together, such as relatives or what they knew of their new keep in Crackclaw Point. Arsenio had warmly assured her that though the Whisper was currently a keep of modest size it lacked for nothing in the proper amenities. Irenna wished to believe him. She also dreaded how much more of the family fortune had been frittered away on her behalf.

The same could not be said of the food. Every pie was stuffed with peaches. Every meat dish was dripping in pear sauce. Every goblet contained pear brandy. Irenna was not surprised when Queen Lyanna proudly announced she had organized the feast. The wolf woman seemed the type to hear Tyrosh was famous for its pear brandy and assumed its citizens consumed the fruit in every dish.

The wedding guests compensated for the lack of variety in their alcohol by consuming more of it. By the time the dancing start the crowd was uproarious, demanding lewd songs from the musicians and shamelessly groping at their partners. Prince Aegon had been a perfect prince when he had danced with Irenna early in the night. Less than ten songs later Rhaenys was giggling in a corner, her husband's hand roaming up her gown.

Queen Lyanna was woefully oblivious, dancing with some Northerner, but the Queen Mother was ever vigilant. She shooed the prince and princess off to bed. They did not need much convincing.

Irenna swallowed, and turned her thoughts back to dancing. Jaehaerys had been stolen for another round with another of the matronly ladies who dared not approach the King himself. Plenty of their amorous husbands turned their eyes upon her. When her husband was unavailable, her brothers were always there to foil all but the drunkest dancers.

At least Kyrillo did. Her older brother had dyed his beard blood red and could look quite demonic if he wanted to. Alekio, gods bless him, had not yet even seen his tenth nameday. Irenna indulged him anyway.

"Shouldn't you be dancing with Princess Visenya instead of with your own sister?" she teased.

Alekio made a face up at her. Their mother had not yet broken him of the habit. "I tried. She's pretty, but she kept asking me if it was true if we feed our slaves to hungry dogs when they displeased us."

"Surely you told her it's another of those wild tales this backwater always believes about us?"

"She said I was lying. I told her I wasn't, and then she threatened to feed me to her dragon if I didn't tell the truth." Alekio rolled his eyes. "I wander how many fools she bullies around with that lie."

Prince Jon was a pleasant enough child, but Lyanna had utterly failed with her youngest. Irenna vowed she would never raise such an ill-tempered child, especially a daughter.

Alekio grinned as Robert Baratheon drunkenly careened past them with a giggling girl on his arm. "I love these songs! They are all so lively compared to what Father always has the eunuchs sing. What do they mean?"

Irenna's tutors in the Westerosi tongue had certainly taught her no uncouth language. Her months in the Red Keep had been most... enlightening. She told Alekio the ramblings of drunken fools were none of his concern.

"Fuck the new year!" roared a lord in blue and white. "There's a bedding to get to!"

"The bedding!" others chanted as it quickly became their war cry.

Lords and ladies alike swarmed the dance floor. Wide-eyed Alekio was nearly bowled over until their father fished him from the rabble. Kyrillo shoved his way through to stand protectively at her side. He fingered a dagger on his belt, darkly muttering in their native tongue about dogs that deserved to be cut down.

Irenna feared a bloodbath until Ser Barristan Selmy gallantly came to her aid. Flanked by the Kingsguard and her brother, Irenna was guided through the crowd. Hands still slipped through their defenses to tear at her gown, pawing at her chest and buttocks.

By the time Irenna reached her husband's chambers her sumptuous gown had been lost. A small fortune rested in rags upon the floor. Only her tattered small clothes clung to her.

"We have arrived, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said respectfully, for Irenna was his princess now.

Kyrillo did not step away from her side. "Are you sure you would not like my knife?" he said baldly, uncaring if the knight understood the Tyroshi dialect. "Even the mere threat of a gelding can make the most stubborn husband agreeable."

Irenna now knew the mystery behind why Kyria and Amynta never complained of their husbands. "Good night, Kyrillo."

"Good night, little sister." Kyrillo pressed a kiss to her forehead, as if they were still children, and reluctantly departed.

"He meant truly meant nothing with his words, Ser Barristan. My brother is a tad too deep in his cups. Growing up our father ensured he was very protective of his five younger sisters."

The old knight smiled wryly. "Big brothers never stop being big brothers, Your Grace."

Irenna inhaled, wished Ser Barristan good night. She shakily exhaled once the door was safely shut behind her.

Lyseni literature was primarily meant to titillate men in the privacy of their own homes or to build up the anticipation of clients in its famous brothels. She and her sisters had long prized their secret cache. Their romances were gripping and its information on carnal matters diverse. Many stories involved well-endowed men initiating virgins to the mysteries of womanhood, or else master courtesans helping green boys master their own bodies.

Irenna had first fancied herself the bashful maiden. The fantasy had worn thin after learning how Thenio had died and how repulsive her second betrothed had looked in person.

Upon her betrothal to Jaehaerys, Irenna had next pictured herself the courtesan. She was seven years his senior, after all, well-read in a wide range of subjects. Kyria and Amynta's letters had helped where Lyseni erotica and their mother's advice had not. Her own hands had helped further her discoveries. The frequent examiners of her maidenhead never discovered anything amiss, but Irenna knew her own body well enough to know what it liked. Ruling her child husband from the wedding bed had sounded oddly appealing. Rarely could a woman hope to exercise such power in the world.

Irenna had abandoned such hopes after finally meeting her prince in person. Jaehaerys was not the type of man to be ridden. Nor was she the sort of woman who'd be dominated like some other wives were. She was the daughter of Arsenio Laskaris, a scion of archons and magisters. If she could not rule the dragon-rider, then she would be his equal, like how the legendary Queen Alysanne had been to her Jaehaerys.

The courtesans of Irenna's stories would have arranged their torn small clothes to be at its most alluring. The virgins would have buried themselves beneath the blankets and wept.

Irenna was neither. She stripped the tattered small clothes from her body and wrapped herself in a blanket against the night chill. Bright moonlight poured in from the windows. The King and his sons were no-nonsense men. Irenna was not surprised to discover her husband's chambers contained little beyond the bare essentials, however finely made they were.

Jaehaerys stumbled in even more naked than she. His muscles were finely developed from years in the practice yard. Kyria had always fantasized over rugged soldiers and battle-scarred kings. She ruefully wrote she had learned to appreciate a scholar's lanky frame. Irenna had no need to settle, and her husband had growing yet to do.

Before she lost her nerve, Irenna let her blanket drop to the floor. "I hope this pleases you, lord husband."

In the darkness it was impossible to tell if he blushed. Irenna's own cheeks felt scorching hot. However, the prince frowned, eyes resolutely trained on her face.

"I apologize for the damned traditions over here," he said bluntly. "I never imagined being married like this."

"Neither did I, lord husband," Irenna retorted. "You were my third betrothed and yet here we are. I have been told by many I'm beautiful, but those men are not you. I have sisters yet who are unwed. If this marriage displeases you, it is best annulled before it is consummated."

His face remained carefully impassive. "Is that what you want?"

"What I want is a match that is of mutual benefit for myself and my family. I want to share a bed with a husband whose appearance does not repulse me, who is interested in carrying a conversation with me. I want a prince who has proved himself nothing but kind and courteous, who never sought to make untoward advances before our wedding night." Irenna sighed. "I do not love you, lord husband, for we scarcely know each other. Given time, I also believe I could easily learn to love you."

For an eternity the prince was silent. Irenna started to sweat as his green eyes stared into her soul.

"Harry," he said at last.

Irenna's brow furrowed. It was a Westerosi word she did not know.

Jaehaerys' face softened perceptibly. "I do not I could love someone who only dares call me 'lord husband.' To those closest to me I am known as Harry."

Confidence renewed, Irenna closed the gap between them and reached for his hand. "Then let me learn you, Harry."

Irenna slept late the next morning. She was not displeased to wake up to her husband still beside her, a satisfied ache between her legs.

Her next letter to her sisters spared no detail. After all, Kyria and Amynta had always returned the favor, and their sisters craved every tidbit for their own future wedding nights and restless desires. Kyria complained of Solon's bony shoulders and Amynta of Zossimo's paunch. Irenna had no such grievances to share. Teasingly, she also forewarned them to not fantasize about her dragonlord, for he was hers alone.

To those who'd whine Deathbrand is a shitty name for a sword, I'd say it's a transcription of Murgleys, an actual named sword from the medieval Song of Roland. Teenage boys are also suck at giving things names that aren't ridiculously edgy.

To me the Free Cities have a strong Byzantine flavor and so I largely base their culture upon it. Greek Orthodox weddings in general are also obsessed with the number three, oddly fitting for a city that in canon worships a three-headed god. Further questions and comments can be directed to this story's forum. Find the link on my profile.