The Great Hall of King's Landing was silent, but not out of reverence—it was the heavy silence of men who knew that any word could cost them their tongues. The nobles were lined up, the members of the Kingsguard standing still as statues, and at the center of it all, sitting on the Iron Throne like an ancient god, was Aerion Targaryen, the Fire-Chosen King.

He wore no crown; his presence was authority enough. His silver hair fell like a cloak over black armor that glinted cruelly in the torchlight. And on his lap, sitting with her back to him, dressed in a twilight-colored silk gown that was a grotesque parody of women's clothing, was you.

"Your queen seems restless today, my lords," Aerion's voice echoed, mellifluous and venomous. His hands, gloved in black leather, rested on her hips, pulling her back against him. "I think she craves her king's attention."

You tried to keep your eyes closed, to focus on anything but reality. But it was impossible. His scent, of dragon smoke and incense, was overwhelming. The cold touch of the Iron Throne's blades through the thin fabric of your dress was a constant reminder of where you were.

"Open your eyes, wife," he ordered, his voice a soft command that brooked no disobedience. "Let the court see how you enjoy your husband."

Your eyelids fluttered open. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared at you, some with horror, most with fear, all with a morbid fascination. Aerion smiled, satisfied. One of his hands rose, not in caress but in possession, to squeeze one of her breasts through her dress. A murmur rippled through the room.

"They envy me," he whispered in her ear, his lips touching the shell of her ear. "They envy that I have something so beautiful to enjoy."

His other hand found the hem of her dress, grabbing the thin fabric. With a sharp, violent tug, he ripped it sideways, from her waist to her ankle, exposing her leg and hip. The cold air of the hall hit her skin, making her shiver. Restrained screams echoed. Aerion laughed, low and hoarse.

"Sshhh, my sweet... there's no shame in it. It's your nature now."

His gloved hand ran across the exposed skin of your thigh, moving upward with agonizing slowness. You tried to close your legs, a last reflex of a masculinity that had been stolen from you, but your legs were held open by the position on his lap and the weight of your own body, paralyzed by terror.

When his fingers reached the place where once a man had been, he paused. The touch was light, almost contemplative, on the smooth, sensitive scar.

"Here," he murmured, and the entire court could hear, so deep was the silence. "Here is where you became perfect. Where all rebellion was cut away. Where you became *mine*."

His hand moved forward, his fingers finding the entrance that nature and his cruelty had left as the only form of consummation. He spat into his own hand, the sound obscenely loud, before touching you again, lubricating the way with saliva and contempt.

"Look!" he shouted to the court as his fingers began to work on you, intrusive and relentless. "Look how my wife opens herself to me! Look how she is made for it!"

The humiliation was a living fire, hotter than the blade that had cut her flesh. Her body, treacherous and conditioned by the new reality, began to react. A shameful heat spread across your skin, a tremor ran through your legs. A low, involuntary moan escaped your lips.

Aerion felt it. He always felt it.

"Ah, yes... there it is," he whispered, triumphant. "Even your body knows the truth now. It knows it belongs to me."

He adjusted you on his lap, and you felt the rigid, impatient pressure of his member against your back. With one hand still working on you, preparing you, he used the other to guide himself. He did not seek pleasure in you, but through you. He used your body as an instrument for his own gratification and, more importantly, for his spectacle of domination.

When he finally penetrated you, it was with a grunt of pure possession. Every movement was a reminder of what you had lost, of what he had made of you. Your nails dug into your palms, but you did not scream. Your eyes were fixed on the void, seeing beyond the pale lords and ladies, beyond the hall, to a place where he did not exist.

Aerion, drunk with power and perversion, moved with brutal vigor, his words coming out between clenched teeth.

"My... beautiful... wife..." he gasped with each thrust, each word a nail in your coffin of dignity.